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It’s all about the right cat at the right time.

I’d expected it’d take longer before I was ready to share my life with another wee furball, but once Janet pointed me in the direction of Petharbor, things accelerated (OK, got a little obsessive – that site’s dangerous. Enter at your own risk). And last week, I decided to send out the message to the universe that I might be getting ready, called my vet and asked them to keep me in mind should a cat need a home at some point. To which Eric the Cat Whisperer – immediately taking on the additional role of Cat Pimp – said they had three, all about 2 years old, transferred from the shelter to be spayed and adopted out. So Saturday, we went on a meet and greet there and at the Toronto Animal Services South Shelter. I met at least 10 cats that day and it was the first one who stood out as having everything I was looking for. Don’t think I had much choice, actually – she obviously chose me from the word go. She came home Wednesday afternoon.

I named her Lucy. Not after any particular famous redheaded actress, but because it suits her. However, she’s turning out to be very much a goofball, so it fits in many ways. She’s got a sweetness about her and is very smart, learned very quickly to jump up on my lap if she wants attention, knew her name and came when I called by Wednesday evening and have already understood that when I go “beep-beep”, it means she needs to move.

There’s a slight blue tinge in her green eyes and when you combine that with her elongated profile, we suspect there may be Siamese somewhere in her family tree. She’s certainly chatty, calling out with a very melodious meow and communicating in various inflections of chirp.

Aside from the Siamese suspicion, I’m pretty sure she’s part Doberman, as well. When she hears noises in the hallway, she freezes, all attention towards the front door, a low rumble coming out of her throat. It’s simmered down a tad as she’s gotten used to the place, but her fondness of carrying things – her things, my things, she’s not particular about ownership – around in her mouth lends credence to the canine influence.

Most of all, she’s a love bug or as David more bluntly, and perhaps more accurately calls her, a touch slut. She doesn’t care what you do to her, as long as your hands are on her and she will actively seek it out and stick around for long time.

Subsequently, I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep, what with frequently being awoken by Lucy shlumping down on top of me, a loud, raspy purr vibrating her entire body. When she’s had her fill of cuddles, she’ll nose around on my bedside table, drink my water, come back to the bed, stand on me – she really likes getting a massage while standing – and happy dancing madly. My triggerpoints are very well massaged. In other words, I’m exhausted and sore, but very happy.

And I’m pretty sure she’s happy to be here, too.