One hot August morning, exactly seven years ago today, I heard a scrawny orange cat yowling in a Post Office parking lot.

Everyone else was ignoring this cat. I walked across that hot parking lot and reached down to scratch her head. She weaved herself in and around my legs, purring wildly, and before I really stopped to think about it I picked her up. She was both flea-ridden and hugely pregnant, and I did the only logical thing there was to do: I brought her home.

The rest is history.

Now I love Scully and her kittens equally (maybe less so when Stephanie is being a pain), but in the end Scully is my cat.

I love her funny little squashed up face and I love her underbite. I love her insane fluff and the way her fur is the softest I’ve ever felt. I love her slightly spaced-out stare and the way she drools when she’s happy. I love how much she loves chasing her tail and the joy she gets from just sitting in plastic bags.

Most of all I love the way she runs to me when I come home and the way she seeks out my lap when I’m not feeling well. We have a bond, she and I.

She chose me and I chose her.

Happy Homecoming, Scully.