He came to me small enough to fit in the curve of my hand—eight weeks old, all soft fur and quiet trust. I didn’t know then how quickly time would move, how seventeen years would slip past like a long exhale.

Now his black has softened into brown, and white threads stitch themselves gently into his paws, like time signing its name across his body.

But I don’t see age when I look at him.

I see my baby.

I remember the promise I made to his mama—spoken or not, it settled in my spirit all the same:

that his belly would never know hunger,

that he would always land somewhere soft,

that love would follow him all his days.

And I have kept that promise.

Not perfectly—but faithfully.

Not loudly—but daily.

In every bowl filled, every blanket fluffed, every quiet moment where he chose me… and I chose him back.

Seventeen years later, he is still here.

Still mine.

Still loved.

And if love could stretch time,

he would live forever. 🐈‍⬛