A long, long time ago in a clowder far, far away, there was Bubba, Chyron, Stanni and yours truly. Throughout life’s ups and downs, the four of us became a close and happy family.

The years flew by and before I knew it, Bubba was 23. He had a full life with TV and magazine appearances — he even found time to become the creative force behind OldCatsRule. So when it was time to go to the Rainbow Bridge, he left quite a legacy.

A few years later, 18-year-old Chyron joined Bubba. She was a quiet, elegant calico who cherished serenity and adored Bubba.

That left Stanni who was the pesky 14-year-old kid sister. She accepted her place in the pecking order while gleefully asserting her supremacy in the cute department with lots of rolling around and kicking toys with her back paws.

Stanni and me continued on as a duo for several months… until I landed a temporary job that came with a long commute. This meant Stanni would be alone about 13 hours a day. She had always had company, so I decided it was time to welcome a new family member. This decision was made reluctantly because the loss of Bubba and Chyron was very difficult. However, being a one-cat household never felt quite right.

Filled with dreams of Stanni purring and head butting, I headed to the ASPCA. Not one of the many cats, kittens and senior cats said, “Take me home.” The staff kept trying to talk us into a senior. We would have happily adopted a senior, however, we kept looking for a sign, something that would scream, “this is the one.”

After a second walkthrough, we spotted a muscular orange fur ball curled up with his back to the cage. He was in an area where the cats were named after characters from “The Simpsons.” Were we signing up for a Bart? Nope. They simply dubbed this 3-year-old boy Simpson. Simpson, who was rescued from an alleged hoarder, gave us a non-committal look. We didn’t know what to think but his bright orange fur was such a happy color that the two of us were on the way home faster than you could say, Fancy Feast.

He neither cried nor struggled in the carrier. Aside from one small “mew,” he never spoke.

After the litter, food bowls and bed were set up in the bathroom, I took Simpson out of the carrier. Without a second of hesitation he climbed on my lap and unleashed a purr that could power a jet. Head butts and drooling quickly followed. His apparent depression from being in the shelter vanished. Within minutes, my jeans were soaked from the drool and I simply said, “Welcome home.”

Simpson became Lennie and Stanni’s little brother. The fantasies of Lennie and Stanni curled up together went out the window because Miss Stanni refused to have any of it. The epic hissing matches easily outdid any fights on a “Real Housewives” show.

Five months later, they are not BFFs but they live together in relative harmony. Lennie’s sunny orange fur is matched by his sweet, slightly dopey nature. He’s not a cuddler but when he runs around the apartment, looks out the window or gives me a cockeyed look it is easy to see his joy.

There is no way a casual observer would have imagined the indifferent shelter cat sleeping with his face to the wall had a nice, silly disposition waiting to come out. Lennie was not a scampering kitten or an attention hog. On the surface, he was the cat least likely to capture someone imagination and win a trip to a forever home.

Lennie is not the only cat like that in a shelter. But taking that chance makes me feel like I won the feline lottery.