A Cat Called Intrep-pawed

Our cat is a street kitty. At the time he entered our family, we were petless, a state so strange that I returned from a three-week hostelling trip expecting to see a new kitten. I even said so — silly me.

My partner and Jack, the boy we babysit, were going to a community barbecue the evening I returned. I stayed home because the time change made it feel like the party was starting at midnight. Half an hour later, I got a call.

“Jack has found a kitten. Remember you said…”

Okay, then. Out I went to locate my chosen family, scoop up our newest member with one hand, tuck it in my fleece jacket, and walk it home again. The bipeds returned later, after they had supped.

It was a dustbunny on wobbly legs, it was so young. But it was intrepid. Jack first noticed the kitten poking its head out from a bush, withdrawing, peeking out again, all on its lonesome. A thorough search of its surroundings turned up neither siblings nor momma, so this adventurous little mote must have staggered quite a ways to arrive at the bush where Jack found him. A tiny male street kitty, off to a running start (at least figuratively).

Jack wanted to name him The Kitten Who Looks At Everything which, despite its nobility, may be a bit long for everyday use. I abbreviated it to Lucas.

That was two and-a-half years ago. Lucas has grown into a fine, healthy, sturdy fellow, with a Spencer Tracy persona: aloof tough guy, embarrassed if anyone notices that he cares. He only purrs when it’s nummy time, he’ll swat first and ask questions later, but he’s always there, hovering on the periphery, keeping a half-closed eye on the rest of us.