My three cats are named Zoey, Phineas (usually just Finn) and Dmitri. There are reasons behind those choices, but that’s not what this thread is about. My cats needed names immediately upon adoption, and thus they were labeled. But subsequently, after observing behavior patterns, I learned that my cats truly are:
Princess Zoey
Dmitri the Skittish
Finn of Redemption
The first two full names probably need no explanation. “Finn of Redemption” comes from the fact that he was a nasty, violent creature when I picked him up from the shelter as he was recovering from neutering. After a month or more of him lashing out at both human and feline targets, I reluctantly made him an outdoor cat. That calmed him a bit, but the real turning point came when a tiny stray kitten (who I dubbed “Orphan Annie”) showed up to share Finn’s food on the porch.
Finn nobly stepped aside and waited until the kitten had eaten before he would eat himself. It was the beginning of a remarkable change in his personality. He and Orphan Annie became the best of friends - they’d curl up together on the porch, Finn protecting the little kitten by wrapping himself around her.
Sadly, I had to take Orphan Annie to the Humane Society just before our Covid lockdown started - three cats is pushing it for my finances/household, four veers farther into Crazy Cat Lady than I’m willing to go. (I’ve since moved to a smaller home and brought Finn back indoors, so letting Orphan Annie go was unfortunately the right choice.)
Anyway, Finn truly did redeem himself. He is now the sweetest cat ever. I used to be afraid to approach him because he’d lash out with both claws and teeth. Now I can stroke him and pick him up without fear. He is just about the most affectionate, gentle cat I have ever known. He is redeemed! Hence his full name, Finn the Redeemed.
My Tigger once topped the scales at over twenty pounds. He had the annoying habit of occupying my side of the bed, and he hated being told to move when I went to bed, and often complained, with meows and occasionally claws. So he became known as “His Royal Bigness.” After all, you don’t tell a King what to do. (As an aside, Tig was put on a diet, and has lost a lot of weight, so the “Bigness” title doesn’t really apply any more, though his attitude at bedtime still does.)
Maybe not exactly what you’re looking for, but I also count Fiona Q. Bear among my feline family. When my ex-wife and I got her from the shelter, we called her Fiona. She developed the habit of cuddling up to my ex-wife in bed, like a teddy bear, so she became known as “Fiona Bear.” Then, one day, Fiona did something that caused my ex to exclaim, “Fiona Q. Bear! You naughty kitty!”
When I asked my ex what the Q stood for, she replied, “It just came to me.” Then she thought for a moment, then said, “The Q stands for Qute.”
And Fiona’s full name has been Fiona Q. Bear ever since, though she will respond to “Fiona Q” or just “Fiona,” in addition to responding to her full name.
Allie (Siamese mix) is also called “the Princess” or more formally “Princess Razorfang Scissorpaws”. She was 14 months old when we got her, according to the shelter, and had a habit of waking the waitress for breakfast by playing “pounce the feet”, vigorously enough that one could feel claws and teeth through covers.
Chicken the Rescue Panther (the best ever cat-buddy to grace my pathetic life) passed away rather suddenly one month ago. He was The Cat of the House for 10 of his 12 years.
He is survived by:
Skittles, the kitty without portfolio
Maus, the lodger’s cat
And the twins; Bullett & Guillermo the Relentless
Sadly, only Guillermo the Relentless is even remotely qualified for The Cat position, but he’s a one year old feral who doesn’t do head boops. Skittles is sweet but terrified of dogs and so commands the darkness of the basement. Maus is useless, and Bullett is easily the most unremarkable feline I’ve ever met.
My two cats don’t have elaborate names, but the resident cat at my vet’s office qualifies for this thread. Her name is Princess Dominique Buttercup. She’s either up on the receptionist’s counter or asleep on the windowsill. (Back when we were allowed in the office…)
