Eleven years ago, just a few days after I lost my beloved Keke to cancer, I went to the shelter. The house was too empty without a cat in it. While I was admiring a beautiful brown classic tabby kitten, I noticed a fuzzy little gray and white fellow who was dancing around madly, trying to get my attention. Both the tabby (Kiri) and the gray and white guy (Kacey) came home with me.

I guess it was love at first sight, because Kacey has been devoted to me (and vice versa) since that first moment in the shelter. No matter which cat I call, Kacey comes running. Whenever an ex-boyfriend used to pin me down and tickle me, I'd yell, "Help me, Kacey!" and Kacey would dash in. He didn't have the slightest idea what to do, but he'd pace back and forth, looking very concerned.

He's my 11-year-old kitten and still enjoys a daily mad dash around the house. He loves to be picked up and cuddled, snuggled, and kissed. When I'm sick or sad, he's my purr therapist. He managed to step on the speed dial and call a friend of mine before dawn one weekend morning. I swear he did it on purpose.

I love all my kitties, of course, but Kacey is special.