17 years. More than half my life. Today I said goodbye to the cat who’s been with me through it all—growing up, my first apartment, marriage, both my babies, and every high and low in between. If you knew me, you definitely knew Bink.

He came into my life when Frank got him for my 15th birthday. Told me she was a girl… yeah, she wasn’t. Covered in fleas and full of attitude from day one. And I adored him immediately.

Bink was smart…like too smart and absolutely a pain in the ass in the most iconic ways. He begged like a dog. Stole entire loaves of bread off the counter. Broke into my trash so often I had to baby-lock it. And the time he jumped out of the fridge with a mouthful of salami? I’ll never forget it. He was a menace and I wouldn’t have changed a thing.

He was also the loudest, snuggliest, most loyal boy. He talked constantly and had zero shame about anything. He hunted like it was his job, ran the neighborhood back when I lived at the parents (he became an indoor kitty) slept like royalty, and made himself known to every single person who walked through the door. Everyone loved him. Everyone remembered him.

Honestly, I thought he’d live forever. Or at least to 25. But I’m so grateful I got 17 amazing, ridiculous, beautiful years with him.

Thank you for growing up with me, Bink. For being there for every single chapter. For being mine.

I’ll miss you forever, ya stubborn little shit.