Whirling Dervish Girl Thing…

Where - oh - where did we go wrong?

Was it the little pink rabbit baby grow with white fluffy tail, or the five piece (top, skirt, hat, socks, shoes) matching sun outfit in lime green and cerise, or maybe it was the rainbow knee socks.... look at her, thank God it’s for charity, sponsored walk, race for life, all sponsorship gratefully accepted in the comments box below.

She couldn’t go out on the street like that could she..?

‘Now THAT is what I call a cool outfit. So much better than the bright stuff she usually wears. I really can’t bear her bright orange school uniform – yellow jumper, yellow skirt – and that awful cerise shirt – what is the headmistress thinking of AND as for those purple shoes and the turquoise tights.. Well, I ask you - it’s like Paul Klee on acid. This is so much more sedate, cultured even… perhaps this whirling Dervish girl thing isn’t so bad after all… IF only she would stand still for a second or two.

Of course I’m a fine one to talk what with my purple fur, fluorescent green whiskers, and banana yellow chest and feet… far too bright if you ask me. A sophisticated cat like me should be black or grey - a nice dark grey, yes, that would suit me. But here I am all… colourful. If only I could look as sober as the WDGT does at the moment I’d be as happy as the man who got the cream.

Why on fish-fins did Mu-Mu make us so bright? Mouserkins down the road is vermillion, Patchy Poo is fuchsia, Old Whistles is aqua (except at his temples where he’s a nice shade of lavender) and young Tommy Tittletat is at least twenty different shades of green. How sickening!

Oh well… it isn’t about our colour, it’s about what we are like inside... but I really like that black skirt thing she’s wearing, perhaps I could get one on meow-bay… now where did Hisfault put his laptop and his credit card? Ah, here they are... www.google.cat.uk... Search… P-U-S-S-Y T-U-T-U. Now, I REALLY like that, such an elegant shade of dark navy…’

… Thank God cats see colour differently to us, different spectrum, something to do with the shape of the iris. I’m sure all of those migraine causing colours would be too much for poor Misty to bear.... They are for me. I’m going to lie down for a bit, my head is pounding… You don’t know how lucky you are Misty... you don’t know how lucky you are…

What's in a name...

When we named Misty we thought she was a girl and, because she was the colour of smoke, Misty seemed the perfect name.

After we’d got over the shock that in fact Misty, our lovely little girl, was actually a boy we considered renaming her. ‘Perhaps we could call her Mister’ we said - after all it wasn’t a million miles from Misty - or maybe Mischief, she certainly seemed to get into enough of it.

Maybe a completely different name was in order? Malvolio – no… Mestopheles – definitely no… Marzipan – too silly… Marvo – plain stupid… Mysterio – I don’t think so… Major Tom – he’s a girl… Mr Tom – he’s a girl… Mac – he’s Welsh… Mr Mac – he’s a girl and she’s Welsh… Big Mac – groan… Macbeth – it’s unlucky to even say the word… so Misty it remained, nothing seemed to suit her as well as Misty.

It’s like that with a cat’s name isn’t it? It either suits or it don’t.

After much consideration (and a bit of argument and bickering) we decided that we’d stick with Misty – we also decided to keep her a girl in our heads. It wouldn’t matter, and it does seem to work okay. Misty seems happy enough with her name and seems not to care that we call her ‘Her’.

It just isn’t a problem. She comes on call to her name, even to the name variations that have developed - Gaynor often calls her ‘Misty Moo’ in a sing-song, up and down way, Holly has labelled her ‘Moo Moo’, and sometimes (when in deep conversational debate with her) I address her seriously as ‘Mister Misty’. She doesn’t seem to care, after all they’re just words to her, and not really names at all. We think that she comes to her name but it isn’t really the name she hears - she hears… warmth, food, milk, cuddles, not Misty, Misty Moo, or Moo Moo… we all know cats don’t really need names…

‘Do I look like a Misty? Fine hissing name for a cat. Do they think I’m a girl or something? And why the litter tray Misty Moo? Does Foodies think I’m a cow? Why does that whirling one call me Moo Moo? What does it mean… double cream? At least Hisfault sometimes shows a little consideration when he calls me Mister Misty - at least he recognises my gender. Not really good enough is it?

“Why can’t they use one of my real names? It wasn’t for nothing that my father called me ‘Tailswinger Toothsharp, scourge of spiders and destroyer of mice’ – so why can’t they use it? I can just imagine meal times – “Tailswinger Toothsharp… nin-nins… come on Tailswinger, come and get your foodies.” No, somehow I can’t see that working, not with Foodies.

How about the name my mother gave me? It’s a good name – Mow Mow the clever, opener of doors and maker of pictures? Even my little friend at the house over the road knows that name - she calls me Mow Mow…and if she can use it then why can’t they? I like her, she’s funny... and she tickles my tummy.

Of course there’s always my ancestral name, it’s very grand, it goes back thousands of years to the hot place where we were gods - Mau son of Bast, Cobra Killer – now that is a name. Pity that there are no Cobras around here - I’d show them! By the way… what is a Cobra? Is it a type of mouse?

When Reallynastyman left me at the farm perhaps he thought that the Cobras would get me - he won’t have known that I’m a Cobra killer. I didn’t like him. He was bad. He took me away from my mother and dumped me in that cold barn. I would have frozen my tiny whiskers off it Farmer Geronwy hadn’t found me and foodied me up. He gave me my Welsh name – Llwydaidd – I keep it for special like he told me to... March first only.

This naming business is so... well, so silly really. I don’t really mind being Misty, and even Moo Moo has a bit of a ring to it - but it isn’t anything like my REAL name, my essence name, my ‘Me’ name.

My ‘Me’ name is the name that I’ve given to myself, the name that sums me up for what I am. Only I know what it is. It’s a secret. If I were to tell you what it was I’d be in your power – you’d be able to make me do tricks, come to call, even make me go to sleep in baskets and… well, all sorts of things. So I’m not going to tell you.

I don’t want to be in your power, cats don’t like being in anyone’s power.

Tell you what… you can have three guesses. Go on guess away! No clues though!”

Yes, we all know cats don’t really need names.