A woman I work with got a kitten a while ago. She took her time naming him, because she wanted to give him a name that really captured his personality. After a few of his antics (including once leaping from the bathroom sink, using her leg as a firepole, and leaving a six-inch scratch down her calf), she started calling him “Psycho Kitty.” That evolved to “Mad Max,” and finally she settled on “Max.”
Then the same friend who had given her Max gave her a second kitten — this one female. Again she took her time in naming her. I repeatedly urged her to call her “Minnie” (I thought it went well with “Max”), but eventually she settled on Chloe.
A while ago, Chloe apparently had a bit of an accident and piddled on herself in her car carrier. My colleague and her boyfriend had to give her a bath, and Chloe apparently didn’t take it well. The boyfriend managed to avoid needing a doctor’s care for his scratches, but it was a close thing.
Last weekend, I wrote about some friends’ dogs. In the comments, “Yogimus” opined on the following:
You beat the shit out of a dog, and it will mope, and try to show you how sorry they are and try to get back in your good graces.
So much as look at a cat sideways, and it will plot your death for the next several weeks.
All I can say is, truer words were never spoken…