Dot, I have been thinking while we sit here on the couch, you in my lap, dozing against my front, snoring softly as I brush my fingers through your fur. I have been thinking that you have spent more than a century now seven years old. That is one hundred seventh birthdays. Oh, sure, you have had a few twelfths, and once you even had a fifth, but no matter what, you have had more than your fair share of seventh birthdays.

I have been thinking, though — and this is between you and me — what if you grew up?

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