It’s been just over a year since Lucy disappeared. Somewhere along the way between then and now our hopes of ever seeing her gradually diminished until finally we have accepted that she is gone forever.
But I still miss her.
I find myself strangely unattached to the many cats in and around our house these days: Archer, Milo, Folds, Crybaby, not to mention the feral cat who just dropped a litter in our shed. They’re all nice in their own way, I suppose, but I don’t really care about them the way I did about Lucy.
Sometimes I think this is a defensive reaction, that I’m holding myself aloof to avoid getting hurt. We’ve lost too many cats in the past five years: Bilal, Van, Lucy, Biggs.
As sweet as they all were, none of them could compare to Lucy, and none of our current cats can hold a candle to her.
As an example of what made Lucy so special, consider this. Whenever I came back to the house, she always wanted to give me a kiss. She would jump up on a dresser or shelf and wouldn’t be satisfied until I had kissed her on the lips.