Our little Blythe girl. I remember the first time I met you. Before the vows, before the keys to our first home, before our home was filled with giggles and late-night surprises, there was you. A flicker of motion at the end of a narrow hallway, darting toward the door like it might vanish if you didn’t reach it fast enough. You didn’t come home with us that day. While I lined my arms with allergy shots and learned the names of antihistamines, you stayed on a farm, waiting for the air to clear and the timing to be right. And then, the waiting ended. You stepped through the door of our cramped apartment and surveyed every surface—perched above the fridge, tucked yourself between books, and you kept our feet warm on cold nights. Then came our new home. It was a lot bigger. Making room for not just you and your brother, but someone new growing inside your mother. There were stairs to conquer, windows warm with sunlight, ledges that dared you to leap—and you did, without hesitation. I still hear your mother’s startled shout echoing through the house the morning you soared higher than we thought possible, landing silent and sure, eyes shining with mischief and pride on the windowsill. And then, your sister arrived. She was small and fragile, and you loved her from the start. You followed us into her room every night. Watched over her while we fed her. And one night, when we couldn’t find you, we opened the nursery closet—and there you were. Silent as snowfall. If she sleeps here, I sleep here. You’re not just a cat, Blythe. You’re our family. And you’ll always be our fur baby.