Trash Cat was a gift to the mayor of Coalfell's daughter. She was only five at the time and absolutely loved cats. TC was a beautiful cream tabby with shiny white socks and a big pink bow around her neck. She also squeaked a high pitched sound that made the girl giggle with glee every time. The daughter took the little stuffed cat everywhere with her, no matter how much protest there was. The mayor was simply happy that his adoptive daughter was happy and finally settling in after a hard year of bullying and torment. TC was just happy she belonged to someone who cherished her and shared everything with her. So many shared secrets within the town halls that this plush knows. Deals that had been made. Boundaries that had been broken. Trusts that had been shattered. The little girl knew of these things too and had to swear on her life to keep it all a secret, lest there be an unfortunate catastrophic event that would occur if something had been let out. Trash Cat did the same even though none was aware of her consciousness. She kept the girl safe and strong while the dark whispers of misfortune rang through their home.
The day finally came. A secret was shared. Though TC knows it wasn't her friend that shared it. They had been together the entire time. No no, the mayor had let something slip. She just knew it. He had damned that town. TC's girl clung to her tight and was grabbed by her father, both trying to escape the ever angry flames. Father did not make it as he stumbled, dropping daughter and plush, consumed by the livid fire. The girl picked TC up and ran and ran as fast as she could. The girl was picked up by a resident, a dear friend of old dad. They were saved! Oh but such luck was not had. TC watched herself be torn from the arms of her best friend and thrown to the wayside, making a soft and defeated squeak as she landed. She could hear her girl cry out for her but there was nothing that could be done. They were forced apart by that vile fool. TC watched the flames as they crept closer, touching her snow white mittens. She stared into the fire, angry for her girl. Angry for her home. Angry about secrets.

When she regained consciousness again she realized her form was still intact, though singed. Her pretty pink bow had turned an ugly brownish and curled up at the ends where it had been burned. Her mittens were sooty on the very bottom though the rest remained clean, save for the water damage she had apparently suffered sometime during the sleep. Her squeaker was still in top form and she let out a triumphant noise to let those near know she was still very much alive. She misses her friend dearly and knows much time has passed since then. It does not keep her from searching though, dragging her little body across the ground in search of her. She is not an evil spirit but she does alert the others when picked up. It is best to leave this squeaker alone unless you happen to have her once little girl with you.