When she was a kitten, we were constantly cleaning up remnants of paper. We’d leave the house for a few hours and come back to scraps of napkins scattered about the kitchen, or the roll of toilet paper splayed from bathroom to living room. Paper products lived in fear if KC Whittinger Longstockings Junior was nearby.
I’ve often wondered if animals think “Why in Heaven’s name did I get a bizarre name like that?,” or maybe they embrace it as a sign of their special uniqueness. However, I’ll place squarely the blame on my sons who chose her moniker (which might not be accurate but I can do that because they don’t live here and won’t be able to read this). “KC” was short for “Kitty Cat” (not very imaginative, I know). I don’t know the derivation of the rest of her handle but it didn’t matter; we referred to her simply as “KC” or “Case-ers.”
Newly divorced, I specifically chose KC from a litter in 1995 because she was the most talkative of the mob. Spending every other week without companionship, I figured I could somewhat fill the void by having a feline companion who would let me know what she felt with regularity. As they say, “Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it.” Not only did she communicate, she did it — shall we say — “with enthusiasm.” She had a habit, especially in her later years, of waiting stealthily in the early morning darkness in the kitchen. The first human to enter — keep in mind not yet awake — would be “greeted” with an enormous howling ululation. Never sure whether it was “Good Morning, I’m glad you’re here,” or “What the heck took you so long to fill my bowl?,” what I can assure you is that after being welcomed as such by KC, there was no longer a need to use coffee to start your heart.