If you don’t know, we have a cat. His name is Graham. 

Graham is pretty old — 11 or 12 years. I don’t actually know for sure how old he is, because I am old and my memory isn’t great. My ex and I adopted him when he was about 6 months old. I named him that because he was the color of a graham cracker and definitely not after a queer lady movie character. We brought him into a house with two cats who had been together for 9 years. They got along okay, but he was always kind of a loner. 

Then the other cats packed up their U-hauls and moved out, along with my ex, and suddenly Graham went from two mothers and two brothers to just me. 

He was pretty confused for a while, and I still say he has abandonment issues because of it. He followed me around after my breakup, constantly yelling at me (he’s very loud) and snuggling with me on the couch and in bed. He used to wait until I turned over on my left side and then stretch himself along my back, falling asleep. That doesn’t happen anymore because there’s a strict “no cats in the actual bed” rule, so he often curls up at my feet, stretching himself along my legs. 

He receives two pills a day now, the result of a few vet visits and some uneven thyroid levels. Chris and I have noticed that he still seems to be losing weight. He’s not as puffy and chubby as he used to be, and I can feel his bones now through his skin when I pet him. 

I look at him now, curled up on his Poang IKEA chair, sleeping away, oblivious to the TV and his worried mother. 

I’ve never lost a pet — he’s the first one I ever really had that was my own — and I’m not looking forward to it. Chris and I think that time might be sooner rather than later, but maybe we are just paranoid. 

But he’s happy and not in pain and still playful as a kitten when we bust out the Star Wars laser pointer. And he certainly hasn’t lost his appetite. 

Hug your cats extra hard today, friends. And I’ll do the same.