I met you in your youth.
You were so callow and spry; your energy both smothered and infuriated me. Your recklessness caused me pain on occasion, but you were none the wiser, so I begrudgingly dismissed my anger. I’d never been around your personality before—relentless, never resting, attention never on one thing for long—but you taught me lessons in adaptation and patience over the years. You’ve also made me laugh more than I’d ever have expected to around you.
You’re quite different than that, now. It’s an unavoidable consequence of aging, I suppose. You’ve learned to relax and learned to interact with your peers, although often in manipulative ways. Your intent is usually harmless. I’ve watched your mind and personality really take shape as you’ve matured, and it’s been an interesting privilege. I miss you, you expressive bastard.
I was warned about you. You had problems.
Sometimes, they manifested in ways both violent and spontaneous. It was suggested that I not go near you and avoid looking in your general direction. Instead, I entered your sanctum. I could tell from the look in your eyes that we’d be alright. You’d had a tumultuous past: your family was gone, your childhood home was far away, and you had to readjust and adapt to a new and confusing world. It was hard, and you fought it, but you emerged a competent and interesting being. I’m glad you took to me like I took to you. I think we saw a kinship in one another when we locked eyes that proved true as we were around each other.
Dear #1, dear #2,
You are, by far, my favorite cats that I’ve had the privilege of being around. I wish you many good, strong years to come.