It would appear that many apparently kind, normal, loving people harbor base
instincts they don't even know they have until it comes time to name a
child. Then they'll do things like name it after family surnames (like my
unfortunate uncle, Hilary Wentz Bagby, widely believed to be a girl, and my
aunt Meland, not only widely believed to be a boy but drafted during World
War II). Worse, some of them have an uncontrollable urge to make the kid's
name a joke, like
Justin Case, Ima Hogg (whose sister was named Ura), etc.
These sadistic naming impulses should properly be channeled into the naming
of cats or dogs or parrots or goldfish. None of them care what you call
them, as long as you do it with a can opener in your hand. They will not be
emotionally scarred for life by having a joke for a name, and they lack
opposable thumbs to grip a trigger with, so you can let your creative
instincts go wild.
Over the past 30 years I have had a succession of cats, from the moment when
a canny friend, invited to bestow a kitten upon us, presented us with two
identical blobs of fur to choose from. My husband had a soft heart and a
softer head, so we ended up with two kittens, who were immediately named for
their most readily noticeable attributes--they were always underfoot, but
portable enough to be transported away from the trouble they were getting
into. Thus Portable and Underfoot came into our lives.
I have always been amused by British names that are long, unwieldy, and,
apparently, unpronounceable as stands, so that they are stripped down to
their race-car versions, like Worcestershire (Wustershur), or Cholmondeley
(Chumley). So our next kitten was named Twolmondeley (Twomley).
Meantime, my sister-in-law flew out from Ohio to bring us her cat, Pudney,
that her husband was becoming desperately allergic to. Of course, as
important as a good name is a good nickname; his was Steak-and-Pudney-pie.
Our next cat happened to us when my five-year-old son was in the middle of a
language obsession, and in the process of committing an entire polyglot
dictionary to memory. It was clear that our cat was going to be named "cat"
in some language or other. I steered him away from the Armenian, Pisica, on
the theory that their are some names better not hollered out into the night,
and suggested that we choose the Finnish instead (Kissa).
Our next acquisition was a kind of rainbow coalition, black and orange and
yellow and brown and white, so she became a Motley. The heavily-pregant
alleycat that adopted us was also multi-colored, and she became The
Patchwork Girl of Oz. (Unfortunately the obvious nickname is Patches, which
is easily the most boring name we have ever given a cat.) However, we were
in the middle of reading The Joys of Yiddish when her kittens were
born, so they became Farshimmelt and Farblondjet (both Yiddish for extremely
bewildered),
Potchkeh (playing around) and Mishegoss (a really big mess).
It was terribly hot in our rented house that next summer, and our three poor
cats just lay on the floor, with glazed eyes, panting. (I know cats aren't
supposed to pant, but nobody ever told them this.) So I told my son we
should rename them Torpor, Inertia and Sloth.
Our next kitten could hardly be called Torpor or Sloth. But given the fact
that, once set in motion, she was real hard to stop, we called her Inertia.
The next year, the Detroit Tigers won the World Series, and my son and I
treated ourselves to a celebratory orange tiger kitten, to be named after
our two favorite Detroit Tigers, Alan Trammel and Lou Whitaker. Thus, she
became Trammaker, though in view of the total lack of respect she showed her
elders and betters, we should have called her Twitaker.
Our last cat, Nickaninny, was named after a Gordon Korman book. An
adventurous sort, she was known, on occasion, as Nick-nack-paddywhack-
throw-the-cat-away.
Of course, no matter what their actual names, they all answered to Jesus Cat
(as in Jesus, Cat! what are you doing on top of the refrigerator/under the
stove/inside the washing machine!??!
Well, we do keep losing cats; we're down to one now, and starting to think
about kittens again, so we're saving up new cat names. We have thought
about Capsicum--a very hot red pepper (a little goes a long, long way). Or
Fur Elise.
And should our cat population ever make it up to five, I will be unable to
resist a bilingual pun; it will be called Catre Cinq.
Of course if one accepts T.S. Eliot's notion that all cats name themselves a
secret, private name, we could also call our next cat Eponymous.
Douglas Adams, in The Deeper Meaning of Life, uses the word "Sutton"
to describe the dark dirt that accumulates on light clothing, and "Cheam"
for the chalky light dirt that settles on dark clothing. Given the
attractant power of cat hair for clothing (a power that, were it harnessed,
would be far stronger than nuclear weapons), a matched set of dark and light
kittens would be named Sutton and Cheam.
Of course, other animals are equally fair game for this sort of thing. When
I first came across the legal term Res Ipsa (for res ipsa loquitur,
the thing speaks for itself), I tried to talk my nephew into calling his
parrot Res Ipsa.
My son has a simple, dignified, un-nicknameable name. And he is very
grateful that I have cats. Very grateful indeed.
Previous Columns: Son of Flower Children, Flower Children, Me and a Book, Never Middle Aged, Legal Speech, Stupid Speech, To Find or Not To Find, We Will Rock You, America in 9 Innings, Thank The Ludd, Target Market, Naming Names, Something Amyth , In Praise of Men, Small Truths , White Whine, Draft Dodger, Tar Baby, Sensible Lizards, Debut, Week 2, Hard Copy, Word Child, Every Other Inch A Lady, Naming of Books, Progress, maybe (sort of...), All Reasons Great & Small, On achieving perfect copy, OJ (On Justice), Waiting for Webster's, What Genes Have Wrought, Light Out, Staying on the Map, Don't just stand there..., Remotely Funny, No Government Day, Advice For Desperate Men, Why Kids
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