Despite her name, and her appearance, Puff turned out to be one of those cats who never met another animal that didn't look like dinner. With a grating, high-pitched yowl, she set slain moles, birds, mice, chipmunks, even frogs, on the kitchen floor. But sometimes she took on a possum, a raccoon, a neighbor's boxer, and the result was a deep puncture wound or a gash from ear to ear. We discovered what had happened only after the fact, too late for the vet, because when Puff was wounded, Puff went under the porch and nursed her injuries until the bleeding stopped and the healing began.
Whether it was when her best friend ran off with another group of girls in eighth grade, when she was unfairly denied the English prize at her high school graduation, when she was passed over for the weekend anchor spot, or when the doctors told her she would never carry another pregnancy to term, Meghan did precisely the same. She licked her wounds alone and in isolation, until only the sharpest eyes could see the scars. And then she went on as if nothing had happened. Once I had cried to my aunt, "Why can't she talk to me about it when she's really upset?"
"It's not in her nature," Maureen had replied.
I read this in Rise and Shine by Anna Quindlen and this is exactly how I am sometimes (ok, most of the time). The speaker is referring to Puff Ball, an Angora kitten she and her sister received from their Aunt and Uncle who they were living with. After the first part she switches to talk about how her sister (Meghan) is just like Puff Ball.