I got Lucy when I was 15 years old. I am now 31. I'll make it easy for you and do the math.....Lucy was 16 years old. I have had Lucy for over half of my life.
I got Lucy just before a rather difficult time in my life. I was a sophomore in high school. After a series of unfortunate events, the kind only I am capable of really, I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia the following summer. It would be nice to tell a magnificent story about rising above tribulation, a Phoenix rising from the dust if you will. But I can't. I was just a young girl, sorting through the pieces of my old life, looking for shards big enough to put together to create a new life, a new normal.
But I always had Lucy. He was my friend when I felt like I had none. He was always there...with a meow, a purr, a snuggle. And the occasional biting of toes in the middle of the night. Always there.
I miss his beautiful blue eyes and his fur the color of a roasting marshmallow. I miss the way he loved to sleep on grocery bags on the floor. I miss the purring and snuggling. I miss the way he used to play with the red and gold gift bows that I would staple together for him. He followed me from room to room and I miss my shadow. I miss having him jump up in the middle of the night and curl up to sleep on my back. Even though he was sick and Dexter is about 10 times his size, I miss the spunk he had to go up to Dex and smack him up side the head when he thought he had hurt my little girl. And I am so grateful that my little girls got to have him as their kitty as well.
I was his person and he was my kitty. The tiny part of my brain that functions as an adult realizes that he is not a person, he is just a cat. But he was my cat. I loved him. And I am sad.