Another Critter Story or The Farm of Inappropriate Pet Names

When I was 8 or 9, an outdoor cat used to hunt in the field behind our house. I had convinced myself it was homeless and had begged my mother to let me keep him. Not only did she refuse, but she would laugh every time I mentioned the name I had chosen for my midnight black cat-- Rainbow.

Flash forward to the same farm in Ohio three decades later. During a visit to my parents, my 7-year-old son begs me to keep a raggedy farm cat that had been hanging out and begging for food. Though I try to oblige, the cat is hell incarnate. She's friendly enough when you pour a bowl of kibble, but pet her more than twice or god forbid, pick her up and feel the exquisite agony normally reserved for a mole or bird's last moments.

Undeterred by his mother's pain, my son convinces his grandparents to catch the hellcat and bring her down south when they trek to Florida for the winter. He also chooses the appropriate name for such a beast—Angel. Is it the age or rebellion against his mother that inspired such an inappropriate moniker? (I firmly believe in the separation of church and cat.) Perhaps its positive thinking—a self “fulfeline” prophecy. She has gotten a little better. (She no longer has to be sedated to put flea medicine on her back.)

My son is 8 now and Angel is fluffy and beautiful – a Maine Coon mix according to the vet. She is the first indoor/outdoor cat I’ve ever owned. There are hidden advantages-- she has single-pawedly taken care of the vole population in the three yards adjoining ours, and little surprises (namely in the children’s sandbox). She prefers to leave paw prints on my car instead of my husband’s older truck and can sweet-talk her way in and out of the house 40 times a day. She likes to sleep and play with our dog and hiss at our other cat Chloe (a shy chub who is surprisingly the alpha cat in this instance!) She softened a bit—she now reminds me of her euphemistic epithet only about once a week—when I don’t let her out quickly enough or I pet her one time too many. She'll never be the lover Jasmine was, but she has redefined “angelic” for me.