I used to have a cat named Natasha. She was a street rescue, along with her mother. After her mother died, she would not come near the family, running away when we approached, and she was not perfectly housebroken either. Thus, she lived most of her life with us on the porch in a little wicker bed, where we left food for her. Toward her later years, she could not get away as fast, and we could finally touch her. She soon realized that we were not trying to hurt her, and then started actively seeking affection from us. We moved her into a well-lit library room that gets very warm due to the panoramic windows, where she lived the last few years of her life. She would drool when petted and her arthritic claws would get stuck in fabric.
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I miss that cat.
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