Are You There, Folks? It’s Me, P-Kitty.

Sometimes I wake up alone. It gives me a scary feeling that almost reminds me of my early months as a stray. In another life. When my people first brought me home, I was less than a year old and they gave me one name: Padron.

My people chose that name for me and I could tell they were trying it out at first, saying it a lot to make me understand that it was mine. Padron. Puh-drone. Got it. They were in the early stages of loving me, so that was my only name.

I’d never had people before but since they cared enough to name me, I tried to name them too. Problem was, they’ve never been able to hear sounds like I do. No matter how many different names I gave them during those first months, they never understood a single one.

Names doesn’t matter. What matters is the love behind those names.

When I wake up from a nap overcome with fear that my people have disappeared, I call out to them. Desperately, I try out the long list of names I’ve given them over the past seven years, just in case one has actually stuck. From room to room, upstairs and downstairs, I call out the vowels I wish they understood.

Sometimes, I don’t find them and it turns I have nobody but Oliva, the boss cat. Other times, my silly people laugh and call out to me so I can find them. They don’t even know all the beautiful names and smart nicknames I have for them. The more I love my people, the more names I dream up and wish they understood.

My folks have done the same. P-Kitty is their latest name for me. They think it’s clever and they love to say it. I adore the attention, even if the name isn’t brilliant. What matters is how they keep giving me new names. That’s how you know someone really, wholeheartedly loves you. They give you more names.

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