When I was 9 years old I was walking at the park. I heard itty bitty meows coming from the river. When I walked over I found a box of kittens that someone had thrown in. They were around three days old. I rescued them and found all of them good homes, except for the runt of the litter. My mother agreed to let me keep him. When I would leave for school he would cry himself hoarse, so we got another, older kitten to keep him company. His name was Shasta, and we named the new kitty Zepher. Eventually I left for college, and could not take him with me. So he stayed home with my mom.
She moved into a new house, and a new neighborhood ten years later. A dog attacked and killed zepher. Shasta took it really really really hard, and he started to decline. We went out and got another kitten (who happened to look just like zepher) and named him boots. Shasta got better, and even came to like the new kitty.
Now here it is, I am (almost)26 and my beloved kitty is 17. He is old, slow, has arthritis, and is all skin and bones. I know that he will be leaving me soon, and it breaks my heart. But he was always there for me, and he always loved me.
The black and white kitty is Shasta, the Brown is boots
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