My sister Roz has a tiny black kitten mewing at her back door. I could hear it over the phone. It sounded darling and lost. Really lost. Roz used to have two cats and has sworn never again. As we speak, she is feeding Never Again some leftover meatloaf and some milk.
Ari heard me on the phone, and asked what was up.
“Rozzy has a kitten in her backyard.”
“Tell her to bring it in.”
“She’s still deciding. But it sounds really tiny and lost.”
“We’ll take it.”
“No, we won’t.”
“We’ll call it Jimbo.”
“You have to stop naming cats you don’t even have, and haven’t even met.”
Note: About a year ago, Ari started agitating for a new kitten. Maggie gave him stink eye. JoJo asked what a kitten was. I’d seen what I thought was a stray, and Ari and I tried to find it. He had prenamed it Jimbo. No, I have no clue. Don’t even ask.
“She could name it Jimbo.”
“Why are you so hung up on the name Jimbo?”
“It’s a great name.”
“We can’t get another cat, and if we did, it would have to be a girl.”
“Jimbo works for a girl.”
And so it goes. I think of this ongoing conversation with Ari as fun, until I start to worry what will happen if he ever has a kid.