What Are You Gonna Name Her?
I was starting to understand that I was utterly alone in the world. It didn’t occur to me to leave Larry; he was my key to staying drunk 24/7. And my job – where everyone was young and fun – only enhanced my feelings of isolation.
The more isolated I felt, the more I longed for something to call my own.
“I want a dog,” I told Larry. “Let’s just hide it from the landlord.”
Larry didn’t look up from working on his motorcycle. “Get a fuckin’ cat,” he said.
“I don’t want a fucking cat,” I said. I knew nothing about cats.
Larry said, “You’ll like having a cat. Cats are like dogs, but you can leave them alone for the weekend.”
This seemed sensible. We often “needed” to leave our pet alone.
“Okay, let’s get a cat,” I said.
My friend Micki, from college, invited me to see her kittens. We drove to their place in Ohio, which was teeming with cats.
Micki showed me a box of little fur balls. “Which one do you want?” she asked.
Every single one of them was adorable, but only one of them was literally climbing up my arm and mewing. “I want this one!” I said.
“Oh, she’s the runt,” Micki said. “Are you sure you want the runt? Sometimes they get sick.”
“Yes!” I said. “I want this one.”
The kitten was three different shades of gray, with little white paws and bright blue eyes. I was already in love. She could have been chronically ill and I still would have chosen her.
The kitten climbed right up my arm and onto the car’s headrest. Apparently kittens rode on headrests when they traveled in cars. Who knew?
As we were leaving Micki asked, “What are you gonna name her?”
I had no idea.
Larry and I spent the two-hour drive back from Ohio discussing cat names.
We considered Tonya, Madonna, and Wynonna. We considered Diana for Princess Di, who was delightfully alive at the time.
I liked girls’ names that ended with “a.”
I considered calling the cat Petunia. “After the skunk in Bambi!” I said. (The Bambi skunk’s name is actually Flower. A petunia is a flower, but “Petunia” ends in “a.”)
The kitten – who had not stopped mewing since we got her – seemed to mew louder.
“I’m not fucking calling her Petunia,” Larry said. Larry preferred using the “f” word as an adverb.
“Oh! Olivia!” I screeched with delight. “After Olivia Newton-John!”
“We’ll call her Olivia then,” Larry said.
We drove for awhile, the kitten loud, mewing atop my seat. It hadn’t occurred to us to feed her.
Larry laughed that she was singing along to the radio. When the song ended, the DJ mentioned Michael Dukakis, who was running for president.
“Oh my god,” I said. “How did I not fucking think of this!?“
Lighting a cigarette Larry said, “What?”
“Michael Dukakis’ wife!” I nearly screamed. “Her name is Kitty! And it’s a girl’s name!” I laughed.
Larry smacked the steering wheel. “I’ll be god-fuckin’-damned,” he said.
I pulled the kitten from the headrest and tried to snuggle her; she scratched me with all four paws. “We have to call her Kitty!”
“Perfect!” Larry smiled and turned up the music.
We finally decided to call the cat “Kitty,” the least original name on the planet. I called this decision “brilliant” and told the Dukakis story to anyone who would listen.
We got her home and I was overjoyed. I thought that I had gotten a puppy who stayed indoors.
I learned quickly that I was completely wrong.