This year is flying by, and I can't help thinking about when we brought Wick home. 

Almost fourteen years ago, it was a few days before Halloween when we brought Wick home. He was so tiny, he could curl up in just one hand. I remember cradling him against my chest, his whole body a warm, purring bundle of sleek black fur. His ears were too big for his head, his tail was a skinny whip, and his eyes—wide and unblinking—seemed to take in everything at once.

He wasn’t scared. That still baffles me. Most kittens cry when they’re taken from their litter, but not Wick. He climbed up onto my shoulder like he belonged there and let out the smallest meow—like a whisper, almost like he was saying thanks.