Now that we know Phoebe is actually a boy cat, we needed to choose a new name.
It came from an unexpected source. Pragmatist was here for dinner the night of the eclipse. She was telling a story and the name of one of the characters was . . .
Griffen. As soon as I heard it, I rudely interrupted and expressed my delight in the name and that it sounded just right for our former Phoebe.
So from serendipitous origins, we will henceforth and furthermore and in perpetuity refer to our boy cat as Griffen.
Though some of his nine lives may be in serious jeopardy, for last night he was sitting next to me on the high arm of the couch, and reached over and bit my ear. He found himself swept onto the floor unceremoniously. Hopefully, we can convince him that his teeth are for cat food, not people.
Many possible spellings of Griffen were floated about the dinner table, but I, in my writers omnipotence have chosen the spelling above.
As I type this, he is observing the garbage truck that has just pulled up to the curb, with one front paw raised, ready to flee from the lime green monster, clanking and hissing, flinging garbage containers into the air and upside down into it's maw.
Well, I really must be going. Laundry awaits, dinner to plan, things to straighten up, Zuma to play. I'm swamped!
For those of you who might be interested, National Novel Writing Month begins November 1. Check it out from the NaNoWriMo link in the menu box on this page.