We had to. We’ve been here for nearly a year, catless, and Beloved Wife is in serious cat deprivation mode. I wake in the middle of the night, as men my age often do, to find her looking at cat videos on her tablet. We’re talking a need for an intervention here; she recently discovered an app that generates the sound of a cat purring. She says it relaxes her.
So we got a cat. We visited the local animal shelter, to be selected by a cat. And we promptly were; the moment we entered the cat display area, a handsome young orange chap walked up to me and announced, “You shall be my people. Take me. Now.” And we did.
So, what to name him? All of my suggestions were dismissed out of hand, and were rudely treated.
“Glen?” “NO. Stop it.”
So we decided to name him Luche (loo-shay).
Luche-Pringe, is the name of our village, but folks call it Luche. We love the village, so we named him Luche, and our French friends loved it. It’s been a week now. So far he doesn’t respond to his name.
This evening, round about dinner time, Beloved took out a couple of small steaks for me to grill. Leaving the the steaks on the counter to make a brief visit to the powder room, as women her age often do, she muttered something unintelligible about keeping an eye on something or other. When she returned she said, “What did you do with the other steak?
I didn’t need to answer; the answer was there on the floor. Said Cat had grabbed a steak, hauled it down onto the floor and dragged it over to his food bowl, where he was eating it, not in guilt-driven haste. Oh no, he was dining.
“IT’S THE BUMPUS HOUNDS!” Beloved Wife yelled, “WE THOUGHT WE GOT A CAT, BUT WE GOT THE BUMPUS HOUNDS!”
We’ve scrapped “Luche.” Now and forever, he is “Bumpus.”
He’ll get over it.
I’m sure you understand.
The perp hides in the laundry basket.