My cat smelled like every memory I ever had. Some days she smelled like cucumber. Others, a cardboard pizza box. When I was a week in on a veggie juice cleanse, every time I sniffed her, it was like I just popped open a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. When my life called for spring cleaning, her tail wafted a dusty aroma. When I really doubted the meaning of my life, and missed the feeling of having someone to believe in me, she carried the undeniable fragrance of my grandma's potent floral perfume. When my immune system needed nourishing, I inhaled the tangy chalkiness of Vitamin C from her white tummy tufts. I remembered my earaches as a little girl, how my mom would mix the ground up vitamin into my orange juice until I was well again. Tucked inside Vegas Sophie's tabby coat was every comfort, encouragement and memory I ever had. All the good ones, at least. Whenever I needed to be reminded of what love is, I'd bury my face in her soft gray fur, and breathe.