One month ago today Olivia and I lied to our mother, drove south, and picked up a kitten in a parking lot.
Her name remains a mystery, though we’ve tried several in turn. First Beatrix à la Miss Potter, in homage to her Tom Kitten stripes (and identical imp-innocent smile). Eartha (see fabulous eyeliner), Coricopat (ta, T.S.), Tabitha (Greek: Dorcas. Particularly apt.). For a while we thought she could be a Gidget, 1957’s Little Girl with Big Ideas — but if only she were a boy! Manx are ship cats, born sea-going; she could have been Horatio, Nemo, Pequod. We tossed each around for hours; some lasted a whole day. And in between all this she earned a stage name reserved for her most impressive kitten feats: scaling grown humans ankle to shoulder in three leaping bounds, turning dizzying hopping circles across the couch, shattering floor-length mirrors and escaping unscathed. We tend to say it with jazz hands. SpARkllllllllee MAGIC!!
But she might maybe may, perhaps, be Fran; just Fran (the only Baz Luhrmann film I’ve ever loved?).