Happy Fifteenth, Lin

Oh Linny-Lin. She's curled up next to me, head and paw draped over the computer. This is us, every night. It's a quiet life we lead.
I just fully realized how much of my life has been shared with this little cat. I got her in fifth grade, when I was twelve. When I went away to camp for the summer after sixth grade, she moped at my door and ran, delighted, through the house when I came home for a visit.
She slept on my bed during high school, witnessing the awkward flirtations with my first boyfriend.
She was depressed when I left for college, constantly following my mother through the house, always looking somewhat confused.
She was always the smallest cat, getting bullied by Oliver, saved by Molly, and running away from my father's heavy tread. She never really got enough credit--Oliver was the cuddly one, Molly was the sweetheart, and Lin just chilled, happy to cuddle when Molly wasn't dominating a lap, or eager to munch on ham when Oliver wasn't begging for food.
Molly disappeared before I graduated from college, and Lin and Ollie led an uneasy life together. He no longer attacked, but still chased and irritated her.
As soon as I got settled in Boston, I brought her here. I wanted her with me, although I was concerned she'd miss the NH wilderness. She's made it clear that a window with a view is enough, especially at her her age.

She has been through my life--elementary school, middle school, high school, college, grad school. And now, the adult world. That's a lot of time, a lot of memories, a lot of crying and laughing and yelling and talking.
She's heard it all. She was there when the Colombian broke up with me for being too fat. She was there during countless Alias nights, chewing on her cardboard box. She was there when my sister moved in. And then left. And then moved in again. She was there when I yelled at the Red Sox, when I chucked a shoe at the wall, when I decided that I was totally capable of putting in an air conditioner by myself. She's been there when I couldn't leave my bed, when I slept for 17 hours straight, when I cried and cried and thought I couldn't go on.
She's witnessed way too much.
(Thankfully she can't talk.)
But thankfully she's been here, because having this little body in my life has given me more reason to figure everything out.

It's easy to take a cat for granted. Bea had Molly, I had Lin, we both doted on Oliver. The kitties played outside, wandered around the house, slept in their own rooms at night. That's how cats are in NH--they go on two-day quests, reappear for some food, trot off. It's hard to reign in free spirits, but if you're living in the woods, it's an unfortunate gamble. Cats don't require the constant attention that other pets do, and it's easy to just let them be their independent selves.

So I feel lucky that Lin stuck close to home, lived out her youth in the forest, and can retire here in Boston, a spoiled old lady, with canned food on tap.

Because seriously? She's seen it all. And she still loves me. It's nice having that little bit of security in my life.