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I had two cats growing up: One was an old crusty peacemaker, and the other was a semi-feral menace. The older cat, Chica, was about the size of a cantaloupe, and she used her small stature to weasel her way onto anyone's lap. Although my dad was terribly allergic to feline dander, Chica somehow knew that and swerved around him. She was kind that way, hoping to make everyone in the house happy and sneeze-free.
The other kitty, the grey menace, was as evil as she was enormous. Pookie, as we called her, was mostly feral, loved being outside, and showed her love and devotion to the family with the weekly lizard or bird carcass on the porch. After cleaning up my fair share of “offerings” from Pookie, I grew to understand her version of affection too. Although she wasn't sweet and kind, like Chica, she had her own way of showing the family that she cared. Perhaps we didn't appreciate her 24/7 patrols for vermin around the house, but when we no longer had a rat problem and when Pookie dominated the backyard, we started to see that she was a good cat, too.
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