I wrote this dainty tale for a short-short-short story contest a few years ago and never got around to actually submitting it.  The criteria for the contest required a complete story in 250 words or less.  Brevity is easy; brevity with comprehensive clarity is much more difficult.
The Chair
 
 
The chair was hers, and so she sat.  And so the cat. 
 
It was a three-year tradition, since the cat was a kitten, that after-school snacks and tuna morsels be shared upon the chair.  First the girl would sit and open her pouch, and then the cat, purring loudly, would wind around her legs, butting her shin with the top of his head.
 
And when he had wound back and forth and forth and back, he would look up at her a long moment, purr his loudest, then jump into her lap. 
 
Three years since the cat was a kitten; three years since the child was smitten.
 
And as the days and weeks passed, and the kitten grew and the disease progressed, the girl found it more difficult to sit. 
 
But sit she did, and so the cat.
 
Till one day the hour came for tuna morsels and after-school snacks, but no girl came and sat.  And the cat watched and waited as the days passed.  The cat grew weak, but wouldn’t leave, for the girl who sat would surely be back.
 
The fourth day came and the cat began to purr.  Though the chair stood empty, the cat saw more.  Winding back and forth around invisible legs and butting his head against air, he leapt into the seat and curled up there.
It happened but once, a sweet good-bye.  The cat lives on and, elsewhere, the girl sits a better chair.
 
And—someday—so the cat.