More than fifteen years ago, after the last final of the fall semester of my second year of law school, I went to the SPCA to pick out a cat. I wanted a pet and I figured it would be my reward for studying my behind off during exams. When I got there, though, I was sorely disappointed to discover only one scrawny kitten, the sole remainder from his litter. He meowed at me, and then went about the business of playing. I watched him dubiously, certain he was defective in some invisible yet crucial aspect. Why else would he be the only kitten left?

Still, I wanted a cat, and he was a cat, so I took him home with me and named him Hobbes, after the stuffed animal turned tiger in the hilarious comic strip, Calvin & Hobbes. And a beautiful friendship was born.

He trained me right away. Hopping into the bathtub and meowing at the faucet meant I was supposed to turn the tap on and give him a little drink. Meowing at a door meant I was supposed to open the door for him. Peering around the corner at me meant I was supposed to play an impromptu game of hide and seek with him, and he was it.

Last week, this beautiful friendship came to an end. Hobbes had been battling diabetes, and it became clear that the diabetes was winning. So I took him to the vet and he died peacefully, in my hands. As deaths go, I suppose it doesn’t get any better.

I miss him. A lot. But I’m grateful I got to spend so many years with the world’s greatest cat. I’ll never forget Hobbes, of course. I’ve framed a picture of him and put it on my bookshelf, and my parents sent a sympathy card that’s brought me a lot of comfort: