He is perfect.
When I first brought him home, he was all legs and tail and mischief, and could easily fit in my backpack. Now he is legs and tail and mischief and mass, heavy enough that picking him up is something to be considered carefully before it is done. The small orange stripes on his muzzle give him a permanent Cheshire grin, a smile with a cat attached. I can't imagine life without him.
So happy birthday to my puffy boy, to the first boy-cat I've had since my beloved Seymour died when I was fourteen. You are the best of brats, and I shall love you always, and all I ask is that you live forever. Okay?