Ten years ago, less an hour or two, in the waning weeks of the 20th century I scraped a small, badly-injured, skin-and-bones and dying cat out of a pool of her own blood off the middle of the highway by that shanty town near Otter Point, using cardboard and being careful not to jostle the exposed bone that was what was left of her left rear femur. It was hopeless, the cat was just a mess from having been run over by who knows who and what on a very rainy December evening after weeks or months of living feral, with all the blood and bones sticking out and rocks and pebbles embedded in the skin of her side and her face, it was just the saddest thing imaginable. And I did what I had to do, the right thing, I put her out of her misery. That little cat has been on my mind every day of the last 10 years, it's just not the sort of thing one gets over. When I close my eyes tightly enough I can still see her there on the back seat of the car all bruised and battered and bleeding.

Of course if I bothered to open my eyes I might just notice that same little soul curled up and purring on my lap, right where she is just now. For long-time readers and folks I know in real life the calico cat needs no introduction, nor were any of those fooled by my little misdirection, honest though it was. What a wonderful little mammal she is.

I've spent 10 years now meditating on what sort of relationship the cat and I share. To some extent, it has to be the natural human nurturing instinct, bolstered especially because she is very, very cute. But she's not my offspring, and while I both have and plan none of such I'm still not confusing the powerful feeling one must feel for the fruit of one's loins with a cat who looks for gnus behind the television every time the National Geographic channel is on. And who will again and again for as long as she lives; she ain't going to college and there will be no grandchildren. And it's been 10 years and not once has she crayoned a picture I've wanted to stick to the fridge, nor clever as she can be has she ever uttered even one hilarious English sentence, you know, the way human kids do at least four times a week. She is not my son.

But with all this meditation, I do know what we are to each other: We are best friends. No, she'll never lend me money nor ask for it, and frankly, she never calls. But We are best friends, we belong, each of us I'm sure for some slightly different but mostly the same reasons.

I love this cat forever. She is fabulous, and extroverted enough that anyone who visits will feel a little of it too. Happy Anniversary, thecalicocat, sorry I never named you, but I'm not sure I ever could do you justice with some mere noun.

Love. This. Cat. yes, it actually hurts how much.

(she's perfect.)