When Simone and I lived in a small apartment in Silver Spring, MD, we were not thinking of having any pets. We talked about it of course, but we were both working full time and felt that it would not be fair to any animal to have to be shut up in an apartment all day alone. But then we got the call.
Our friend Kim had a friend who needed to get rid of their cat. It was one of those horrible stories of “new boyfriend doesn’t like the cat so it’s him or me” and if nobody took in the poor thing it was going to the shelter. We agreed to go see the cat, and for me it was love at first sight. Well, almost sight. The cat ran and hid every time we tried to see it. But I gave Simone my puppy dog eyes and she knew it was a lost cause. We decided to rescue the cat.
Now about that name. This may have to be addressed in a future blog post, but the woman had decided to let her 2 year old daughter name the cat. I don’t think that 2 year olds know what good names are, but regardless, the cat’s name was Eyeball. Eyeball was a black cat with a big old head and a spiked collar and we came back the next day to pick him up. He was not really that excited about coming home with us, and after he got loose in the car on the way home, he spent the rest of the ride under my seat, with his head poking out between my feet as I was trying to drive. Very distracting.
As first time cat owners we had not thought about things like a cat carrier. We assumed that the cat would be overjoyed to be rescued from shelter life and would not try to claw us to death as we walked it in from the car to the apartment. Oh, how little we knew. Of course by “us” I meant “me,” because as Eyeball dug his claws deeper and deeper into my shoulder, my wife walked alongside of us and took pictures and laughed.
Once he was home, we noticed that Eyeball was having a difficult time adjusting to his new home. He seemed a little surly, and clearly not the loving and wonderful “lap cat” that had been promised to us. I suppose there are two ways of looking at this. One is that perhaps he was just taking his time getting used to the new surroundings. Another would be that he was clearly in need of therapy. I won’t tell you which side I was on, but I will say that when my wife called the pet psychic, the money did not come from the joint account.
The pet psychic communicated with Eyeball from Vermont through the ether while we were at work, and learned about all of his feline feelings. When we got home, we got the full report. Eyeball did not like his name. He also did not like his spiky collar. It made him feel surly and tough. In fact, he suggested to the pet psychic some names that he would like. Names like Jesse, or Jellyroll. Something playful, and not mean sounding. Well of course that all sounded perfectly reasonable, so in an effort to be supportive, I suggested we give him both of his favorite names, and so Jesse Jellyroll was born. We call him JJ now, or sometimes Mr. J, or sometimes things that I cannot write in a family friendly blog, but I must say, his behavior did improve. We got him a nice hunter green collar with no spikes and called him by his new name. The pet psychic also suggested that we give him chores to do around the house, because he wanted to feel like more a part of the family. We assigned him the jobs of catching bugs and looking out the window for intruders. Now, did his behavior improve over time because he gradually grew more comfortable in his new apartment, or was it because he had a new playful name and did “chores” that he was already doing anyway? That is not for any of us to decide.
When we decided to get a second cat, clearly the name was going to be very important. I did not want this cat ending up in therapy a few years down the road because of its name. We wanted to get a second cat for JJ so he wouldn’t be so lonely while we were at work all day, so for Simone’s birthday I went down to the shelter and picked out the loudest, most annoying cat I could find. I mean, at the time I thought all the squeaking and jumping about was cute, but I was not thinking long term here.
We thought “Mouse” would be a good name for a cat that squeaked, but I was concerned about the self-esteem ramifications of naming a cat “Mouse.” Would it feel inferior to other cats? Aren’t cats supposed to chase mice? Would the other cats make fun of it? I felt that a second, more regal sounding name was in order, and so Mousey Lionheart was born.
Now Mousey and JJ are up in Vermont with us. They can’t stand each other and have never gotten along, mostly because Mouse likes to torment JJ, and he hates playing and/or having fun. They both like clawing things they shouldn’t and peeing in our suitcases so that we can never go anywhere. But whatever their problems are, I feel confident that none of it is from the lack of a good name.