I met Pirate when he was ten months old, in an animal shelter in Kyiv. From the moment I saw him, I knew he was meant to be part of my family. He came home with me and became more than just a cat — he became my friend, my companion, my quiet guardian. Pirat lived a long, full life in our home. He was there with me, with my mother and my grandmother, who have both since passed away. He connected the generations of our family. He was calm, wise, and always seemed to understand more than words could say. We shared so many moments together. We went for walks with his leash, like two explorers discovering the world side by side. At night, he often slept on my head, as if to keep me safe while I dreamed. When the war came, we hid together in the bomb shelter. Later, we fled to Poland side by side. In the hardest times, we supported each other — he comforted me with his presence, and I spoke to him as if he were another soul who understood. In truth, he did. Pirate was not just a pet; he was a wise and thoughtful being. He seemed to sense my moods, always there in silence or in purring warmth. We grew older together. On September 19, 2025, at the age of sixteen and a half, my dearest friend passed away. A sudden heart attack, a blood clot — we fought for his life for two long days in intensive care, but we could not win. Saying goodbye was the hardest thing I have ever done. I planted an amber-colored barberry bush in the spot in the garden where he loved to sleep. It grows now as a living memory of him, glowing with the same warm, gentle spirit he had. Even now, I sometimes find his fur in the house — small, tender reminders that love doesn’t disappear. I will never stop loving you, my friend. You were my Pirate — my brave, gentle companion through storms and peace alike.