We brought Franky home in 2015 and he spent the first few weeks letting us know, in no uncertain terms, that he wasn’t sure about any of this. He hid behind the washing machine. He watched us from doorways. He accepted food with the wariness of someone who had learned not to trust too quickly — and we understood. He’d had a hard start, and we weren’t going to rush him. What happened over the months that followed is one of the great privileges of our lives. Inch by inch, Franky decided we were safe. First he’d sit in the same room. Then on the same sofa, but at the far end. Then one evening he climbed onto a lap and stayed there for the rest of the film, and we barely breathed in case we broke the spell. We didn’t. He came back the next night, and every night after that. Strangers were another matter. If someone new came to the house, Franky would vanish. Visitors who stayed long enough might — might — catch a glimpse of him at the end of the hall, ears slightly back, performing his assessment. Very few passed. We found this quietly hilarious, and a little flattering, because we always did. He was the funniest, most particular little creature. He had a loud opinion about mealtimes and a very specific spot on the bed that was non-negotiable. He liked to supervise things — laundry, cooking, any conversation that went on too long without him. He purred like something mechanical and deeply content. We are so grateful he let us love him. We are so grateful he learned to let himself be loved back. The house is quieter than we know what to do with right now, and it will be for a long time. But what a gift those eleven years were. What an extraordinary, cautious, devoted, funny little soul. Sleep well, Franky. You were so loved here. We hope you knew.