She didn't have a name when we picked her up at the rescue shelter. She was just a tiny tabby in a cage. We would walk up and down the aisle, it was cold and dismal, that gray cinder block room. We would pass by all the wire cages one by one, waiting for a sign. Something that would grab us. Which one will it be?
One little striped black arm would be stretched out through the cage slats, pawing at us as we walked by. Her sharp little claws snagged my sweater. Taking her from her cage, she climbed onto C's shoulder and would not come down. So, we took her home.
She shivered and purred in my lap as we recited names out loud, hoping for some perfect name to call our perfect little bright eyed baby. LUCY. I kept singing her name. Luuuuuucy!
But, within hours her name changed to Sherpa. The forever climbing cat. She still climbs after all these years. You can find her way up high, on the fridge, on bookshelves, inside cupboards, or draped over shoulders.
And she still reaches her arm through the slats of our wooden chairs when we walk by.