The Naming of Cats
by T. S. Eliot
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo, or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey —
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter —
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular,
A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkstrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum —
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover —
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.
Image belongs to me.
My Little Feral Cat Colony
I was never a cat person. Truly. But these darn cats stole my heart anyway.
When I first discovered them in my backyard, it was just Mama Kitty. Not long after, Spot appeared — one of her four babies. She had tucked her litter safely beneath my deck. That was May 2025. There were four kittens in all, and I named them Mama Kitty, Spot, Stripe, Boo, and Heartley.
And just like that, our adventure began.
And it was an adventure.
Watching those kittens grow brought so much unexpected joy to my heart. Their tiny paws, their wobbly steps, their playful tumbles across the deck — they made my backyard feel alive in a way it never had before.
A few months later, Mama Kitty disappeared, leaving her adolescent kittens behind with me. She would return sporadically — just long enough to eat and check on her babies. Then one day I noticed her belly was growing.
Oh no. More mouths to feed.
I had asked for help getting her spayed, but no one came. So lucky me… another litter on the way.
Then she stopped coming altogether. About two weeks passed before I saw her again — and her belly was no longer round. Silly me, I told her, “Go get those babies.” I said it every time she showed up. And she did show up — every single day. She would eat quickly, glance around, and then dash off as if the deck were on fire.
This went on for a while.
Then one day, I saw something tiny scurry across the deck.
Suddenly, I had three tiny black kittens along with Mama Kitty and the first litter.
Eventually, Mama Kitty and the three little ones were rehomed. It was bittersweet, but they found safety and warmth.
I still have Heartley (now neutered), Stripe (now neutered), Spot — who is now called Junior — and Boo, now affectionately known as Sweet Boi. They come and go as they please, and I worry constantly when they disappear for a few days at a time.
I was not cut out to be the caretaker of a feral cat colony.
But somehow, I was drafted.
And I wouldn’t trade the adventure for anything.
