After a busy evening
listening to cicada orchestras
and dancing with
grasshoppers
through the weeds,
the cat comes home.
He sniffs the bowl of kibble
then looks up, looks
dissatisfied, as if to say,
“dried cat food’s
just
not
cricket.”
“Don’t give it a name unless you’re going to adopt it,” was the wise advice from a friend when I told him about the young, skinny, grey cat which was merodeando la casa sizing us up as prospective family.
Wise advice. Except it got me thinking about cats and cat names, of course.
I know there are better things to be doing on a Saturday night than surfing the web, but my partner was away and there was nothing on TV, so I’m afraid that’s where you’d have found me last weekend. The cat was around somewhere, but as long as he wasn’t bothering me, I wasn’t going to bother about him.
Then he started: “Miaow.” “Miaaoooww.
don't confuse the narrator 