I always remember the first cat I ever owned. I bought her from a neighbour who sold cats.
She was a cute little ginger thing, with eyes like twin pools of molten gold, and a mellow meow that scared rats. I named her Tabby
With tender care, I fed dear Tabby on milk and rice, an addition to the meal of rats and mice that she would hunt around the house.
One day I caught her red-handed, grabbing a chick from my only hen.
Consumed by a tempest of fury, I hurled her up high, and her tiny soft body crashed to the hard earth with a sickening thud.
It may have been a broken spine or hip, but my once bubbly Tabby was never able to use her hind legs.
Despite her crippled legs, my steadfast companion dodged my heels as always, her sparkling eyes mirroring unwavering devotion. Though unable to jump on my lap and nap, she would crawl beside me, rubbing against my legs with soft purrs.
One day I had to go visit my dying granny.I left enough food and water, and a warm mat for Tabby.
But when I returned, I discovered her huddled in the hushed embrace of solitude in a corner, life extinguished, but her spirit forever entwined with the shadows.
Since then, no matter how hard I try, no cat has ever lived in my house for long. They all vanish, leaving behind only whispers of their presence and restless spirits.