©1999 by Kurt Nemes

It was another one of those situations where for a moment I got to feel a complete failure as a parent. Our new cat needed a name, and I was trying to force a decision. The quivering lower lip of my eight year-old daughter, Simone, told me I'd taken the wrong tack. You couldn't just pull a name out of a bowl. Though this method suits millions of lottery players the world over on a daily basis, it simply would not do for a pet.

Unfortunately, we were running out of time, and so many people had to be made happy. My wife, Judy, made it plain that under no circumstances would she have a cat with the name the folks at the animal shelter had given him3/4 Yul. After two weeks, and no decision, however, Simone, Claire (her eleven year-old sister), and even I were calling the feline "Yul."

It's not like we had a shortage of ideas. In the time since we brought the Siamese-Tabby mix home, we had generated a list of over twenty monikers for the puss. Trouble was, everyone championed their own.

Simone, for example, still into dolls and cuddly stuffed animals, had suggested a list of cute names. Frankie, Eddie, Teddy, Toby, Button, and my favorite, Ping. Claire, a bit of a wag, had come up with an amusing set3/4 Rambo, Caesar, Fabio, Kong, Julius, and Fang. Judy, who hails from England, wanted something that gave a feeling of "hale fellow well met," and proffered Jerry, Bill, Henry, and one based on a Monty Python routine3/4 Biggles.

My names focused on the cat's character. The day that Claire and I walked into the shelter and saw Yul, we were smitten. He had a lovely café au lait-colored coat and the blue, crossed eyes of a Siamese, which, of course, made him instantly loveable. The tag on the cage described him as extremely laid back and friendly. Claire wanted to see if he would react negatively to the scent of our dog, Freckles, on us. The volunteer took Yul out, and placed him on the observation table. As I reached out to scratch the cat's cheek, he fell over on his side and started purring loudly. So, I lobbied for Zonker and Romeo.

Everyone realized Yul could not share the same fate as our dog, who received her name by default. The animal rescue league had dubbed her Freckles, and we just couldn't do better. Part Jack Russell and part god knows what3/4 Corgi, Dalmatian, Bassett3/4 she turned out mostly white with hundreds of black spots everywhere3/4 even in her mouth. Linking our cat's name to Siam and, by extension, to the blustery Yul Brynner was spurious at best.

Tension built as the days passed. Every time I suggested we choose a name, it seemed as if someone came up with another. Dwayne, Lionel, Percy, Lambchop were added. Once, we almost settled on Simone's "Frankie," but when we tried it out, it sounded too much like Freckles, who came, tongue out and tail wagging.

We all liked Wallace, based on Nick Parks' bumbling inventor in the British claymation film, "The Wrong Trousers." Judy, however, felt that it was bit of a mouthful, and suggested instead, Wally. She said that in England Wally is an affectionate term for a person who is a few logs shy of a cord. So, referring to Prince Andrew, you could say "He's a bit of a Wally."

After the lottery went over like a lead balloon, another idea for choosing a name struck me.

"Let's vote," I said.

What better way, I figured, to give the kids a taste of the democratic process? I took the paper with the list of names and said, "OK. Who votes for Biggles?"

"Can we vote more than once?" said Simone.

"Um, yeah, I guess," I said looking at Judy. She nodded.

We got through the list and we had a four-way tie between Wally, Teddy, Zonker and Fabio.

"Now, what?" said Claire.

I racked my brains. Was this like a run-off? Do I allow multiple votes again?

"How about taking the four names and drawing them out of the bowl?" I suggested.

There was a pause as everyone thought for a moment.

"Who gets to draw the name?" both Claire and Simone asked almost in unison.

This was it. How I answered could result in repercussions for years hence. Should anyone think the process unfair, they would stew on it and bring it up, probably for the rest of the cat's life. Or perhaps it would come out as some repressed memory in a future, John Bradshaw workshop on "healing the child within" I swallowed.

"Freckles?" I hazarded.

"What?" asked Claire.

"How?" asked Simone.

It had started as a joke really. I placed the bowl on the floor in front of Freckles. Thinking food, she stuck her nose in, sniffed the ballots, and then looked up at me.

"Go ahead, Freckles," I said.

She stuck her nose back in the bowl and gave another sniff. Her tongue darted out to lick some residual molecule of food, and out came flying a ballot. We all laughed. I reached down, picked it the ballot and announced the result.

"I give you Wally," I said. And Wally fell over and purred like mad when we told him.