Some of my friends have commented that it’s funny that my cat’s name was James, a name usually reserved for extremely pale, curly-haired boys from England. In reality James was given his name during my Britpop period of musical affection. So he was named after James, the Manchester band most popularly known for their song “Laid”. It was during those years that probably everything I owned was named after a rock star. A white Nissan 200SX named Thom after Thom Yorke, a cat named James after the band, a computer called Moz.
James was a curious little guy, well-loved by all who got to know him. As a kitten, he enjoyed carrides, often propping himself up by his front legs on the dashboard, checking out the Austin scenery as we drove around the block. Most mornings, during my college years, as I walked from my duplex apartment in West Campus to school, James walked me across the street and up to the second block before turning around and going back home. Oftentimes at the end of the day, I would find him hanging out with the fraternity boys who lived below my roommate and me.
If there was one thing he wanted, it was friendship. No matter the size of his potential friend or the possible danger they represented, James would attempt to be near and rub up against any creature, making friends with black labs 10 times larger than him, terribly ugly raccoons and frat boys. Once he brought to the door a bird in his mouth. Upon my opening the door, he opened his mouth to greet me with that usual kitten roar, at which point the little birdie flew away. He couldn’t even hurt a cat’s worst enemy: the bird.
James died just short of his 12th birthday. For two days I cried and regretted handing him over to my parents when my ex and I could no longer stand our congestion and itchy eyes in response to the daily ticks and critters that James carried home on his lovely orange fur.
But I know James is in a place now where his legs work just fine, rather than having his diabetes eat away at his muscles. His skin is immune to the numerous things that caused him to itch incessantly, no matter the amount of medications and washings he received. In that new place everybody accepts his offers of friendship. They all know that that little kitten roar is an exclamation of something he really is, a gentle master, not just something invented by someone who loved him.
Twelve years later I have stopped naming my possessions after rock stars. Well...children aren't possessions, are they? Because I think Belle and Sebastian would be adorable names for babies.
