Nine LivesI was thirteen when I lost my favorite cat. Her name was Snow. That was my idea of a joke, at thirteen. She was pitch black, without one white hair, something Id never seen before and never have since.
She used to greet me when I woke up in the morning by sitting on my chest. Shed be purring as I groped my way out of dreams. In the exact second that I reached full consciousness, shed make this little sound, halfway between a purr and a meow. An enquiring sound: Prrroww? As if to say, good sleep?
She made the same noise when I got home from school, but with a falling, satisfied tone: Prrrroww! Youre home, youre back where you belong, were together. Shed meow for food to my mom, or purr when she sat on my dads knee, but she never made that noise for anybody but me.
When we slept with her draped over my chest and one paw possessively on my face, Id dream. In the dreams Snow was the size of a great bla