A personal memoir by Liam
When I was born, my mom's cat, Negra, had already been a part of the family. She had lived with my family for 10 years. She was as black as the dark night, no moon or stars to light it up, with short little legs, that is how she got her name, Negra. My parents would tell me stories of how she would just sit over my crib after I was born and watch me, making sure that I was safe. You could say that Negra 'owned' me, and maybe our family too.
My mom told me about a time during the Bosnian war, when Negra sat in front of the door, meowing, growling, and scratching on the wall, trying to get their attention. When they looked to see what was wrong, they noticed that there was a gas leak from the pipe at the entrance to the room. My mom still believes that Negra had saved their lives back then. If she had not sensed the gas, it could have killed them.
As I was growing up, Negra was always around and always wanted to be where I was. Since she was older, she didn't like to play a lot, she acted more like a mother, a protector. She would follow me around and sit in which ever room I was in. She loved it when I would sit with her and pet her. When I was still little, she would groom me by licking my head, I can still feel her rough, scratchy tongue. She never tried to scratch me or hurt me in any way.
When I was about six and a half, Negra got sick. I remember the many trips that my parents took to the veterinarian to see what was wrong. I also remember how she would just lay around, she didn't even have the strength to move. It wasn't much later that she died. I still think about Negra sometimes and remember how good of an “owner” she was.