A nameless kitten

A few weeks ago, my cat gave birth to a bizarre litter of one. The kitten looks exactly like the father, the only tomcat she has ever seen in person: orange cream, blobs of orange like a Holstein cow.

The kitten has a monopoly on the milk, and has been growing at a terrifying pace. Soon it will become a gigantic ball of orange fluff, consuming all in its path as it makes its way to Mexico.

I still haven't decided on a name for it. Raymond Quentin Smuckles, Cthulhu, Orson Welles, El Luchador Del Gato Gordo, Klaus Nomi's Receding Hairline, etc. I have to wait for his personality to develop. Right now, it is eclipsed by his alarming obesity and fluffiness. These things must settle down, like the descending bubbles in a Guinness.

The kitten proves my cat is in fact a cat and not a wildebeest in a disguise. It has awakened feline responses I didn't know she had. When you reach toward the kitten, she will do an aikido drop and plop down right between your hand an the kitten. This move is accompanied by a plaintive howl of shock that you are trying to touch her offspring. I think it's for show, though, as she immediately relents and starts preening him for his audience.

I am now about 5 years into the Achewood archives. I should know a good name for this kitten. I should know these things. I will have to remember that I only have to remember.