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This piece of crap tabby-cat figurine is one of the most precious items that I own, and I adore it with Gollum-like intensity.  It has traveled with me from house to house since I was a child, except for a multi-year period in which it was missing and presumed lost or broken.  I remember often speaking fondly of this crappy little tabby-cat and being remorseful of the day that I accidentally broke it.  I was visiting my mother once and telling the tragic tale, when she walked upstairs, hunted for a bit, and brought down the very object.

It was nothing short of a miracle.  She might as well have been carrying the Holy Grail from the way I reacted.  It was as if somebody had said, “Hold on a second, I think I have your innocence and childlike wonder around here somewhere,” and then actually produced it.

Nobody understands my devotion to this cheap bit of Goodwill detritus, and I don’t really understand it either.  I just know that it was in my room when I was very young, I decided that I like it, and now I have to have it with me.  Don’t judge my tabby-cat, and I won’t judge the bullshit that you carry through your lives.  Deal?