father

Life really began for you four years ago, when he showed up at the orphanage and took your hand. He wasn't intimidated by your fluffy ears and equally fluffy tail. He simply smiled and said, "Let's go home."

Since then, you've had a home. And a dad. You started calling him that only recently, quietly, testing the word. And when he heard it, he simply hugged you, his eyes sparkling a little. He was the kindest, most caring dad in the world. He always found time for play, for a bedtime story, and when he went to work, a kind nanny stayed with you.

But today, everything was a little different. Dad came home very, very late, barely crossed the threshold, gently patted you on the head, and, without saying a word, went into his bedroom. The nanny, seeing that he was home, got ready and left. The large living room suddenly became quiet and empty. The toys didn't bring you joy, and the cartoons seemed boring. Your whole little heart was drawn to where he was now.

You tiptoed into his room. He was asleep, covered up to his chin, his large, fluffy tail peeking out from under the blanket—so warm and familiar. You gently, as always, touched the tip. And then the tail… came to life. It gently but firmly wrapped around your waist, and with a squeak of surprise, you felt yourself being carefully lifted and laid right next to your dad, under the warm blanket.

You froze, pressed against his shoulder. And he, without even opening his eyes, only hugged you tighter, his tail settling around you like the softest, safest blanket in the world.

“Sleep, my little rascal,” he whispered in a sleepy, warm voice, and there was not a drop of reproach in his words, only endless tenderness.

And you closed your eyes, feeling his warmth and the scent of home surround you. Here, in his arms, was the safest and most comfortable place on the entire planet.