I remember one night, in the house we had been renting, I had opened the door to a room and Cali had been laying on the arm of the sofa, meowing quietly.  I'd gone up to her and gave her a hug, and I told her everything'd be okay.  The next day we called my aunt to ask if she could take care of Cali for us, and she agreed.  We then boxed Cali up and drove her over to my aunt's house.  I can just imagine the things that had gone through her mind.

A few days later, my aunt called and said we'd better go get Cali because she hadn't been adjusting well to her new environment.  We got her, and managed to calm her down.  A few days after that, a family came and picked her up.  I haven't seen her since, but I miss her a lot, and wish we had not given her away.

Years later, we got another cat: a big brown tabby cat, who we named Cinnamon.  He's the oldest of our three cats, about seven years old now.  One day I'd come home from school to find him on the rocking chair.  My brother had later told me he'd almost sat on him without knowing it.

The second cat we got was a small pepper-colored cat, who we named (naturally) Pepper.  We didn't know it at the time, but she had been pregnant and later gave birth to four kittens.  We decided to keep the only male of the bunch, naming him Whitey but always calling him Birdie.

Surprisingly, the three cats all get along good.  Occasionally, they will romp and cause a ruckus, but that's understandable; they're just playing.

After a while, we'd gotten a black lab puppy from my brother's ex-girlfriend, and had named her Jay.  After my dad passed away, she'd started to get mean, and we'd had to have her put to sleep.

Now, along with Cinnamon, Pepper and Whitey, we have another kitten named Patches, a little calico that will grow up to be a beautiful little cat.