In C.S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia, Lucy is the youngest and wisest of the children.

She has not yet been infected with skepticism. She still believes in herself, so it is easy to believe in others.

She still believes in love, so it is easy to be brave.

The Lucy of Tabby’s Place is much the same.

OK, we will acknowledge one glaring difference. Unlike the Lucy of Lewis’s lamppost, our lady is neither young nor small.

Were she a person, Lucy of Tabby’s Place would have a dish of Werther’s Originals in her living room. She would record reruns of I Love Lucy and Gunsmoke on her VCR from 1987. She would not believe in frozen pie crusts, instant pudding, or using her credit card on that darn internet.

She would be the auntie who lets you try on her good lipstick in Boysenberry Bombshell, makes you pancakes with strawberries for eyes, and listens to every detail of your day, even the extended detour into why Hobbits are cooler than elves.

Yes. Snowy as Queen Elizabeth’s hair, our Lucy is more of a great-aunt than a little girl.

But as every cat and child knows, the greatest aunts remain little girls.

Oh. And a word about the word “little.”

Lucy is a cat of worth and weight. Lucy is many pounds of dignity and poise. Lucy has more gravitas than the average sport utility vehicle. Lucy is generously drawn, opulently outfitted, and undeniably … enormous.

And, like butterflies, angels, and everyone capable of flight, Lucy takes herself lightly.

Like both the Lucy of literature and the Lucy of Ethel, our lady gives little thought to what anyone is thinking of her. This frees her to think of everyone else’s feelings.

When Lucy arrived, she bore no shame for her size or her skin. Beneath her Matterhorn of marshmallow fur, Lucy’s flesh was an angry pink, with allergies assaulting her from neck to tail. It was painful to look at her, the gentle cat gnawed raw.

Yet Lucy turned her eyes to us, nearly teary with concern. “Have you eaten? Where are your mittens? Can I make you a bowl of pastina?”

One eye may have been cloudy, but Lucy’s vision was clear. Everyone at Tabby’s Place was lovely, lovable, and Lucy’s personal assignment. Everyone in sight was good, capable of being good, or capable of wanting to be good, and that was good enough for Lucy.

The people who shaved her were good, and Lucy’s skin sighed with relief. The people who kissed her on the invisible halo were good, and Lucy lit up at love’s touch.

The vet team was good, grafting together the gentlest protocol for Lucy’s healing.

The volunteers, donors, and unsung heroes were good. Lucy saw all of you beyond sight, the way children and aunties do, if they are brave.

And when you are brave enough, the eyes of the heart and the eyes in your head get to see the same picture: your forever home, out there, somewhere.

Lucy loved people long before we could back up our claims that she was safe. She did not need to review our report cards. She did not make us take off our shoes. She simply welcomed us.

That is usually our job, but certain cats outrun us, even if they are the size of sea lions. Like an overstuffed floral couch, or a lap that will cradle your head even when you are thirty-six, Lucy was large enough to stay soft.

And now, the cat who would give you her last salmon croquette is receiving love without limit.

She has been adopted, with Claudius as her brother. Beyond belief? Hardly.

Believe in yourself, and people may scoff. Believe in love, and people may wound you.

Keep believing, and you will be redeemed.

The gigantic auntie cat with the heart of a child is proof. The dream is true. There is a mercy that does not weigh and measure. There is an embrace that is unconditional. There is healing, even on this ragged earth, for skin, sorrow, and skepticism.

We love Lucy. But our love is bigger than before, because Lucy loved us.

Would you like to see Lucy in her forever home? Would you like to hear from her AwesomeAdopters? Come back to this blog on Saturday.

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