I can't believe you're eight. When I got you, you were only a month old. Your kitty-momma had stopped feeding you and so you needed a home. I pulled you from a drain pipe where you were hiding on a friend's balcony and took you home with me. You fit in the palm of my hand. You slept in a tiny wicker basket with a washcloth and I put you in a closet because I was afraid you'd get lost behind the refrigerator or something.
Those were the days, weren't they? Nice naps on a crappy couch in our first apartment together... I still wore "gold" jewelry, had green fingers from finger-painting, and amazingly thin thighs. Sorry, this was about you.
You let me dress you up and you were a lovely subject. You'd object to this treatment now, but at the time you didn't mind. (I swear.)
Now you're my big kitty. You're in charge of the kitten and the puppies. It's quite a house to run, especially when you consider all the duties you have. Between performing your perimeter checks each night, to watching me shower each and every day, you really have your paws full. I'm glad you still have the time to rest in the sunlight. You deserve it.
So, my big kitty, you are eight years old today. I know it's rough to share your special day with your daddy, but I'm hoping you know how special we both think you are. (I'm thinking you'll understand more fully when you're presented with some of tonight's chicken.)
Plus, you're damn good at holding things down. (That kitchenaid 5qt. mixer I got for daddy was bound to blow away in the wind!)