Please Help Me Name This F’ing Cat


So. I’m feeling sort of bluesy. You know what I’m talking about, right? That feeling you get with separation anxiety, or mission’s end. My blues come from finishing my book, but soldiers suffer differently.

They say that many soldiers suffer from the loss of the fear-and-adrenaline-fueled battle action when they return from war. They get home and can’t take the boredom they suffer at the loss of the super-charged environments of war. Home life seems unimportant, insignificant even, to some returning soldiers.

I know of one such man, the son of one of my best compost customers. He might have been the model for the recently-filmed movie, The Hurt Locker. Thirty-year-old guy has already spent most of twelve years in the Army, working as one of those bomb disposal guys shown in the movie. Twelve years of dismantling roadside bombs, unexploded ordinance, land mines and suicide bombers. According to him, many of the suicide bombers are now women and children.

This young man keeps doing a tour, coming home and getting into trouble, and going back to war. He comes home and can’t find the same levels of adrenaline, testosterone and stark fear that the Middle East offers, and he acts out. Bar fights, drunk drag racing– any sort of dangerous behavior he can discover.

His daddy and mother are worried to death, but are helpless. Their son just signed up for another tour of duty. The parents worry that their only child is no longer capable of living without the action of war, and will re-up until war kills him.

With each passing tour, this young man has taken more-and-more dangerous assignments and performed each more dangerously than the last. He’s become such a danger junkie that he can’t seem to get enough life gamble to be satisfied.

The reason I’m mentioning this is because the mental health programs for enlisted and returning soldiers have had their budgets slashed by Congress already, and it appears that more cuts are planned. The same war mongering legislators who supported George W. Bush’s stupid wars now want to punish the brave men and women who volunteered to fight them. These people volunteered and this is how we choose to reward them.

Welcome home, soldier. Now shut up and find a job if you can.

Which reminds me. Reckmonster, a mental health treatment specialist for veterans, has made the suggestion that I rename Eighty-three the cat “Oprah” since Oprah is excepted by the spell checker dealie in my word processor. I want to do that because I am working hard to weasel my way into her heart. And her panties.

But I’m passing on Oprah at the risk of personal loss because Oprah isn’t this cat’s name. Can’t explain it, it’s simply so. See, names are a big deal to me and my family. Think about it.

Every important person in my life has a name that is characterlogical of their personality. And if characterlogical isn’t a word, I don’t give a shit. It states word-perfectly my intent, so Word Perfect can stick it up its ass.

Start with my name, Mooner. I earned that moniker because I will drop my pants and show you my ass at any time. Streaker Jones is a streaker– a buck-ass naked runner. The Squirt is just that, a little drop of dog with a big personality. Dixie is a southern belle of a dog– graceful and mannerly. Dixie’s grandmother was Trixie, and that fucking dog got me into more trouble as a kid than I ever found on my own.

Sister is my sister, her wife Anna the Amazon is a giant and beautiful woman, and Mother, my mother, is a martyr. Gram, my grandmother’s name, says it all, and her best friend is the P-cubed. That would be P-cubed, given name Penelope Paxton-Parades. And Woozie Wozniak, Sheriff, and my assistant, Gnat, and so on.

Names for people just pop into my head. Like for Texas governor Rick Perry. My name for him is Prick Perry. Also, That Giant Flaming Fuckball Prick Perry. Asshole right-wing Christian Republican shitwad.

Fuck Prick Perry.

But having said all of that, I’m perplexed with this fucking cat. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson has decided she won’t take the cat off my hands until I find her a new name. Sammy taking the cat is the final condition to be met in my obtaining the Squirt as my actual my puppy.

So everybody, please help me name the cat. I know some of you are cat people and I need your help. Pretty please.

Drink Carta Blanca beer in a responsible manner, and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

5 Responses to “Please Help Me Name This F’ing Cat”

  1. Squatlo says:

    Name the cat “Anastasia” after the daughter of the last Russian Tsar, the heir (supposedly, if you believe she survived the assassination of her family) of the Romanov fortune. Your cat seems to carry a regal air, probably sees herself as royalty thrown in with ruffians and commoners (c’mon, a gay pig and ostrich for roomies?)…

    Besides, the name has a lot of class. You can’t name a cat something silly like “Barbara Bush” and expect it to act right. She’ll try to live down to that one, I promise you.

  2. ltelf says:

    There was a character in Mishima’s novel “The Temple of Dawn,” a Thai princess, whose name was Ying Chan. You might go with that since you have a Siamese.

  3. admin says:

    Squat. Thanks for the suggestion. It is going on the list of potentials. My only concern with this one is the likely nickname, Ana, which is already in use.

    Itelf. Welcome to the site and thanks for the nomination. Any idea what the name means? It dawned on me as I started responding here that the fucking cat will want to approve any renaming done.

    If the little shit shreds another of my shirts I’m naming her The Fucking Cat.

  4. Oh, Mooner, I so did NOT need to read your post today. My heart is so heavy bc one of our vets committed suicide today – 31 yrs old, 3 tours in Iraq as a Marine. Our system is STRETCHED to the Nth degree already – but we do our best to take care of these brave folks coming home. You are right – once a warrior gets exposure to combat – there is nothing that compares to the adrenaline rush of being in combat – and thus they come home and engage in all kinds of high risk activities – or they drink themselves into oblivion trying to quiet that quest for the rush. It is an awful cycle to watch, but not impossible to “help” a veteran – with the right programs and professionals (which AREN’T being put into place at a lot of hospitals in the system because of budget issues – my own hospital is operating at a $7 million deficit right now). And unfortunately, so many of the folks returning are distrustful of “the system” put into place to help them – they often avoid seeking any kind of help at all or do so when it’s a little too late – as was the case of the young Marine who chose to end his life today.

    I say you name the damned cat “Fidelis” (for the Marine Corps’ motto Semper Fidelis) – Dr. Sam can even call her “Fi-Fi” for short – but her name will be a reminder to always be faithful to Dr. Sam.

  5. admin says:

    Reck. I am so sorry. What a terrible loss. I don’t really know what to say because I have tried to say what I can to support our returning warriors. But I’ll think of something and say it manana.

    Keep strong.

Leave a Reply