I call her “Your Fluffiness” now. She’s starting to show her age a little, getting a lot rounder, not as nimble as she once was. Her real name is Chloe (or Clowey, if you look back to my daughter’s second grade writing journal). She was a kind of pitiful-looking little scrap of fur when we first got her, but she was a spitfire. I sometimes wondered what my daughter’s teacher must have thought when she went to school with scratches decorating her arms and hands after playing with that cat. Chloe is a one-person kind of cat. Early on, a friend nicknamed her Devil in Fur after she’d had more than her fill of hisses and scratches trying to make friends with Chloe. She hides from most people who come to visit. She bit my mom when she came to feed Chloe while we were on vacation. She cooly tolerates me when I am home alone with her. She adores my daughter, though. She will let my daughter hug her to pieces and she sleeps in her bed every night, waking her in the morning with a gentle nibble on the ear. She wanders the house looking for her when she is gone, meowing mournfully. The thing is, the second grader is now a senior. She’ll soon be off to college. I hope Her Fluffiness will let me hug her. We’ll both be missing our girl.