No matter how tough life got, my cat was always there.
Margaret Tobin

I lay on the couch, wracked with pain from an infection in my jawbone.

Something had gone terribly wrong with a dental implant I’d had for years and I was on IV antibiotics, too sick to work.

My family tried their best to comfort me, but my husband had his job, my son had school, even our dog had the yard to patrol—they couldn’t be with me all the time.

I hadn’t felt so miserable since I was 17. My parents were divorced and I’d had to move with my mom and change schools. Everything that mattered to me seemed far away, even God.

Then one afternoon, driving down the highway, I saw a small animal scurry across the road. I pulled into the lot where it had run and found a red-gold tabby kitten, a skinny, sickly stray.

I took him home and named him Ralphy. He grew to be a big, beautiful cat whose greatest joy was to keep me company. He’d rub against my legs when I cooked. He’d jump on the paper when I wrote letters. And every night for the 14 years he lived, Ralphy would curl up next to my ear and purr me to sleep.

I missed him more than ever now. Lord, help me not to feel so alone! I shifted on the couch and closed my eyes, trying to block out the pain with memories of Ralphy.

A few nights later I heard our dog bark­ing her head off in the yard. I couldn’t figure out what had set her off. The next morning, though, sitting on the porch, eating out of the dog’s bowl, was a kitten — a red-gold tabby.

It took five years to fully beat that bone infection, but I never felt alone in my struggles, because right by my side all day and curled up by my head purring me to sleep at night was the comfort God knew I needed.