I can hear Sammy meowing in the livingroom as he longingly looks out the picture window.

I know you’re called to the wild, Sammy boy, and I know that’s something I can never replace.

He slipped through the screen door earlier tonight as I returned home with my hands full. He’s about seven months old and hasn’t spent much time outside but is fascinated by it. As I fold my laundry in my bedroom, I hear his deep bellowing.

I can’t replace the great adventure outside, Sammy, but I can give you something you can never get out there. I can pet you and love you like nothing in the wild can, stroking you as you purr your heart out.

I can’t take away the longing and I can’t take its place. I never could and I’d never want to.

I know I can’t hold you here and if the wild calls you home, I’ll have to let you go. I can’t change your mind and I can’t convince you to stay.

All I can do is love you while you’re here. And that I will do to the very best of my ability. Not done to convince you or to persuade you to stay. Not for any objective at all. Only for the sweetness of what that love brings to me while you’re here. That is enough. It is rich and great and I will love for that reason alone.

What I offer is simple and predictable. It doesn’t have the natural intrigue of the outdoors. I know this. I can’t be more than I am, but you can stay as long as you like.