It was on the eve of my 27th birthday, just over a year after our wedding, when my wife suddenly urged us to drive 100 miles to the neighbor town. She admitted she needed help to pick up the birthday present. I suspected it was a coffee machine or a sound system I fancy. We arrived at the apartment house, not the department store I would expect.
That could be second-hand consumer electronics, I explained to myself.
The flat was on the fourth floor. The door was opened and there stood a lady in her mid-thirties with a strict smile.
“Wash your hands first, please,” she welcomed us in.
With clean hands I entered the living room. Ladies conspiratorially glanced at each other and my wife exclaimed, “Here it is, your birthday present!”, pointing at the bookcase. I didn’t see the coffee machine, nor the sound system. To my big surprise I noticed a little grey kitten sitting on the shelf and staring at me with his big blue eyes.
Taler will turn thirteen in two weeks’ time. My furry companion is snoring on the couch next to me as I am writing this text. He is the dearest present my wife has ever given me besides our two beautiful kids.