The day I got Kitty I was 14, we couldn't think of a proper name so we just called her Kitty. Shame really. She was so soft, silky. Milky coffee brown, she never really fitted in with the others. So I took special care of her. I cared for her when no one else would give her a look. Fed and watered. The minute I got home she'd run to me. Once I was done with my work (she always sat watching as if she could somehow absorb my intelligence by just looking) I would sit with her watching telly and stroking her. That's what she loved best, but you could only stroke her from the front of her head to the base of her neck, I was the only one who could get it perfectly right without even looking. I calmed her when she got freaked out. She was sometimes freaked out by little things like her wet food touching her dry food, and then things like loud bangs would send her screaming. Strangers approaching would send her berserk. That's when even I struggled. She would sit behind me, protecting her like her human shield, sipping warm milk. One day, she came to me, her confidant, she was getting a little bigger, and usually she was a svelte little thing, slipping through almost closed doors. She was pregnant. Poor Kitty I said to her, that night I opened the curtains and she stared at the stars as I stroked her, whispering she would be ok. The very next afternoon we were at the specialist. It was all over soon and though it cost a fortune we knew it was what was best. By this time I was 20 and we had had Kitty for almost 7 years, such a long time. I had my own place so I took Kitty with me. It was a little small but we fit together perfectly. I slept at the top of the bed, Kitty at the bottom. She wasn't one to complain. I thought. She began to get out of hand, at her tender age. She left the house and wouldn't come back for hours, coming back late at night, the windows weren't big enough for viewing the stars. I was worried we'd get back into the situation I had just got her out of. I put her on a lockdown. The minute it was dark she was home or I went out to find her. She started to get, well, catty. Tearing at the little furniture we possessed. Naturally I took the route I did with everyone, push me too hard and I push back. Take it. Or leave it. She took me on. I kicked. Hard. So she scratched. So I pushed her to the floor. She dropped like a fly. So quickly. Another one bites the dust. It's almost ironic. I loved her to death and there she was. Scarlett. I stood there realising we should have called her Scarlett. That's beautiful isn't it? I stroked her hair. That's what she loved best. There was no funeral. Who'd come anyway. So her grave read:

Kitty-Scarlett Morrison

The second sister