Memoir

[The following is a memoir that I had to write for my English class, so I decided to write about my deceased cat]

Have you ever had the thrill of welcoming a new pet into your family? In the autumn of 2007, I welcomed my kitten Rocko into my family. He looked like a cow. A small cow, with black and white spots. He could just barely meow at two months old. He was the first to come to me when I walked into the room.

Getting a pet is usually a lot of work. You have to adjust your schedule, your routines, and possibly the way you act. But it’s enjoyable. You’re not alone, and you have someone to talk to. When I first got Rocko, I had to keep him in my room to keep him from torturing and attacking our older cat, Max. Later on they soon warmed up to each other and became close, and before I knew it, Max was taking care of Rocko as if he was one of his own. At five months old, Rocko was into everything. He was scratching at the couch, pestering Max, and he was extremely hyper and running everywhere, and couldn’t stay still for a couple of seconds.

A horse was how you could describe him. Well, not as I described him. My family said that he was big enough to put a saddle on. Weighing twenty pounds, he could be large enough to ride, my family thought. My family members had always disregarded Rocko, and paid more attention to Max. Rocko was a little ditzy, and wasn’t the smartest, but I did love him, and there wasn’t a single reason I could think of to not love him. Although he was big, Rocko was extremely skittish. If you were sitting on the couch, and moved your leg just slightly, he would jump five feet into the air. He was also scared of thunderstorms, and by surprise, ants and spiders as well.

Today, I don’t have Rocko or Max. Rocko sadly passed away last year around the beginning of January. He was only three years old, but the time I had spent with him was fun, exciting and made me feel overjoyed. I still miss him to this day, but it makes me happy knowing that he’s with Max, and that they’re both happy.