Lucille

Nearly three years ago, JT and I adopted our cats Tiger and Lucy. It was the sound recommendation of my friend E that we get two cats. So on the day we went to the animal shelter we selected two litter-mate kittens to move into Sassafras House. In JT's mind, the boy kitten was his and so he named him: Tiger. I am a girl and the girl cat was my responsibility and so I named Lucy.

Tiger is a boy. He's big and sort of pushy when he wants something. If he needs a space on your lap, he shoves on in. If the food bowl runs short, he insistently follows you around the house until you get the hint. He doesn't truck with nonsense and when he needs something, he lets you know.

Lucy is a girl. She wants to talk about her feelings. Endlessly. If Lucy is unhappy the entire household is made to know about it as she meows her dissatisfaction chorus. And Lucy is very particular girl. Lately, she has decided that she would like to be petted while I'm in the downstairs bathroom combing my hair. She rolls around on the lid of the toilet and if that fails to capture my attention, she stands in the sink and meows at me endlessly while she shakes her tail at me. It is not a gentle meow. It's an insistent "pet me now or else" meow that can be heard throughout the house.

I must say I admire Lucy's commitment to getting her way, though on some mornings I am sorely tempted to turn on the tap and see how she likes it. Not much, I expect. And then I would certainly hear about it.