I have always loved the universality of T.S.Eliot. I adore T.S.Eliot - always have. I just 'get' Eliot. I feel Eliot. I know Eliot. I wish I knew T.S. Eliot, but I'd be standing there in front of him saying "I'm not worthy" like I did with Richard Flanagan a few years ago. T.S. Eliot is God. (Like The Pixies)
And another thing. T.S. Eliot was also a cat lover.
He wrote the poems behind Cats the Musical - though you have Andrew Lloyd Webber to blame for the rest of it.
In the first poem in the slim collection of cat poems is entitled, "The Naming of Cats" which reads,
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
(The Naming of Cats by T.S. Eliot)
I have to say - I wholeheartedly agree. A cat does need three names. And my friends, who leave their charges with me when they go on holiday, know that I will rename their cat while they come and stay with me.
Kitt and her partner Ravi dropped around the two beasties on Thursday night. They're off to Bali. Kitt, who has left her feline children with me for nearly ten years came in, put down the cat cage, opened it, and out strutted Princess Olympias - or Princess to her mother.
Ravi, who I had not met before, but heard a heap about, kept his brown tabby, Kitty, in his arms for a while. On placing her on the floor, she scarpered under the couch.
Princess Olympias, by this time, was asleep on the bed.
"She's going to rename your cat, Ravi."
"Because that's what she does."
I've had a number of friends note that I'm a but strange like that - but I'm just taking my queues from T.S. Eliot.
Okay, so Maow Maow, love of my life, is normally referred to by his moniker. But he's also known as Fat Boy, or the Feline Steamroller, having a propensity for knocking everything off your bedside table at 5 a.m. Maow Maow is a bit of an exception.
My friend Teddy has a glorious boy called George. To me, he's Pudding (Georgie Porgy pudding and pie.) Pudding suits him. I pick him up and he purrs. He can't hate it.
Kitt's an old cat - the one who was around before Princess Olympias before it got high speed rubber poisoning - was Mrs Squeaky Puss. She had a pathetic little mew. She squeaked - and liked to sleep curled up in your armpit under the covers. Odd beastie, that one.
And Princess Olympias, who started life as Olympias, before Kitt was seeing Ravi, and her douchey ex had a thing for Ancient Greek History. When I first met Olympias, my comment was 'Too big a name for too little a cat.' At my place, she's Mrs Fluffy Britches. She's also now known as Princess Passive-Aggressive after she decided that I was too awful to share a bed with last night. I was in the dog house for the night due to being away the night before. Before you ask - the neighbours fed them and looked in on them.
Cats let you know when they aren't happy.
My mother's cat, Freda, what just known to me as 'Bitch'. She was a bitch. She had attitude. All that cat needed was some knuckle dusters, biker boots and num-chucks and she could have taken on the world.
So this leaves me with what to rename the tabby. She's a 13-year-old dame, Very sweet. She has a very soft coat. She's got a dragging tummy, quite normal with female cats of a certain age. Although she parked herself under the couch for the first 24 hours, she's out and about now, coming up for pats and chats. She even follows me into the bathroom, as it she can't work out why I want to get under a stream of water.
So what am I going to call a brown tabby with the unfortunate moniker of Kitty? (If you go to a vet's practice, something like 20% of all cats are called Kitty or Puss... original, much...)
As of late last night, when I got home from my weekend away, we got the name. This cat has bladder issues. She's forever trotting off to the litter box. Kitt also warned me that she wasn't against taking a leak in the shower recess. I've been careful to shut the shower screen after use for the moment.
But it seems Kitty was caught short while I was away.
She obviously wanted to take a pee in the shower, but couldn't, so she found the next best place - the bathmat.
She's been renamed Pissy Puss for the foreseeable future. I think that's apt.
And I'm doing extra washing.
Ah well, it's only a week.