Kush was born in St. Petersburg, Florida on the Fourth of July, just four days before my nineteenth birthday, to the cat of a friend and co-worker. After a lifetime of living with cats under my parents' roof, I longed for a cat companion now that I was out on my own. One night in August 2011, I drove over to meet the kittens, all of whom were quite timid. All but one. Baby Kush barreled ahead to greet me, an honor I've held close to my heart her whole life. She chose me.

Kush and I grew up together in every sense of the phrase. I barely recognize that version of myself that brought Kush home, clutching this tiny kitten to my chest to keep her from wriggling out of my grip as I drove. I had brought no carrier, made zero preparations. When my then-boyfriend came home to a surprise kitten, he conceded by saying, "Fine, but I get to name her." And so she was forever thereafter: Kush.

Baby Kush was also very much unlike her mature self. She was Wild with a capital "W." She had the most insane zoomies, bouncing off walls, hanging from door trim, climbing plastic blinds, scrapping with our pitbull mix, Ally. I wasn't sure at that time what kind of relationship we would have. Our lives then were unstable, unpredictable.

Over her life, Kush moved house eight times. As a kitten, she adapted to the transience and noise that came with living in a party house. She was constantly exposed to new people, all night hangouts, loud music. In between were long afternoons looking out second-story windows or lounging on the couch together. She built a strong sense of confidence about what it meant to be the cat of the house: no matter who comes, who goes, or who does what, wherever she and I were, that was her territory. That is where she belonged.

When she was five years old, Kush lived in Costa Rica with me, Nik, and her buddy, Kitten. Her love of window-gazing and cooling herself by laying belly-up gained new vibrancy in the rainforest. She was again taking in new sights, sounds, and smells. Though an international move with two cats was difficult, I simply could not imagine being apart from her. She had to experience this part of our life with us. Kush and Kitten were not just family; now, they were our "Costa Kitties," too.

Kush always knew who she was, what she wanted. Her demanding meow was the first thing I heard each morning. We "chatted" as I went through my morning routine. If her voice did not wake me, she would get creative: chewing on plastic was her go-to, but she was also known to paw my hand or arm, claw outlet covers and air vent covers, and knock stuff off the nightstand (classic). She had more than a few pillows thrown her way over the years. Whether she wanted food, attention, or both, she was determined to get it.

Kush had many other silly quirks. She loved laying in sunbeams on her back with her arms outstretched, exposing her entire spotted tummy. Nik and I could not resist scratching her armpits when she did this, which Kush loved. She cried loudly across the house if she could not easily find me. She had a habit of stealing our seats, the posterchild for "move your feet, lose your seat." She loved being brushed so much that she sometimes did it on her own; we held the brush as she pushed her face against it. Kush loved when I wrapped my arms around her sleeping body and laid my head on her like a pillow. I will miss her deep, rumbling purr the most.

In her later years, Kush tried to teach me the importance of stillness. She became a lap cat, taking every opportunity to curl up on top of me. Kush was content to sleep the day away in my lap but settled for her pink bed on my desk. For the 1.5 years Nik and I were living in different cities, she was my little spoon every night. Wherever I was, she wanted to be.

Kush was the answer to a prayer I did not realize I uttered. She was my light, my heart walking around in a furry body. She saw me in every form and loved me anyway. We had an understanding I can't put words to. She knew how to comfort me in ways that no human knows. The way she looked at me...well, I've lived the last 14 years trying to be the person she saw in me.

Leading up to our recent move, we noticed Kush was not herself. She had moved house so many times; I knew this was more than nerves or stress. When her breathing became labored, the urgent vet revealed that her lungs were partially collapsed from fluid. With some palliative care, she came home with us and finally felt up to exploring her new house. Her last house. A follow-up with her regular vet clarified that Kush was suffering from an aggressive cancer. She had tumors on her lungs, which were refilling quickly with fluid. I keep hearing the vet's gentle words replay in my head: "At this point, there is no 'too-soon'...she's tired." She assured me that Kush had not been suffering long, and that there was nothing we could have done differently. Because cancer sucks.

Kush passed just 72 hours after that urgent care visit. Making the call to schedule in-home euthanasia was like...an out of body experience. It was the hardest thing I've ever done. But...it was also the deepest, truest act of love I've ever shown anyone. As much as it hurts, I would bestow this mercy again. Kush was my soul cat, my closest companion for over 14 years, and she did not deserve to suffer. Death Cab for Cutie wrote the gut-wrenching line, "Love is watching someone die." It is. Oh, it is.

Kush is survived by her beloved guardians Vanessa and Nik, and her adopted siblings, Kitten and Kai. Her absence has left a gaping hole in our lives, and we will cherish her memory forever. We are so grateful to have been the recipients of her love, the witnesses to her beautiful life. Every brush session, every lap nap, every headbutt and belly scratch was a gift. I know she knew how much we loved her. And how much we always will.