A short story: Why my cat is named cat
My friends were living in a house in a predominantly Mexican part of town, and this little stray beast would jump onto my lap whenever I was over hanging out or drinking on the porch. They said he was always skittish, but for some reason whenever I'd go out on the porch to have a smoke or catch some air he'd come out from underneath the cars or wherever and with a low-slinked back make his way over to me, then jump on my lap and curl up. No idea why.
He did this a few times, but the last time it was raining and he was just soaked through. Just a pathetic sight really.
He curled up on my lap and I was just.... "Goddamn it. I guess I have a fucking cat now."
I put him in the back of my Jeep, drove home and fed him some tuna. When I went to bed that night he jumped up and curled into my armpit, purring like a motherfucker (note: he still does it to this day... not sure if it's a warmth thing or if it just reminds him of when he finally found a parent that would love him).
My lover is incredibly allergic to cats, so for a while there I thought I was going to have to bring him to the shelter, but after a week or so she cleared up and figured we should keep him, so let's give him a name!
Every name we came up was horrible, but I'd been calling him to me with "Kitty-Gato" since I didn't know which language he knew, and the first time Anna heard it she was squee. So, Kitty-Gato it was.
Now we just call him Gato, or Poopie, or Poops, or GATO! or whatever. He's the love of my life. I never really liked cats until him, but damn if we weren't meant to be together.