Magna is gone. She’ll be missed. What I regret is I probably never treated her fairly. Nobody at home did, apart from my father. She simply wasn’t the kind of cat to be always around to please people. She was creepy, she looked retarded. her expression was dumb and her tongue sticked out most of the time. She was not pretty nor particularly cute. She was always hungry to the point of voraciousness, like she could not be complete unless she stuffed her stomach till it exploded. Chicken was her favorite: she like roasted chicken like no other. Some of her teeth were missing because of her sickness, she had ungraceful voice. She lacked any kind of feline charm, she looked rather a bizarre mix of a vulture and a monkey than a cat, with her big chubby body and humpy back, with her disproportionate long legs and weird face. Her fur was so soft and her ears so beautiful though, like they were parts taken from another specimen of cat. I never took pics of her because she didn’t like it and I didn’t feel like it mattered. My selfish self is sort of regretting it now. I feel she didn’t understand it – she was actually very affectionate and sweet when she felt like it – but she wasn’t treated as my other cats, who were always smart and cute and anybody wanted to caress and touch and cuddle to no end. Anybody can enjoy that kind of pet. But her case was different. She wasn’t like that at all. She was dark and shadowy and clumsy and totally inadequate, all the time. But this doesn’t mean I didn’t love her. She’s resting in a cardboard box with three withered roses and a red ribbon. My mother says she looks beautiful and unusually quiet. Tomorrow she’ll be incinerated and her ugly, lovely features will turn to ashes.
