Have you ever felt drippy?
You know what I’m talking about: the kind of generalized slumpiness that results in an entire weekend spent watching 90210 reruns. The low-level, high-drain fatigue that leads to graham crackers for dinner all week. The sludge in your step that makes you avoid laundry for so long, you’re stuck wearing your emergency backup underwear.
So does Lucille.
Lucille, as you can see, is a Jennifer Ann-faced, angel-whiskered wonder of an oldster. Like so many Tabby’s Place cats, Lucille came through a misty history we’ll never know. She was someone’s, once, and then she wasn’t, and then she was ours.
Like so many Tabby’s Place cats, Lucille is older than she’s ever been. We have her estimated at twelve, but her eyes sing an older song. So do her kidneys.
Lucille is different.
Still, there are some baked-in blues with this stately senior. She stays in her cage, although it’s open. She keeps her hopes small, although we’re feeding them Miracle-Gro. Lucille’s quiet hints at a soul not yet satisfied, an itch unscratched. There’s a sigh inside Lucille’s quiet, not resignation, but a sort of temporary droop that awaits something worth waking for.
You know and I know how this story ends: joy will, somehow, overcome all drippiness.
In the meantime, though, we’re content to be Lucille’s collective counselors. We’ll listen as she tells us about her four hungry children and the crop in the field.
She’s had some bad times. Lived through some sad times. And we’ll usher her into the sweet time, the fine time, all in Lucille’s good time.