Meet Lucy, self-appointed site mascot.
At present, this little nub of a kitten is walking over my keyboard in an attempt to steal a few bites of my dinner. For some reason, the delicious Friskies-induced hallucinations cats seemed to crave on the commercials hold no sway over my spoiled feline. She prefers bacon, just like her mommy.
Of course, Lucy wasn’t always this spoiled. There was once a time she didn’t even have a home. My former roommate and I found her last year, wandering around the outskirts of a friend’s farm. She was a scared, shivering little baby, small enough to fit in the palm of one hand and far too young to be separated from her mother. She was clearly the unwanted runt of her litter. I loved her immediately.
We originally named her “bearkitten,” because our university mascot is a bearcat, and we wanted her to grow up to be one too. However, she preferred her much more popular nickname, after a certain sinister biblical figure. After a few months of hard work, the originally named “Lucifer” had become the slightly less vicious, far more cuddly Lucy. Like all babies, Lucy was quite a bit of work; her metamorphosis was a battle fought with patience, bandaids, and Kroger brand carpet cleaner. Being feral, “food” meant scraps out of a McDonald’s trash bag; “litterbox” being anything that didn’t move or bite back. In other words, she ate what she found, pooped where she wanted, and used her claws on everything bigger than her, including my thankfully ancient furniture. She was as liable to rip your hands open as to lick your fingers. She got into everything. And yet, I persisted, taming her into a socially acceptable, if diva-esque, adult tortoise-shell calico. It was a battle hard-won, but I think we’re finally coming into our own as a trusting, cat-and-owner pair.
Now, Lucy is happy to sleep at the end of my bed, come when I call her (most of the time), snuggle up to my hand, and, most importantly, oogle me while I make bacon.