The name's the thing
I only remember the first cat I named because my family never let me forget it.
We had a tom cat that lorded over the barn. He was yellow and scrawny and had half an ear missing from his many skirmishes with neighboring toms. His name was Linda. I gave him this moniker because that was the name of my best friend. I was 5 or 6 at the time, so do not judge me too harshly.
Linda would come to the back door and yowl for me to come outside when the weather was nice and there were not any emergencies in the barn. He would sit on a pillow dressed in a blue satin doll dress with a crystal tiara upon his scarred head, and a bracelet of plastic pearls adorning his left paw. Or he would let me carry him around dangling like a bag of sand.
Everyone tried to persuade me to give him a “better” name, but I felt Linda was perfect. He was, after all, my best feline friend.
After the Linda experience, I began to take the naming of pets more seriously. Several summers later we had a litter of kittens that were so adorable, we decided they should find homes rather than be part of the barn colony. One of the kittens was rotund, long-haired, with calico and white fur. A friend of my mother’s took one look and said, “My, that is going to be one fat happy mama cat.” So I named her Suzi. She was so sweet and adorable that we kept her.
We wondered why Suzi never had kittens. No toms paid a bit of attention to her. Since she was very furry and had calico markings, we had assumed she was a she, but on further investigation, lo and behold, Suzi was a Sammy. He made the transition very smoothly.
Since he had been so misunderstood, it was decided that he would be neutered and become our first indoor cat. He thanked me for letting him get his paw in the door. I always thought that might have been his plan all along. Sometimes tuna, fresh cream, and a warm bed beside the fire are more desirable than the lure of amour.
I got better as time went on, but the best-named cat I had was not my doing. When his rescuers found him under a truck in the rain, he was dirty and hairy. So the logical name for him was Clint. There was no way I was going to interfere in that decision. He had an impulse-control issue from the abuse he had suffered as a kitten, which made it difficult for him to find a home. So he came to live with me as a foster, and stayed for 12 years. After some blood loss on my part, and some serious behavioral work, we came to an agreement and he never went back on his word.
I’d like to think his namesake would approve.
Kat Brown of Albuquerque is a lifelong animal-lover, especially of cats. Share your cat stories or comments at katskorner88@gmail.com.