When I lived in St. John's a rescued a cat. He was the best. When we got him we thought he was a girl so we named him Lucille. We were really into Arrested Development. Then it turned out, upon further development, Lucy was a boy. So we called him/her gender confused. Okay, I called him/her that.
When I would roll out of bed in the morning I would stumble to the table to wade through pages and chapters and novels of feminist political history. Lucy would hop from the chair behind the table to my shoulders and lounge there for a while.