Names are very important. In wizardry books, knowing the wizard’s true name gives you power over them. Often, the true name of God is not to be uttered aloud. Names are important – consider how long authors labor over the names of their book and story characters.
I have named ten babies. Two human ones, and eight kitty ones – at least recently. My kids bear the names of grandparents, but it is hard to name a cat after its grandparent, especially when you rescued them as kittens, and not even MAMA was around to be seen, much less GRANDMA. So, naming them is even more important, since they don’t have their kitty heritage and ancestry to fall back on.
Sugar Daddy was easy. He is mostly pure white, except for a few orange-stripey spots in pleasing locations, and his personality was very sweet. He would let the girl kittens take his food from him when we gave them treats. We learned to sit him on the counter so he could eat his treat in peace.
Souk was rescued from the marche. She was, and still is, a mess. The souk is generally a muddled mess, with all sorts of things piled everywhere offered for sale. The name seemed to suit her.
Fez, and her calico sister, Medina, were found and rescued from the Fez Medina, and I just could not think of more suitable names. They have grown into them quite nicely. They are both very sweet girls, inquisitive and clever.
When number five kitten came along, I was stuck. I really did not want to keep him, so I just called him number five: ‘Humsa,’ in Arabic. The name was firmly stuck on him by the time we decided he was too sweet to give away.
Number six kitten was rescued by somebody else (I swear) and I just agreed to foster her until we could find her a home – the three of us: the two ladies who rescued her, and me, foster cat mom. So far, no takers. When she was really tiny, she did not walk, she hopped. So, I call her Honey Bunny.
Number seven I heard piteously mewing on a freezing cold, rainy-wet Saturday morning, while my husband and I were walking home. His body core temperature was so low that he could not even hold his little head up. I had to warm him on top of the toaster oven. I was worried he might die, but he suffered no ill effects from his freezing-wet time in the ivy bed. And once he warmed up, we discovered that he has a formidable voice: he mews and mews and mews until you pick him up for cuddles and scratchies. If you ignore him too long, he will climb up your leg to where he knows the cuddles and scratchies are. This is not good kitty behavior, and we are working to teach him that this is not acceptable. So, his only recourse now is to MEW LOUDER. I named him Enrico Caruso, in honor of the late, great opera singer. I toyed with Pavarotti, but I like Caruso better.
Number eight was mewing piteously (aren’t they ALL????), sitting at the bare, cold metal door of a closed shop on the walk to work one morning – no mama in sight. *Sigh.* I had to buy him two uncooked chicken kabobs to tide him through the day until I could get him home. Once his little belly was comfortably full, he slept for a solid seven hours. Poor baby. The Arabic word for eight is Timinia, pronounced ta-many-ya, which I thought was perfectly appropriate. It sounds like too many OF ya, which is also quite true. Nobody should have eight cats!! So, Timinia joined the family.
Anybody want a free pet?