My kin had a few cats, but they all ended up either missin' or deceased. My lil' sister, Ellie May, had a special fondness for them critters. She'd often come home after school and play with 'em. There was one time we got a new kitten from the folks next door. It had a speckled coat, full of life, and it loved rollin' around in the sun on the porch, like a patch of dirty snow. Ellie May would take a red ribbon or a piece of twine, swing it in front of that kitten, and it'd pounce and wrestle with it. I'd sit in my old cane chair, watchin' 'em, and I could spend hours with a grin, savorin' the warmth of the sun, feelin' the freshness and joy of life.

But then, that kitten started losin' weight, quit eatin', and its once-shiny fur got all tangled. It'd just lie under the hallway chair all day, not wantin' to come out. Ellie May tried every trick in the book to cheer it up, but nothin' seemed to work. We all got worried 'bout it. Ellie May even bought a little brass bell with a red string, but that didn't do nothin'. That cat just stayed sluggish, lost in its own melancholy.

One day, I came back from work, and Ellie May had a sad look on her face. "Brother, that kitten's gone," she said. My heart sank, thinkin' 'bout our little buddy of the past two months. I tried to comfort her, sayin', "Don't worry; I'll find you another one."

A few days later, my other sister, Martha, came back from our uncle's place. She mentioned that he had a bunch of kittens and was givin' 'em away. So, Ellie May convinced her to bring one home. On a Sunday, our mother came back with a yellowish kitten. Ellie May's attention quickly shifted to this new arrival. This one was even more playful, running around the yard, climbin' trees, and chasin' butterflies. Fear didn't seem to be in its vocabulary. It'd leap from trees to walls and sometimes even onto the street, sunbathin' like it owned the place.

We were always anxious 'bout its safety, askin', "Where's the kitten?" We'd have to look for it several times a day, but every time, we'd find it. Ellie May would tease it, sayin', "You rascal, you won't stop runnin' 'round till a hobo catches you!"

Lunchtime was when I'd often see it sittin' by the iron gate. It'd run inside as soon as it saw me comin' home. It loved climbin' trees, hidin' among the leaves like it was waitin' to catch somethin'. I'd pick it up, and as soon as I let go, it'd scramble right back up. After a couple of months, it even started catchin' mice, and the annoying squeaks in the night disappeared.

One fine morning, I got up, put on my clothes, and went downstairs, but the kitten was nowhere to be found. I searched the little garden, but it was nowhere. That's when I started feelin' a sense of loss.

"Little sister, where's the kitten?" I asked.

She rushed downstairs and said, "I looked for it, too, but couldn't find it."

We all started searchin', but it was nowhere.

Our neighbor, Mrs. Thompson, said, "I opened the door early this mornin', and that kitten was in the hallway. It vanished while I was fixin' breakfast."

We were all upset, feelin' like we'd lost a dear friend. Even Mrs. Miller, who didn't much care for the cat, said, "What a shame. Such a lovely kitten."

I was still holdin' on to a glimmer of hope, hopin' it had wandered off and would find its way home.

At lunchtime, Mrs. Thompson said, "I saw the neighbor's maid earlier. She said she saw our kitten outside this mornin'. A passerby took it."

That confirmed our loss. Ellie May was upset, sayin', "They saw it, why didn't they stop it? They knew it was ours!"

I was bitter, cursin' that unknown person who took our beloved pet.

From that day on, we quit keepin' cats.

One winter mornin', a pitiable little kitten was curled up at our doorstep. Its coat was speckled, but it wasn't much to look at, and it was real thin. We couldn't leave it out in the cold, hungry, and expect it to survive. Mrs. Miller picked it up and started feedin' it daily. But nobody in the family was particularly fond of it. It lacked the liveliness and seemed naturally gloomy. Even Ellie May, who loved cats, wasn't as interested in it. As the months went by, it gained weight, but it still wouldn't play like other kittens. It was naturally downcast, as if it had a touch of melancholy from birth. One day, it got too close to the stove and lost patches of fur, makin' it even less appealing.

As spring came, it had grown into a mature cat but hadn't shaken its melancholy nature. It never bothered to catch mice and just lounged around all day.

Around that time, my wife got a pair of yellow canaries, hung their cage on the porch, and their singin' was sweet music. My wife took good care of 'em, always remindin' Mrs. Miller to change the water, provide bird food, and clean the cage. Strangely enough, the speckled cat seemed particularly interested in those canaries. It'd jump on the table and stare at the cage.

My wife warned, "Mrs. Miller, watch out for the cat; it might try to catch those birds."

Mrs. Miller rushed to grab the cat when she saw it jump on the table. After a while, though, it'd go back to gazin' at the birdcage.

One day, I heard Mrs. Miller shout, "The cat's back, tryin' to catch the birds!" At the same time, I spotted a black cat swiftly crossin' the porch, holdin' a yellow canary in its mouth. That's when I realized I'd been wrong.

I felt a heavy sense of guilt and regret. I'd wrongfully accused the speckled cat, a creature that couldn't speak up for itself. I'd misunderstood its intentions, and my anger had been misdirected. The cat had run off, scared for its life, and my actions had deeply wounded my conscience.

I wanted to make amends, but how could I apologize to an animal that couldn't understand?

Two months later, we found our gloomy cat dead on our neighbor's rooftop. Its loss hit me harder than the previous two cats.

I knew I'd never get the chance to make things right.

From that day on, we stopped keepin' cats in our home.