The Pussy and the Peeper

Shortly after the incident with Oz this June, I fell into a bit of a funk. I didn't want to do anything but stay home and wallow in misery. One day, Mother wanted me to go to the store with her. I opted out, but she wasn't going to take no for an answer, because nothing conquers depression better than a trip to your local Walmart. So, I schlepped on some clothes, and left the house.

On the way home, we drove by house with a sign out front that simply said "Free Kittens". Mother loves cats. In fact, we have an agreement that if she were to ever win the lottery, she would have her own ranch for unwanted cats. My end of the agreement would be that I would quit my job, go to veterinarian school, and open up a vet's office on the property. Most days, I generally like animals more than people. This is an idea I could get behind.

Mother's eyes lit up at the sight of the sign, and I asked her if she wanted to go see the kittens. She readily agreed, made a U-turn, and within five minutes, we were knee deep in tiny fur-babies.

Somehow, that day, I ended up taking one home. I hadn't planned on getting another one, even after Shasta died (I suspect I may have an allergy to cats). But here I was, cradling a little gray and white. Mother, tickled pink, wanted to bask her newest grandkitteh in gifts, so we stopped by PetCo.

Baby animals are cute, and people generally like to pet them. This includes PetCo employees. One such employee, commandeered the kitten as she directed us to the kitten food isle. I will be honest. Despite my training in the medical field, and despite the countless wieners and vajayjay I have seen, I can't tell the gender in baby cats. At least in dogs, you can tell just by where it is located. In cats, their junk is located in the same spot. To make it worse, it's covered in fuzz. So, I asked the employee if she could tell us what gender my newest house guest was. With much fanfare, she flipped the kitten over on it's back, spread the legs open, and announced it was a girl.

"And that is her VAGINA" she finished with flourish.

On the way home, the cat was given the name Sophie. A nice, cute, girly name. Little pink collar, little bowl with flowers. Everyone liked Princess Sophie. Including George.

Life went on at Case de Blather without incident. Mother would come and tend to my own little petting zoo on those nights I worked. The other day, she mentioned that she thought Sophie had strange anatomy.

"Are you sure Sophie is a girl?" she asked. I reminded her that the PetCo worker assured us Sophie was a female as evidenced by the presence of the VAGINA. Because she worked at a pet store, she knew what she was talking about. Right?

Sophie purrs for Mother all the time. Me, not so much. Her interaction with me is usually fraught with teeth and claws. Today, I caught her in a rather pleasant mood and she let me scratch her belly, purring the whole time. So, there we were, enjoying some nice, quiet parent-kitteh time when it happened. A little pink appendage, resembling a Christmas light bulb, popped out from her vagina. Now, I'm not a veterinarian (yet). but with my vast experience, I deduced that it wasn't normal for any female (human or animal) to have anything pop out of their vagina unless something went in there in the first place.

Princess Sophie was, indeed, a boy. Now what?

Mother thinks I should let the name stand and not tell anyone, like the gender is a dirty little secret. I, however, am having a hard time bringing myself to call the cat by a name that is ill-fitting. So, I've been trying to think of what to do. There really isn't a male version of the name Sophie. I took a poll, and got many different suggestions:

Pat

Chris

Phillip

RuPaul

Sophocles

Since I have started referring to, eh, Sophie as a "he", he has been much more friendly to me. Perhaps that is why the hostility. I guess I would be pretty annoyed if people kept thinking I was a dude, although I can think of at least two obvious signs I'm a female.

So, what to do about the name??