(This post is dedicated to my sister, Erin. Who, if memory serves me right, once had 3 cats walking across her out-stretched arms at the same time.)

And who got all of the cat-loving genes in our family.

In fact, she got so many of the cat-loving genes, that I got negative cat-loving genes.

Or, so I thought.

As it turns out, after 3 decades of cat-carelessness, I have been forced into a situation that has started to unzip the DNA of one or two cat-loving genes, tucked somewhere deep within me.

Of course, I had to like Lucy the Cat, who came with the farm. She’s faithful, hungry for mice, self-sufficient, and she likes my kid. Enough said.

“Like” turned to “love” with a simple turn of circumstances:

A litter of homeless kittens appeared at Ryan’s sister’s house and we said we’d take one.

She brought the little guy over last night.

And I love him.

So far, our nephews call him “Jackson”; Vivienne calls him “Thumper”; I call him “Cyrano” or “Romeo” (it’s all of that heart-rending calling up to the window that gets me…). We’ve tried on “Ricky” (to go with Lucy – remember Ricky Ricardo from the I Love Lucy show?), “George”, and “Knightly”; “Little Guy”; “Lad”; and “Blurp” (Lia’s idea). He, however, is very traditional and seems to like the very high-pitched “Here, Kitty-kitty” the best so far… especially when it is followed by a cube of mozzarella cheese.

This is how converted I am:

I ACTUALLY SHELLED OUT CASH FOR A 16-POUND BAG OF CAT FOOD.

AND took a picture of it.

Because, frankly, I’m shocked.

(Just tell me he’s not the cutest cat you’ve ever laid eyes on. Just tell me. Here, I’ll even give you one more look at those baby blues:)