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I had two primary pets growing up. Sparky the cat, a diminutive female long hair tortoise-shell who deigned to come home with us from my Grandmother’s farm. And Buffy the dog, a pure bread male cocker-spaniel with floppy ears and an unrelentingly generous and loving disposition.
Though Sparky’s tortoise-shell fur was long and rare and gorgeous, tortoise-shell fur is usually quite short, there wasn’t much actual cat in there. Nought but wiry sinew under all that lovely fluff but, like Yoda, her size was no reason to judge. She owned our neighbourhood and all the dogs in the area knew it. They would literally cross the street, even when on leash, to pass our house if she was out in the yard.
Buffy was a lovely sandy golden colour with wide, dark, excitable eyes and a perpetually half-laughing shape to his panting mouth. He never growled, barked, or bit anyone or anything. His only violent act was the absolute destruction of the thick plastic cone he’d been forced to wear after being neutered. The largest single piece left was about the size of a nickel. For 99.99% of his life he was nothing but goofishly lovable.
They had a somewhat sibling-esque relationship. Her Imperial Majesty tolerated her pitiably dim-witted housemate…