This isn’t about cats, but I do think Eliot was on to something, here.
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
~The Naming of Cats, T.S. Eliot
This is about our goofy family tendencies to name things. The dog’s two favorite plushies, for instance, are called Mungo and Manky. Clearly the dog doesn’t care what their names are, as long as we play tug and fetch until he’s ready to drop. I wanted to call something Alonzo; Felix didn’t approve of it for any of his various stuffed friends, but he thought it was perfect for the concrete tiki in the front garden.
Apparently I spell “Alonzo” like an American. Who knew?
I knit and crochet. I am fond of amigurumi and stuffies. The end result is that my son has any number of handmade critters around his room, Starry the googly-eyed star, Frank the cat, Algernon the Octopus, Claire the Jellyfish. “22216” the friendly AT-AT:
When he was in kindergarten, Felix called his backpack Sharkey (it had comical orange sharks on it), but one morning he told me his jacket’s name was Tom. Clearly. I was reminding him of that as we rushed out the door one morning last week, and then noted the time and said, “What we need to name right now is us getting in the car,” which he took to mean he got to name my car.
He named my car “Al.”
You know how sometimes a name sticks, even when you don’t necessarily want it to? That. So we celebrated by listening to Paul Simon on the way up the street to drop-off. Just call me Betty.