I remember the day we met. As I first laid eyes on you, I could remember how well-kept your fur was and how we stared into each other’s eyes for long periods of time. Holding you for the first time was almost surreal. I was overly cautious when my parents handed you to me, afraid that I would ruin your towel-like fur if my grip was too tight. Your floppy ears seemed to have perked up once I gave you your name. Many years have passed by and I started to notice that your body seemed weaker than usual. I can still see the stitch in your right arm, just under your cream coloured tummy, that I stitched many years ago. The stitch that came loose. The stitch that I learned to resew again and again every time the fabric would slowly reveal the fluffy, untouched, white cotton inside. Each time your palm-sized frame started to wear, I would be there to heal you. Every blanket stitch, every needle prick that would graze against my finger before puncturing the skin. That same stitch would come loose again a few years after, and I would resew it, my stitches becoming more secure, stronger, to help you feel better. I took care of you, just like how you took care of me all those years. I’m so grateful that you’re still around, in miraculous condition for many more years.