I've come a long way from the early childhood evening when I named
our first cat Sugar.
We found her in a peach basket beside the path by the railroad
tracks where my parents and I often strolled after dinner. I enjoyed
waving to "Casey Jones" and he always waved back from the caboose as
the train passed by.
I heard pitiful cries, and my father went into the weeds to
investigate. He came back with a tiny creature curled in his hand, her
eyes still closed. She was the only survivor of the litter of kittens
someone had dumped in the peach basket and tossed away like garbage.
We fed her with my doll's baby bottle. Why she came to be called Sugar
instead of Peaches is lost in the midst of memories.
Next came Sufi al Kyahammi, named during my teen literary period.
I'd just read The Rubaiyat by Omar Khayyam when she came into our lives,
and I was inspired to find a fittingly exotic name for that gorgeous
Persian cat.
I am not responsible for "Puss Puss" as her name was chosen
unanimously by our sons. (The same sons who named the dog Pooch.)
I don't understand why they were so unimaginative with pet names because
they were always very creative with everything else.
As our sons grew older, I assumed primary pet-naming responsibility.
My first brainstorm was Grizabella Houdini Appletree. Grizabella because,
like her namesake in the musical Cats, she was quite bedraggled when my
grandson and I discovered her under the apple tree in our side yard.
Houdini because she escaped from the box where I tried to confine her
on her first night with us. She was a beautiful Maine Coon, elegant and
graceful and always composed in the way that only a feline can manage.
Next came Greystoke Edmund Hillary. Greystoke from my sons,
who were into Tarzan at the time. (Yes, I allowed them to share the
pet-naming responsibility once more.) Edmund Hillary because Gus, as he
was nicknamed, loved climbing on things, and he could scale tall buildings
with a single bound. Well... not really, but you get the idea. My dear
friend Verla and I found him in the parking lot of the local hospital.
He was crying, covered in oil, and quite a mess. He was the sweetest,
most loveable and loving cat I've ever known.
Mozart Merrill Sugartree. Mozart because she loves classical
music and, whenever Mozart is playing, will sit in front of the speakers
in rapt attention. Merrill is part of the name of the business where
I was working when Pat, a coworker and I heard her loud meows from
Sugartree Alley, behind the building. She was a very young kitten,
so I'll never understand how we heard her from up on the second floor,
through closed windows, on a busy street. She is the biggest challenge
I've ever had, cat-wise. No matter how much I love her and treat her
well, her disposition is such that she'll be all cuddles and sweetness one
second, and the next second, her ears go flat and she'll try to bite me.
She's succeeded, too, no matter how quick I think I am in getting out
of the way of that tiny, lethal mouth!
Annabelle Lee Syllabub. I already had two cats when some friends
told me about a beautiful stray that had wandered into their backyard.
They described her as long-haired, all white, with gorgeous golden eyes.
I politely demurred, saying I didn't need another cat. They persisted.
I declined, suggesting they pick on other people who had no cats, or only
one cat. They refused to give up, finally inviting me to their house,
"Just to meet the cat." So I went over after work and met the cat.
We sat out on their patio with some drinks, and she came right to me,
jumping onto my lap and making herself comfortable. She had the loudest
purr I've ever heard. I told her she got the Super V-8 model.
Of course, you know the rest of the story -- how I carried her
home in my arms that night thirteen years ago. We weren't living in the
south then, but she was so pretty, she reminded me of a Southern belle,
hence the Annabelle Lee part. I found Syllabub in a dictionary --
it means a sweet confection, and fits her disposition perfectly.
"The naming of cats is a difficult matter," as explained in
T. S. Eliot's "Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats." It's fun but at
the same time an awesome responsibility.
Of course, our feeble attempts probably never approach the truth
of the cat's REAL name, that "deep and inscrutable singular Name."
__________________________________________________
Annabelle and Mozart, two of the cats featured in this story, live
with their two human servants, Bobbi and John. The humans provide a
comfortable environment, tasty food with occasional scrumptious treats,
and keep the litter box clean. The cats refuse to reveal their real
names.
No comments:
Post a Comment