One day in second grade, I learned we had a cat. Dad found her or got her for free
somewhere, I guess. We called her Ms. Kitty because that was the name a vet put on the
paperwork when she was vaccinated. She was mean as hell except to my dad and
me. We could pet her and hold her, but nobody else could. She would nap on my bed
or sleep on dad's newspapers. When she had kittens, she got even meaner. One
day my older sister brought over a boyfriend and his big, dumb German Shepherd. Ms. Kitty ran right out the door to confront the dog on the back patio,
springing, claws out. I still remember bright red blood dripping off the stunned
dog's rubbery black nose.
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