There are some animals who come into our lives and somehow become woven into who we are.

For me, that was Pepper.

I will always remember the day my mom took me to Pets Unlimited in Bedford Place Mall. We went there often, and while I loved looking at all the animals, my eyes always went straight to the cats.

That day, I spotted a black cat and immediately fell in love with him. Then I noticed he was wearing a collar. I remember pointing him out to my mom and telling her how much I loved him, followed by the disappointed realization that the collar must mean someone had already bought him.

She told me I was right.

Someone had bought him. Us. He was coming home with us. I was over the moon.

There was only one problem: he needed a name. I've always been terrible at naming animals—and apparently nothing has changed—so I decided his name would be the first thing he smelled. Somehow, this little black cat managed to smell pepper.

And just like that, Pepper had his name.

From that day forward, we were inseparable. Pepper had his quirks, he also had his favorites, he wouldn’t eat any other cat food but Whiskas Meaty Selections. He was obsessed with Donair, KFC, Yogurt, Chicken, and often sat on a chair at the dining table, waiting for his share.

Pepper loved me with his entire little soul. Everyone else? He tolerated them. If I wasn't around, someone else might temporarily be deemed worthy of his attention, but the moment I returned, their services were no longer required.

When I was a teenager and started driving, Pepper would sometimes sit on the couch with my mom while I was at work. Somehow, he learned the sound of my car. My mom swore that when I was still a few streets away, he'd hear me coming, immediately abandon her and head for the door. When I walked inside, there he'd be waiting for me.

He'd greet me with a little meow before turning around and leading me down the hallway toward my bedroom, where he'd jump onto my bed and wait for the attention he'd clearly been deprived of for far too long.

Pepper followed me through so many stages of growing up. During my first semester of nursing school, my dad built me a little office in the basement so I could study without distractions. Apparently Pepper decided my studying required a strict curfew because, like clockwork, around 9:30 every night he would come downstairs to summon me to bed.

There were very few nights I spent at home without him tucked against my side or curled up on my pillow, happily accepting belly rubs.

He wasn't exactly what you'd call a social butterfly. When friends came over, Pepper usually disappeared underneath my bed. He'd wait until everyone had settled down and gone to sleep before quietly emerging to reclaim his rightful place beside me.

He didn't need everyone to love him. He had his person. And I had him.

As Pepper got older, even trips to the vet became another example of the trust between us. He hated travelling in his carrier and would cry the entire way, which always made me feel terrible. One day, my mom drove while I simply held him. He was completely content.

From then on, that became our routine. At the vet, he'd sit wrapped in a blanket on my lap. After I moved out, he'd ride beside me on his blanket in the passenger seat, perfectly happy as long as he was close to me.

Although there was the time I encountered a roadblock while driving with Pepper beside me and panicked that having him outside of a carrier might get me in trouble. I pulled a U-turn before reaching the police and went another way.

Pepper was there when I was growing up. He was there through my teenage years, learning to drive, school, nursing school, moving out for the first time, living with roommates and eventually having a place of my own. For 18 years, wherever life took me, Pepper was there.

In November 2021, the day eventually came that I had spent years wishing somehow never would.

It was time to say goodbye. We were brought into a quiet comfort room at the veterinary clinic, and there was a leather couch. I laid down with Pepper beside me and held him close. And in a moment when I desperately wanted to be the one comforting him, Pepper did what he had spent his entire life doing—he comforted me.

The cat who normally hid when unfamiliar people entered the room didn't leave my side as staff came and went. He stayed with me, calm and close, giving me the same love, comfort and companionship he had given me throughout my life. Right until the end, he was still taking care of his person.

But the love he gave me didn't disappear when he did.

It shaped the way I connect with animals. It taught me that some animals love quietly, selectively and incredibly deeply. It taught me that an animal doesn't have to love everyone to have an enormous capacity for love. Most importantly, Pepper taught me what it feels like to be chosen by an animal.

I had the privilege of growing up with Pepper for 18 years, but I don't think I'll ever stop carrying him with me.

Spicy Paws may have come years later, but a piece of its heart will always belong to the little black cat who taught me just how extraordinary the bond between a person and an animal can be.