The Naming of Cats

“The naming of cats is a difficult matter,

it isn’t just one of your holiday games;

you may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter

when I tell you a cat must have

THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.”

Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats by T. S. Eliot

I had my earbuds in, an unusual thing for me on a walk, and was talking to my brother on the phone while walking home from town on a Friday evening. He has two cats, so when I heard the tiny meows I thought it was his kitties. “Nope, not mine,” he said.

There was a dog across the street eyeing me. This particular dog has never bitten me but he’s got a ferocious bark and I always give him his space. I decided I needed to hang up and focus on the situation at hand.

The dog decided to move on to more exciting entertainment and I got down to look into the storm drain. Yep, I could hear a kitten inside but the opening was too small for me to see anything. I lifted the metal lid and slid it to the side. Looking down into that space showed me two things: 1. I couldn’t see the kitten, and 2. I wasn’t jumping down into it and crawling into those culverts without someone knowing where I was.

I pulled out my cell again.
“Hey, Kent. Will you come and help me rescue a cat?”
“Sure, be there in a minute.”
He’s familiar with my soft spot for animals in distress, but I could hear the unspoken message. Yeah, I’ll come, but we’re not keeping it.

Meantime, by lying on my stomach and peering down into the hole, I found her. There was a small ledge underneath the concrete lid with a scooped-out space just big enough for her. She wasn’t able to figure out how to get across the space and get out and she had no other alternatives other than venturing into one of the two culverts that went off into the dark to who knows where.

Knowing Kent was on his way, I jumped into the hole and grabbed her, climbed back out, and was standing over the open drain by the time he got there in his truck. The terrified kitty snuggled up against my neck under my hair. She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight weeks old. Kent parked the truck, got out, and replaced the drain cover, opening the truck door for me to get in. All the while, he was giving me the “She’s not staying” look.

Over the weekend, I put her on our neighborhood Facebook page, put up signs, and knocked on doors in all the areas I thought the culverts lead to just in case she’d come up through the drain system. No one claimed her. I had a couple of friends check her to see if she might be micro-chipped, but no luck.

The pressure was on because we had an out-of-town trip planned for that Monday. Kent said, “We already have our quota of animals. If we can’t find her a place by Monday, she goes somewhere where she can be adopted.” So, I launched an all-out campaign to find her a home. Meanwhile, she attached herself to Kent, lobbying hard to get him to keep her. I did not discourage this. Yeah, I knew our house was full, but I wanted her to stay.

The naming of cats is a difficult matter. Once you name them, they become yours. I called her “She who shall not be named lest we become attached,” Little Bit for short. A friend offered to take her to his veterinary practice and try to adopt her out if we couldn’t find a place for her by the time we had to leave. “Kittens usually go pretty fast,” he said.

Kent said, “If she’s not adopted by the time we get back, she can stay.” Sounded promising, right? Actually, I think he felt pretty safe saying that because either way he’d come off as a hero. A-she’d find a good home, or B-she’d get to stay, though I think he thought there was no way she’d still be around when we returned a couple weeks later. Pretty safe bet she’d be gone.

Monday “She who has no name” was still with us. I reluctantly prepared to take her by the vet for adoption when I dropped off our dog at a friend’s house to stay for the week. I was struggling. I told Kent, “I will take her to the vet like we agreed. I still wish we could keep her. You want to hug her before I go?”

He picked her up, looked into her little face and with a huge sigh said, “Fine. We can keep her.” I jumped up and down and hugged him. He said, “I was just in the other room praying, ‘Be strong and of good courage. Say no.” Whoops. But, Yay!

Things were rushed. We had a flight to catch. My friend who was keeping our dog did a big last minute friend favor and agreed to keep her while we were gone. “But she’s going home with you when you get back.” I dropped kitty off at the vet for kitten shots, told them my friend would pick her up when they were done, and hurried home just in time to leave for the airport.

From the number of cat videos I received from my friend while I was gone, I began to wonder if Little Bit would actually get to come home with me. But she did. She’s even growing on our two older cats, though they’re hesitant to admit it.

Now, the naming of cats is a difficult matter. “She who has no name” is gonna be staying, so she’s gonna need one. Her name needs to match her personality and her story. It should be unique to her. It is a task not to be taken lightly. Many friends have weighed in on the matter with lots of good suggestions. The Littles picked her middle name.

And now, may I introduce you to:

Katniss Lily Smith
“Kat” for short.

On the day she was found, the odds were definitely in her favor. In the words of my friend, her buddy while we were gone, “She’s gonna be a great cat.”

Blessings!