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  • Writer's pictureMichele Brourman


Just before Thanksgiving, we lost our beloved Buttercup.

She was a remarkable spirit- probably the smartest, funniest,

most ornery kitty I’ve ever known. The Brigitte Bardot of cats,

gorgeous but goofy-looking, she couldn’t quite fit her tongue into

her smooshed Persian mouth.

She’d bite your hand off for broccoli or for trying to brush her; we learned to give her a lion cut every few months.

Mealtimes she’d occupy the chair beside me to claim her share of

whatever I was eating. She followed me into the bathroom

each night, demanding her dollop of coconut oil.

In rare, chilly pre-dawn moments, she’d wriggle under the covers and curl up

between us to get warm. And I would lie awake, grateful to stroke her lush fur.

She owned my heart, and it hasn’t stopped aching yet.


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