Everytime my mind wanders to my innocent past of crayons and strict bedtimes, my secret pet- A grey and white kitten- always invades my thoughts. It still amazes me that even after almost 10 years, the existence of my pet is still a secret. I had found it in the park, muddy and tired. It did not even have the strength to fight me as I picked it up in my tiny 8 year old hands. I had brought it home, running wildly through the rain and had kept in a shoebox on my study table. My mom never touched my study table- and she never found the tiny animal sleeping soundly on a bed made of handkerchiefs and newspapers. I called her Rain. Everyday I would sneak leftovers out of the fridge and feed her.
As I grew older, she grew too. The thrill of keeping her a secret never once wavered. I had my own pet! And nobody knew but me! It seemed like Rain also knew that she was a secret. She never once squealed or ran about the house. She was the most intelligent creature I had ever met.
When I was 13, I came home to find her lying still in her little shoebox house. She wasnt moving no matter how much I poked and prodded her. I had lost a friend. And worse still- I was alone in grief. Nobody knew about her. Nobody else mourned. I sneaked out of my house that night and buried her in my backyard.
Even after all these years, the mere memories of her tiny whiskers, her gorgeous eyes glowing brightly in the dark, her tiny ears and tiny paws still brings me comfort. And every time it rains, her name, her very being resonates within me.
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