#26 - Take Note: Stories of Narcissistic Abuse

How Cats Die

When I was six or seven years old, I got a cat for Christmas. It’s one of the only gifts I can remember getting from my father.

He crossed from his part of Brooklyn to our part of Brooklyn (a chasm as wide as the Grand Canyon in my childhood mind) with a gift in tow. I think he’d never been inside my front door before or after. He’d generally let me out of a taxi and wait for my mother or grandmother to collect me. But I digress. This occasion felt momentous because it was one of the only times I saw my parents together.

In a small carrier with a round, clear plastic top and shiny chrome clasps was my first cat. She was black and white with yellow eyes.