His Allergy Was Only For Me

Owen was supposedly deathly allergic to cats.

When he was seven, his stepmother locked him in an unheated tool shed with a litter of feral strays. By the time someone found him, he was covered in violent red welts and bloody scratches, gasping for air in the back of an ambulance.

Ever since, he claimed he couldn't stand anything associated with them. The mere scent of cat hair made his skin crawl.

Yet I had Pumpkin. A sweet, six-year-old ginger tabby my mother had given me right before she died. Pumpkin wasn't just a pet; he was the last living piece of my family.