The first kitty I owned was all white. I walked a mile to the house that had that litter of kittens. I was so excited about finally getting a little furry, cuddly pet I probably would have walked ten miles. When I saw the little kitties mewing everywhere, I just felt all the pent up pet love come spilling out. Which one should I pick? They were all so cute. As I stood there holding kitties and debating which one to pick, the father of the household said, "We have one more." He opened the door of a nearby room and sure enough there was another kitten. Beautiful; all white with a ringed tail. I was told, "He has a little mean streak in him, but he'll grow out of it." Of course that's the kitten I chose; the one all alone in a room away from the others. It clawed my hands so they were bleeding by the time I got home. I didn't care. I had my little kitten and everything was going to be alright. It turned out that he didn't grow out of his mean streak. He was horribly mean. He loved using his teeth and claws. The pretty white cat with blue eyes and a brown ringed tail liked jumping on my sisters backs when they walked down the basement stairs. I went to camp and when I got back home Tarzan was living on a farm.
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