I adopted you when you were three months old. I took you back to my apartment in that suburb of Detroit. You were a snuggler from the beginning, letting me wrap my arms around you and bury my face in your fur as I slept. I was single and still a bit of a nomad. You moved across the country with me three times, making the trek from Michigan to Seattle, back and then to Seattle again.
You've been with me through a slowly rotating carousel of boyfriends and best friends. You were with me (waiting patiently in my small one-bedroom unit) when I met J. at Starbucks. You were here when I first brought my babies home from the hospital.
Given how possessive you were of me, you adjusted quickly and well to kids, mostly tolerating their clumsy hugs and inept attempts to help me feed you.
No one can tell me animals don't feel love. Or at least affection. You have. You do. Until tomorrow when I will have to say Goodbye.
My comfort and constant, gentle presence through my twenties and thirties. My sweet friend.