Sensing Type Writing Example (Childhood Memories)

When I was a little girl, my dad left us. It’s such a vivid memory, even though I wasn’t even three years old. The door closes behind my dad, my mom sits on the bed and cries. I run up to her, hug her around the neck, and start crying too. She smiles at me through her tears — “What are you crying for?”

But I have an even earlier memory — it’s winter, dark, early morning. I’m all wrapped up, sitting in the sled like a little bundle. Snow hits my face because there’s a blizzard, and my father is pulling the sled by a rope. He’s taking me through the snowdrifts to kindergarten.

And when I was little, we also had a dog and a cat.

My mom trained the dog at a DOSAAF dog club; the dog had many medals hanging on a chain. I thought it was made of gold :)

The dog even had a harness for pulling us on a sled, and she used to take out the trash — carrying the bucket in her teeth to the dumpster and back.

The dog and the cat never fought — on the contrary, they loved to chase each other down the hallway, putting on a drift show :)

Together they would raid the kitchen, stealing food from the stove, and once, right before New Year’s, they threw themselves a real feast.

Our neighbor’s little boy had Father Frost and the Snow Maiden come visit, and they invited me and my mom over too — I was three years old then.

At home, our festive table was already set, waiting for guests. And besides the table — and all the food on it — there were also the dog and the cat left alone at home. I think they were very pleased with how things turned out.

Anyway, they celebrated New Year’s in their own way :)

I was eight when the dog got very sick and had to be euthanized. It happened while I was spending the summer at my grandmother’s. I knew she was ill and worried about her. When they told me she had been put down, I cried. But I didn’t really understand — not until I came home and she just wasn’t there anymore.

But I still had my cat.

When I was about six, I used to dress her up — tie a little scarf around her head like a babushka.

Sometimes we played circus. I’d set up two stools and make her jump from one to the other, luring her with a paper bow on a string. She loved me, so she tolerated it.

Every summer she went with me to our country house, living her best cat life — catching mice and birds, and roaming around with tomcats.

In September, we’d have kittens — tiny squeaky with carrot-like tails, smelling of milk.

I was always so sad when we gave them away a month or two later. It was such a magical time — watching them grow, discover the world: first crawling blindly toward a smell, then chasing their brother full speed, tail puffed up, staring at the world with big blue eyes full of curiosity and mischief.

My cat and I stayed together for many years. One time she had another litter — all girls. When it came time to give them away, one was left — the smallest, skinniest, and most mottled one.

We decided she would stay with us. But that’s another story.