47. WHAT’S IN A NAME?

Stop that! Annabelle snapped at Thatch.

He immediately let go of her tail; he had been playing with it while she looked out the window onto 82nd Street.  He had been sitting on the radiator under the window and trying to catch her tail as it swung over the sill.  As soon as Annabelle spoke, he jumped off the radiator to the floor before jumping onto my worktable where I was working on a score.

I was just playing! he said.

Daddy named you wrong!  He should have named you Nuisance.  Or Pest.

Annabelle, I said.  I should have named you Crabby.

I am not crabby.

You are! Thatch shouted at her. Crabby!

All right, babies, I interrupted.  Let’s talk about names for a minute.

I like my name, Thatch said.

I am Annabelle! our diva said.  It’s me.

You know it means “pretty Ann”? I asked her.

I do, but I’m not just pretty.  I’m beautiful.  And I’m talented.

Would you rather be named La Belle? I asked.

No.  Annabelle is just right, I think.

You know, after you had been here a day, I thought about changing your name, I said.

Why?

You purred so loudly when you crawled into bed with me, that I thought I’d call you Purrball.

Thatch laughed.  Annabelle looked quite upset.  Ugh, she said, what an awful name!

Well, I explained, my friend Bruce Kimmel writes mysteries about a teen-age detective who has a cat named Furball, and I thought it might be a nice compliment.

Are they making a movie?  I could play Furball, but I’d rather play the detective.

Was she really noisy? Thatch asked.

Thatch, it was the noisiest purring I’ve ever heard.  The windows rattled. She was so tiny and so adorable.  And she never stopped talking.

That’s not true and you know it.  I was just very very happy to have my own apartment.  It’s no fun living in a small cage, you know. After living in a tiny cage at the shelter and then the adoption agency, I was a liberated kitty on my way to the Big Time!

She started dancing about my feet.

And Annabelle’s little polka dance step, Thatch? I thought I might call her Polka Dot.

Thatch danced with glee around Annabelle shouting Polka Dot! Polka Dot!

Stop it, Thatch!  If I weren’t such a refined lady, I’d bite you.  

Two dancing kitties stopped their footwork and faced each other.  Thatch jumped onto my lap for safety.  Annabelle sat down and began grooming her back leg.

Polka Dot, really?  I see no spots on my coat.  I would have refused to answer to that name, she firmly stated, or even stay here.

What about Thatch? I asked.  Before we adopted him, I thought about naming him Grover.

Grover? Thatch asked.

Yeah, I like the name, but when I learned you were rescued from a garage roof, Thatch seemed so much better.

I could never have a brother called Grover.  It’s too embarrassing.

You’d rather he was named Nuisance? I asked. I call you Missy or Missy Belle at times.

And Daddy’s Girl! And Pretty Baby, too! I don’t mind that, she replied.  I know they’re terms of endearment, like you call Thatch Daddy’s Boy, or Thatcher or Thatcher Cat, or The Baby.

I’m no baby. Thatch said defensively.  I’m big.  I’m Ninja Cat! 

You can be a pest, Thatch, she said to him.  That doesn’t mean I don’t love you, but I don’t always want to play.  I’m going to be a serious artiste when I grow up.

It seemed to me, I said, that you were having a good time playing hide and seek with Thatch in the blankets last night, Missy.

Yes, she said cautiously, I did.  It was fun.

We’re a team! Thatch said.

Sometimes, she said. She jumped back onto the windowsill.  But I am so grateful we’re Annabelle and Thatch, she said, and not Polka Dot and Grover. So . . . so . . . grateful!

Thatch jumped up onto the windowsill.  Or, he said, Furball and Nuisance! 

Together, they sang a bit of She Loves Me: What’s in a name?

They looked out onto 82nd Street, and I went back to my orchestra score.

©2019, Larry Moore