There is something profound about the moment we name a creature that will share our daily threshold between the known and unknown worlds. When we chose to call our feline companion Lupercalia, we did not yet understand that we were invoking one of the oldest conversations between civilization and the wild heart that beats beneath it.

We met her on July 15, 2023, at the BC SPCA. She was sixteen years old, newly shaved due to a matted coat, and had been found wandering alone before a neighbor brought her in. The shelter staff told us little of her story – only that she had once bitten a volunteer and came with a reputation. But when I first saw her, I fell in love. Her eyes were charming, curious, and strangely innocent, as if she were still hoping the world might surprise her with kindness.

They had called her Meika, but that name did not seem to suit the gravitas she carried. We renamed her Lupercalia, after the ancient Roman festival honoring the she-wolf who nursed the abandoned twins Romulus and Remus. Lupa – the fierce mother who chose protection over predation. It felt right. Lupercalia arrived with a presence that filled doorways and commanded rooms, her substantial frame moving like someone who understood her own importance. She was not a cat to be pitied. She was a sovereign force.

She came home with us that very day. Roger and Charlie, our two boy cats, were unimpressed. She hissed, swiped, then ran away to hide. She did not know how to receive affection – only how to defend. It seemed as if no one had truly believed in her for a long time. Integration was not easy. We tried slow introductions, then Family Constellations, which helped by giving us a better understanding of the dynamics between all five cats and recognizing their individual sovereignty and position within the group. As with any complex relationship, we as cat parents cannot force things to happen. We can only open a doorway, seek understanding, and give it time. Still, she preferred to stay away. She was the elder in the group, but also the most wounded. We suspected neglect. She had learned to act first, to guard what little ground she felt was hers.

A few months later, we added Feliway Friends to the mix. It mimics the calming pheromone that mother cats produce, helping reduce tension and promote harmony. It worked. Slowly, the sharp edges softened. While she still minds her own business, the group now lives in a quiet peace. Affection passes between them, if only from a respectful distance. Two years on, we can say that Lupercalia has found her place, even if she never asked for one.

The First Invitation

Names are invitations. They are the first words we speak into the future, calling forth not just identity, but destiny. Lupercalia arrived as a small bundle of fur and fierce independence, and something in her bearing suggested she would need a name that could hold both her domesticated present and her ancestral wildness.

The name came to us like a gift from the old stories. In naming her Lupercalia, we called forth the mythic she-wolf who chose care over hunger, who protected instead of preyed. In that one act of naming, we were asking for something more than a pet. We were asking for a teacher.

The Daily Practice of Attention

To live with Lupercalia is to receive a master class in presence. She has appointed herself – as all great teachers do – without ceremony or announcement. Over time, she became what we call our “Governess,” though that title only scratches the surface.

Each morning, she makes her rounds through the house, moving with the deliberate grace of a pilgrim. Her green eyes do not just check if we are home, but whether we are here. She asks us without words: Are you awake to this moment that will never come again?

When one of us is hurting, she appears. She settles near sorrow without intrusion, as if grief is another kind of sacred room she knows how to enter. She reminds us that comfort does not always speak – it listens.

The Ancient Agreement

Every time I call her name – Lupercalia – I speak an ancient agreement between humans and the creatures who choose to share our exile from the natural world. I am not just calling a cat. I am invoking a wildness we rarely allow in ourselves, a reminder that tenderness and fierceness are not opposites but companions.

The Romans understood this. The she-wolf who nursed their founders did not civilize them – she prepared them to live. Lupercalia continues this teaching. She moves through our lives with the paradox of being both predator and healer. She stalks toy mice with deadly focus. She curls up beside heartbreak without hesitation. She is both, without apology.

The Threshold Guardian

They say we do not choose our true teachers. They choose us. Lupercalia chose us. Not with affection or ease, but with a presence that demanded respect. She stationed herself at the thresholds of our days – not as a pet, but as a guide.

From her perch by the window, she surveys her domain. She holds court with the kind of authority that does not need to raise its voice. If needed, she lifts her paw in reminder: boundaries are sacred.

She ensures the household flows as it should – not with rigidity, but with rhythm. Her movements contain the quiet knowledge of one who remembers what we have forgotten: that attention is a sacred act. That to move through life with alertness is to walk on holy ground.

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The Deeper Naming

Perhaps what we were really naming, when we called her Lupercalia, was not just a cat but our own longing to remember something essential. Something about staying wild while learning to be gentle. Something about guarding what matters without closing ourselves off.

She answered that call. Not with warmth at first, but with honesty. With time, her presence became a blessing disguised as a challenge. She taught us that the sacred is not always soft. Sometimes it hisses first. Sometimes it needs time. Sometimes it chooses solitude. But always, it shows us something about ourselves we could not see before.

Now, every threshold she crosses reminds us that we are all balancing between the known and the unknown, the tame and the wild, the ordinary and the extraordinary. She has become our reminder that the sacred is never far. It waits beneath the surface of our days, asking only to be named and noticed.

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What names have chosen you? What wild-hearted beings have appointed themselves your companions, your teachers, your keepers of the sacred?

The conversation continues. Every time we call her name, we remember: Lupercalia is not just a cat. She is the wildness that chose us.

And we said yes.

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