Authors and their Cats
My first cat was a black and white stray named April who joined our family on Virginia Street. I got her in the third grade for getting straight As. My mom, little brother and sister had picked me up and were excitedly exclaiming to, “look in the back!” I looked in the back of our blue station wagon and tucked into the right pocket was a tiny, black and white kitten named April procured from an animal shelter. April grew up with me. I had her for 16 years and when I was angry, or disappointed, happy or enchanted, there she would be sleeping or standing or meowing right along with me. I was 24 when my little sister, the same sister who was there in that blue station wagon excitedly telling me to look in the back, called me in Indianapolis telling me that I needed to come home. I was about forty-five minutes away. April had not been doing well for the past few days. And when I got there, I knew she had been waiting for me before dying. My sister and I played Enya’s, “Only Time,” a