A year ago, I flew home quickly from Kansas and went straight to the critical care clinic, where Erin and I and Sharon said goodbye to Bob. September 23 was the first day ever that Erin and I woke up without our little fuzzy pal.

Our house has two cats now. We lasted not quite a month before we tried to fill the hole in our hearts with two kittens, but they just wormed their way into entirely new areas and left the Bob-shaped cavity pretty much as it was. I still sometimes forget she’s not here, in the night, or when I’m moving through the house and a corner of shadow looks inky and fuzzy enough to be my old girl.

We love Saracen and Wiggins. They were made to be ours. They picked us, at the rescue site, as much as we picked them. Saracen thinks Erin hung the moon, and follows her around like a puppy. She stalks and captures all manner of small textiles when we’re not looking, which means our house actually does have a tiny gremlin who steals socks. Wiggins is absolutely fascinated with just about everything I do, and spends a good chunk of every day insisting her way into my lap. She vocalizes more than any animal I’ve ever seen, which is hilarious, and has invented a game for herself involving our stairs and wine corks. They romp and run through the house like the juveniles they are, and then collapse together in the increaseingly-too-small-for-them cat condo, or in extra chairs, or next to us on the couch when they’re done.

But neither of them are Bob, and in some ways they’re both still strangers compared to her. And I still miss my girl even though I love these new guys, too.