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worries kind of conversation so I was surprised to realize that this time it hurt.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Wendy asked.
    â€œWhat kind of person could live with me, Wendy?”
    She raised her eyebrow. “Someone with neatness running in their blood. Someone who lives by the clock, makes lists of everything including when to take a shower and plans his day down to the minute in a perfect leather planner. Oh, yes, and he’d never make a spelling error in his planner, either.” She rolled her eyes “Not that I’d consider that kind of a guy much of a catch.”
    It sounded good to me, but I still felt compelled to protest. “I’m not that bad!”
    â€œMaybe not, but you’d need someone even more organized than you in order to be happy. And a Christian, of course, but that almost goes without saying.”
    Wendy is right about that. My faith is as integral a part of me as my skin or my lungs. I couldn’t live without it. But the tidy part…
    I thought about Ethan Carver with his perfect office and his dirty little secret hidden behind cupboard doors. Then I considered Ben and his completely scattershot methods. Theywere fair examples of nice, desirable men. Maybe the man Wendy had described didn’t exist.
    At that moment my cat Zelda wrapped her way around my ankles to remind me that since Wendy hadn’t dropped enough food on the floor for both Imelda and her, I should get busy and feed her. Zelda is a cat but she’s never believed it, not even for a moment. Zelda is a diva. She has no self-esteem issues and considers herself to be the finest feline specimen on the planet.
    She snaked her way around my ankles, massaging them with her warm body and demanding attention, her distinctive meow sounding like fingernails on a chalkboard. Zelda is very hard to ignore, especially when she’s wearing her pink cashmere sweater.
    â€œI see you dressed her for dinner,” I commented to Wendy as I scratched Zelda behind one of her large ears and her purring intensified.
    Zelda is a sphynx cat, the breed that is normally referred to as “hairless.” She isn’t bald as a billiard cue like one might assume. Instead, she’s covered with a fine down that can be felt but not seen, much like the fuzz on a peach. Sometimes, if I think she’s chilly, I put her in one of her little sweaters, most of which I knit or buy in the toy poodle section of the pet store. Wendy gave Zelda the cashmere getup for Christmas and now Zelda’s getting particular about what she wears. She has highly developed fashion tastes for something with four legs. She’s also insisted on eating her food out of a crystal goblet ever since she saw that cat food commercial on television. And though she hasn’t admitted it, I think she has a crush on that big white Persian and the hots for one of the cats from the Tidy Cat commercial.
    Like Imelda, Zelda is exceedingly special to me, a role model, in fact. Although she is the oddest, most skeletal, bald cat most of my friends have ever seen, Zelda knows she’sbeautiful. She doesn’t think it, she knows it. It’s obvious in the way she moves and in her fearless willingness to take center stage and give herself a bath in a room full of people like a tiny naked yoga instructor doing contortions on my living room floor.
    I love the way Zelda knows she’s been created just the way she is and is perfectly accepting of it. I’m perfect the way God created me, too—He gave me everything I need to fulfill the purpose He has for me, yet sometimes I slink around, embarrassed and think I’m not “good” enough. Zelda is my reminder that if a hairless cat with ears like Dumbo and a personality like Cleopatra can make it, I can, too.
    â€œWhat about you?” I asked of Wendy, returning to the subject at hand. “What would you need?”
    Wendy chewed on her lip while she considered the question.