Growing up in Pittsburgh in the 1970s, we always had pets at home on Bellerock Street. Molly, the grey and white cat, got her name from 8-year old Ken because we bought her at the mall (moll?). Polly, the tiger-striped cat, became Polly because our family liked to rhyme.
Life went along swimmingly until I turned 11 and my dad had a serious health scare. Molly, my favorite kitty, traipsed in and out of the house all day long and loved to roll around on the pavement in the sunbeams. She also always slept on my bed. The night I learned my dad was rushed to the hospital, Molly was with me. I pet her soft fur and told her about my worries and fears. She was truly my greatest comfort.