Haven't asked the neighbor what her tabby's name is, because we don't speak any more than necessary. She's the one who has the dog that keeps coming to the fence, inciting Grrrl to fight (as if Grrrl needed help getting her terrier-chow self riled up); the one who asked if I have a hole in my fence the day I told her that her dog was IN my yard (it's MY problem that YOUR dog runs loose?).
Anyway, I don't know what his name is, this cat who comes in for breakfast every morning, who so resembles Snuffy, but is nothing like him. So for a while I called him Neighbor. Didn't take long to figure out I don't like that name, and started calling him Tabby, as in, "hello, Tabby! Cold out there, isn't it?" when I come into the kitchen in the middle of the night and find him perched on top of the fridge.
This morning I was going through my "CATFOOD!" routine, which is washing dishes, putting the catfood cans in the hot soapy water to warm up the food, wiping down the counters while the cans warm up, making my tea, or coffee, or whatever I'm having, wiping the counters some more (I put out two big plates and four small ones. A can on each of the big ones, half a can on the small ones, and two or three of those plates go on the counter - old habit from when we had dogs in the house and needed to feed the cats UP off the floor) while I wait for the food cans to warm up, at which point I'll begin opening cans while yelling "Catfood!" It's a word they all know. Tabby comes traipsing across the clean damp counter, trailing feathers in his pawprints.
Featherfoot. I shall call thee Nike.
03 December 2011
how cats get named
at 12/03/2011 06:41:00 AM