CAT NAMES

 

She is dainty and sweet. Always hanging out on the driveway at the top of 36^th street and Clinton. Always coming to greet though sometimes a bit of coaxing is necessary. Today, Ian is with me when we stop for pets. “Her name is Cheeva or Cheefa or something like that,” I tell him as he bends down to ‘pat’ her. “Oh, c’mere pretty puss. That’s a good girl.” I know her name, sorta, cuz I asked her person the other day. And I know she’s a girl cuz she’s got those pretty torbie markings: tabby with orange highlights. Of course, she is good-natured. She’s a variation of a tortie, and as Maria Porges said 30 years ago, “Tortoiseshells are the nicest cats.”

            Cheeva rubs up against Ian’s outstretched hand, proving Maria’s point, when I notice that there’s a person tucked away behind the overplanted and lush garden behind a blue painted wrought iron fence. He’s the same man I spoke with the other day, so I feel like we have a relationship, at least where the cat is concerned. So, today I ask him again what her name is since I’m not really sure I’ve got it right.

            “Cheeva,” he murmurs, continuing with some succulent project. “She is a very nice cat.”

            “Yes, she is,” I agree. “How do you spell her name?”

            “C-H-I-F-A” he says it slowly, aware maybe that it’s a strange name.

            “Cheefa,” I repeat. “Does it mean something?” Ian and I have just finished our Spanish lesson so I’m wondering if it has some Spanish derivation.

            But no.

            “It is from the movie, Kung Fu Panda. When we got her we thought she was a boy cat so we named her Chufa from the movie, but then when we found out she was a girl, we changed it to Chifa.”

            Grinning, I use my Spanish know how— “Ah, yes, an ‘a’ at the end of the name for a girl, right?”

            “Yes,” he nods, a bit bored with us, I’m thinking. Probably we’ve interrupted some important gardening project. His garden is strange and watery. I’ve been walking past it way before the pandemic and marveled at its jungle-like aspect. Vines, and succulents and ferns in many many pots all over the tiny front yard with a rock fountain always running and giant wind chimes donging above.

            I wonder if he’s the one who climbed the high trees to hang the wind chimes. He seems so of the earth always sitting on an upturned plastic box container, hidden in the shade of his garden in the late afternoon light.

            Ian’s still petting the cat who’s not complaining, but I’m ready to move on, having finally gotten her name right. And as we continue on up and around Clinton Hill, I think about all the cat names in my life and how they all have a story or at least a derivation. It began with the tortoiseshells, ‘the nicest’ cats of Maria Porges’ proclamation: Gertrude and Alice after of course, Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas. Owen Hill and I picked up these girls as tiny kittens in the hills of Montclair. They were in a basket on the owner’s front porch with a note: “Take one of both of the kittens.” How could we take just one?

            Then there was Pablo, after Pablo Picasso. My big white monster cat. I remember a friend’s husband, who is Mexican, asking why gringos always give Spanish names to their pets, and I had answered, “It’s a theme. Pablo Picasso is part of the Gertrude Stein era.” I’m not sure he understood, but then there were a quick succession of this era named cats: H.D, Zelda, Parker, Mina, and of course, my precious Sylvia, after Sylvia Beach, the famous publisher of Joyce’s Ulysses.

            Today, I have Clara. Her name is simple enough from the composer, Clara Schumann, as I’ve seemed to run out of literary names. Yet, she had another name before I adopted her: Soledad, for her solitary foundling status. Nicknamed, Chole. I have a bad association with the name Soledad, a former student whom I eventually came to respect a great deal, but man, was she a pain. Her name was Soledad, Soly, for short. I couldn’t have my cat name echo hers!

            And, so as we walk on, I muse about all of these cats and their names. I know everyone has a story about their own names having taught Cisneros’s House on Mango Street --my students resonated with the protagonist's longing for name that reflected who she really was. Not Esperanza, which means 'hope' in Spanish, but something like, “ZeZe the X”.

            While 'hope' is beautiful, I can understand Esperanza's desire to have a racier moniker. 

    Like Chifa. Though, frankly, she doesn't seem to have much of a Kung Fu nature, being a torbie and all!

    I think Ivy Jell-O (Ian’s foundling cat named after the Ivy she was found in and Magellan—Jell-O for short-- the explorer) might be the best name. However, your cat (or dog) might have a better one.

   

            What’s your cat’s name? (Or dog’s?) Where did it come from? Why did you choose it?

            Lemme know! I'll look for them in the comments of this blog or on the FB and compile a list--it'll be fun and informative. As only cats can be!