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If you aren’t a pet person, you might not understand how a sane person would get a tattoo of her cat. I’m sorry, but I can’t explain it to you. You just have to be a pet person to get it.
An acquaintance had given me Little Max when he was six weeks old. She claimed to be getting the mother cat spayed, and she said she couldn’t do it until the kittens were gone. She convinced me to bring him home, even though he was a ball of fur smaller than the palm of my hand. In the picture below, he is standing behind my bedroom slipper.
Unfortunately, my most clear memory of Little Max is from the day he died. It was just a few weeks before his second birthday. Max had a congenital heart defect, and I was totally unaware until it was too late. I was devastated and, to be honest, it still hurts.
The PhotoHunt theme this week is furry.
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