I remember the very first day I met you 10 years ago. You were the biggest and chubbiest of the litter, looking a little out of place but seeming to feel comfortable all the same, as if you took pride in your unique self. I adored you immediately, and knew I had to bring you home. I was wildly delirious, as every kid would be to have an adorable, fluffy friend to play with.

You cried for the first few nights whenever we left you on your own, like a toddler with separation anxiety. When I couldn’t come home for an entire week once, my parents told me you went around the house searching for me and whimpering through the night. I was only 10 years old then, but I felt like I had the responsibility and deep attachment and affection of a mother, missing you every minute I was away and bursting with joy when I could hold you in my arms again.

It seems incredible to remember how much of a handful you were in the first year or two, driving all of us absolutely crazy with your mischief and antics. You’d attack anything you see and skulk away with a guilty look on your face when we discovered those chew marks on furniture, wires, earphones… and there was even once when I had to show my teacher a tattered piece of worksheet to prove that ‘my dog almost ate my homework’ wasn’t just an excuse. My parents were furious, but your big, watery eyes begged ‘forgive me’ and our hearts would then melt and you’d win us all over again.

We found your eccentricities hilarious and adorable altogether, the way you’d crawl and squeeze your rotund body into every narrow space you could find especially during thunderstorms, how you never ever make a single sound unless we try to take your food or toy away, and that bottomless pit of a stomach you had coupled with the astonishing ability to eat just about everything – from the most sour flesh of a lemon to the most bitter of gourds.

And if there was one thing you did that could beat anyone else, it was the look of pure happiness you welcomed us home with. You’d race around the house with the energy and exhilaration of a druggie high on dope, and sometimes slip or hit yourself against the sofa, then continue your mad sprint. Now, though, running is a thing of your younger days and you’d only be able to greet us warmly at the door with a fervent wag of your tail that is still no less enthusiastic than before.

Of the ten years we have been together, I remember the beginning and the end most. I hate to have to say that most of the time in between is a blur, that while I grew up and spent my time in school learning and outside having fun, I’d stop giving as much attention to you as I did before. All this while, I was never quite there for you, but you were always there for me. Well okay, not always. You had the strange temperament of a cat in a dog’s body – appearing and disappearing whenever you wish and usually only eager to stick around when there’s the possibility of getting some treat.

On some of my worst days when I’d want to just curl up on the floor and get away from the world though, you’d know. You’d push yourself unapologetically into my arms, nudging your head against me as if clamouring for affection or giving support, and instantly, miraculously, I’d feel better. You’d lick my tears till I laugh and start to breath again. I always thought I needed ranting and advice through lengthy conversations but you’d save me with your silent company.

Although we all grow a little older each day, we only notice how much we’ve grown when they accumulate into months and years. The rashes all over your body, the dark rings under your eyes, the way you’d pant easily and lie in a spot sullenly, are all stark reminders of your mortality, of your eventual and imminent departure. We had to bring you to a vet twice within a couple of months when we never, ever had to all these years.

The doctor gave you medication to strengthen your heart. I wish I knew where I could go to get something for mine. I don’t dare to ask how long more we might have. How long more I can lie beside you on the ground and stroke your soft, light-brown fur that has fallen out in clumps and faded from an initial deep chocolate. How long more I am able to feel your wet tongue warm on my fingers, your way of telling me things will be okay. How long more I can press my ears gently to your ribs, hear the beat of your heart that is now a frightening, irregular rhythm.

With maturity, I’ve gained an acute awareness of how fragile and fleeting life is. But to cradle it intimately, to feel it slowly slip away, is something I’m still struggling to handle. Or perhaps I never will be able to and it’s better that way for I can’t bear to have you slip away, at least not from my memories.

10 years ago, you were a friend. Now, you’ve become family, and you will always, always be.