Chloe

My family got Chloe right after I turned nine. She was so small that I was afraid to pick her up at first; I felt like I would hurt her by mistake. She was the most patient cat imaginable, even when my sister and I dressed her up in doll clothes, or repeatedly picked her up against her will. In almost fourteen years, I think the only time she scratched me was when I tried to give her medicine.
Chloe was the most sociable animal I ever met; she would come running to meet you when you came through the door, and wherever there were people to be found, that's where she was. She never really liked other cats as much as she liked humans, and we always suspected that she didn't really think she was one of them. She used to jump on my bed when it was time for me to get up for school. For some reason that we never really understood, she used to carry around red pony-tail holders in her mouth, and sometimes leave them in her water bowl. She was perpetually curled up on the clean laundry, especially the towels, though she sometimes slept on the cable box. Only six weeks ago, to our amazement and horror, she actually caught a mouse. She used to eat ice cream off my fingers, but after she was sick she started eating anything she could finagle from us, and we let her; she ate two whole tortilla chips once, to the utter amazement of my mother and I, and babaganoush, croissant, chicken, yogurt, and even lentil soup. Wednesday evening, the night before she died, I fed her cheddar cheese and she was delighted.
Yesterday I came home from work, and when I opened the door, the hallway was empty. I opened a can of cat food, and I had to split it between two, not three. (How can two cats in one New York apartment not be enough?) I cried.
Every person thinks that their pet is the best, but you're all wrong; mine was. It won't be the same without you, Chloe. We love you.