We have our first official pet.
Although some might not consider an outdoor garage cat official, this is as close as we will probably ever get.
We needed a name for the handsome, purring, striped ball of fur.
Two people called him Stripey.
One person deemed him Lightning.
But the cat was also called Spook and No-no, depending on which person of the family was calling him.
I, personally, wanted to name him Sher Khan, after the tiger on Jungle Book.
After about a day and a half of sheer confusion, we finally put all of our desired names in a bowl, dumped them out on the floor, and waited for the youngest family member to pick up (and try to eat) one of the scraps of paper with THE name written on it.
The name, probably because the odds were two to six, is freaking Stripey. The most obvious and dull name of the century. But two of our six family members are very pleased, and the cat doesn't seem to care either way, as long as we empty his litter box once in awhile.
I love him. I love cats. I do. My friend has a cat that I probably would have cat-napped by now, if it wasn't for the fact that my hands rash up and I get all sneezy and itchy just from thinking about a cat for long enough. (Hi Roland!)
I'm feeling a little bad; like we should let him into our warm house, but he does have a couch AND a chair in the garage that he can claim as his very own. And I did buy him cat treats today, although K keeps saying not to get attached. "He is just a mouser."
And that he is, as can be evidenced below. Good job, Stripey. We are so disgustingly proud.
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