It wasn't soft. Its fur was made up of ridges embossed into the plastic at the factory. The paint had long ago worn off of it, and the only thing that wasn't a bleached-out white on its entire body were the eyes. The eyes had faded, but were still startlingly green. There was a noticeable seam running all along its back, across its head, down the center of its nose, and back down its belly.
Nobody seems to know where the cat came from.
One day, I had no cat, and the next, I wouldn't be parted from it. Mom thinks I must have dug it out of a neighbor's trash, but I don't recall being a trash-picker so early in life. I've often constructed memories of finding it under the front porch at our house, but I'm sure I'm making that up. Once in a while, when I think of that cat, I think it might have just shown up on our front steps. That I opened the door to find a rigid, faded, freakishly-focused plastic cat staring at the ground in front of me.