May 9, 2019:

When we first met her name was "Kippie". I changed it to Kipper on the bus.

She was the boss of the litter: the confident one with the intelligence and the personality. She talked, she looked into my eyes, she offered to play and burst into purrs when I stroked her soft kitten fur.

So I took her home inside my jacket, on the Greyhound from San Diego to Redlands, where I surprised my housemates with a new companion, soon joined by another, my new girlfriend who hated that kitty but lied about it to please me.

The two loves of my life: one whose love was genuine, the other whose love was ever parasitical.

Fast forward. The parasite ghosts when she feels she's taken all there is to take. The kitty comes racing when she hears my voice, although she hasn't seen me in so long I'm sure she'll have forgotten me. She tears down the hallway sliding and purring, calling out in joyful mews. When I pick her up she nuzzles my neck, purring from pure joy of reunion.