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moth, rarasaur

“They still think it’s the moon,” I repeat, filled with the terrifying wonderment of instinct, and the sadness of sticky memories.  The cold carries the thought straight to my bones.  The world is a different place now.  I shiver.
2015, Real Talk (The Edges of This Year)

Perdita, the princess.

Before letting us take her home, the lady at the shelter warned us that she had been returned repeatedly, didn’t use the litter box, couldn’t meow properly, washed herself like a rabbit, and had street-habits. Dave wasn’t impressed by any of that data. Neither was Perdita. They both stared at the lady until she shifted awkwardly under the glares of those who understood what it was to be different, and the silence of those unimpressed with the missteps of the past.
My Husband’s Soulmate (On Cats)

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