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My parents once brought home a little runt of a kitten that walked funny, had a crook in its tail and a growth in its nose that kept it from breathing. We brought it home from my grandmother's backyard, where it had been abandoned by it's mother. The little thing could fit in the palm of your hand, it was so small. We weren't sure if it'd live, but we fed it and kept it warm as best as we could, and sure enough it started to get a little bigger. We had the growth cut out of its nose by the vet, and it was able to play around due to new found oxygen intake. At night it would curl up on the front of my neck as I slept and slept there (it was still real small), and occassionally I would wake up to it trying to eat my armpit hair, which it loved to smell and taste for some reason. I really loved that cat.
On September 11th, 2001, I woke up and saw the twin towers drop Live On TV. Then I had to go to class. That was a bad day. When I got home my parents told me how the little kitty was playing in the back yard when it wandered through a hole in the fence to my neighbors yard, where two german shepherds proceeded to tear it to death with their teeth. My dad hopped the fence, grabbed it and drove it to the vet to no avail.
I never met the neighbors but I hated their motherfucking dogs.
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