Cinder was first adopted in 2018 by an older woman in Washington. But by late 2019, her owner suffered a sudden onset of dementia and was moved to memory care. Cinder was left alone in the apartment for weeks; while family members dropped in to provide food and water, they weren't sure what to do with her. We had just said goodbye to our cat, Abbey, that August. Though still grieving, a family friend told us about Cinder, and we knew her odds of being adopted were slim do to her disinterest in contact. She was a tiny, five-pound shadow with the attitude of a lion - fearful of hands and feet, stand-offish, and entirely uninterested in affection. Despite her small size, she was an older girl with moderate kidney disease. Her complex medical needs and prickly temperament made us even more grateful we stepped in; we knew she needed a very specific kind of home. Over the years, Cinder’s true personality emerged. We learned that she only sought cuddles when she felt poorly; her "happy" self was actually defined by swats, aloofness, and loud demands for treats. She seemed to have a surplus of those legendary nine lives, bouncing back from the brink of death so many times we joked she was just transitioning to the next one. In her final year, that tough exterior finally softened. She still swatted us if we didn't follow her to the treat jar fast enough, but she began to allow head kisses and pets. She spent her days on her heating pad or "knocking (scratching)" on Philip’s office door frame for snacks. He denied her nothing. She and our youngest child were kindred spirits and their bond was unbreakable. Cinder loved our youngest and our youngest loved Cinder and if ever two beings were meant to be, it was those two. Cinder never weighed more than 6.5 pounds, but she was a tiny force of nature. We loved her fiercely, and while we miss her deeply, we are forever grateful we could give her a warm, loving place to land for her final years.