I was so small when I first saw them – the big feet walking across the dark ground where the giant moving boxes sleep. I was scared, hungry, and alone, but something inside me knew – this one, this human, they needed me as much as I needed them.

I gathered all my courage (and believe me, being tiny doesn't mean you can't be brave) and ran straight toward those feet. Humans usually love it when we little ones show our bellies – it's our secret weapon, you see. So I flopped over, right there on the warm ground, showing my spotty tummy and thinking *Please, please understand.*

They tried to resist – humans often do at first. I could sense their hesitation, hear their words about "shelters" and "just one night." But I knew better. Sometimes we cats have to save humans from their own stubbornness.

Then I met Him. Oh, He was magnificent! So big, so warm, so... motherly. The humans called him "HOO-eh-ves" I didn't care that he was what they call a "dog" – I knew instantly he was meant to be my mom. I tried to nurse from him (embarrassing now that I think about it, but I was very young and very determined).

The human kept calling me "Cat." Just Cat. No fancy name like HOO-eh-ves. I didn't mind – I knew they were trying not to love me. Humans can be funny that way, thinking if they don't name something, they won't care about it. We cats know better – love doesn't need names.

"HOO-eh-ves" taught me so many things. He showed me the best sunspots in the house, though I had to teach him how to properly appreciate a windowsill. I made it my job to protect him. When he went outside, I would call and call until he came back in where it was safe. The human would shake their head, but "HOO-eh-ves" understood. We had our own language, he and I.

Then one day, they left him outside, for a very long time

I search for him every night when the world is dark and quiet. At the special time – the humans call it "3 AM" – I make my rounds. I check all his favorite spots, call out to him through every window. Sometimes I think I can sense him, just on the other side of the glass, watching over us like he used to.

The human used to get upset when I did this, but now they understand. Sometimes they wake up and whisper to me, "Yes, I miss him too." We share these moments in the dark, my human and I, both remembering him in our own ways.

They still call me just "Cat," and that's fine. Names aren't important when you've found your true family. Every morning, I curl up next to them, purring to let them know they're not alone. After all, that's why I chose them that day in the parking lot – some humans need a cat to help them remember how to love, even when it wasn't part of their plan.

I never made it to that "shelter" place they mentioned. But then again, I never intended to. Sometimes humans need saving from their own plans, and we cats are very good at that.