A happy story sometimes starts with a sad one. After Christmas we lost our cat Wicket. Mike's cat. Grandma Candy's cat. 17 years on this planet (17!). A good little kitty.
Within a couple days someone in the house was looking online at what cats were available for adoption in town. That someone found a cat that we went to find on New Years Eve day. Except by the time we got there, that cat (Jasper!) had already been adopted. Down the road we went to visit the Humane Society. And there was NO NAME. Black cat. Cuddly. Playful. Mom said "Sam!" or sometimes "Gordon!".
We visited, we decided.
NO NAME was a stray and to stay another few days to give ample opportunity for the previous owner to find him. They never called. When we picked him up his name was now Troy (after the town in Wisconsin where he was found). Additionally he'd gone through a procedure that would make Bob Barker proud (wow, there's a reference that's not going to make sense to anyone younger than me and Mike...'have your pets spayed and neutered'). He got fixed.
Interesting enough in the time leading up to the day we could pick him up (the Sunday after New Years, for the record) we had ample opportunity to discuss a name. We made a list, we updated the list. We voted. We voted again. We whittled it down to the short list.
Miles.
Finn.
Gus.
Cole.
We apparently talked about what it meant to get fixed. One night I laid down with R & Z to get them to go to sleep. Roman started telling me that our cat was going to get fixed and...Mike walks in the room to say goodnight....Doh! I was looking forward to hearing what Roman was going to say next. Actually a bit worried, but a bit curious. Dad left and he continued. He's going to get fixed so that if he gets out he won't mate with another cat.
Ok then.
Dad had last word on the name.
Then there was Finn.
He likes to play.
He likes to nap.
He likes to have his chin scratched.
Mike missed him went he went out of town for two nights.
MEOW!
