My husband and I are new parents again, after all these years. Here’s a closeup of the new kid:

Truth be told, I could eat him with a spoon.

It’s been about 35 years since I have had a kitten in the house, and the first couple days were stressful. We had to plug up a few holes to keep his tiny little body from falling inside a wall (again) and his playful antics have been known to break the skin. Recent investments include oven mitts for sparring, a laser pointer to keep him off our ankles, and of course food and a new litter box. Dear old twenty-something Socks hissed most ferociously when she finally noticed him (she’s mostly blind), but provided he is more than a foot from her nose, she is not worried. And our house is such that it’s relatively easy to keep them separated.

As one does, we have bandied about more than a few names. My husband told me that I could call him whatever I want, as long as he gets the same privilege (he usually calls him “It,” or “It who must not be named,” in tones of great affection). After several days of trying names on for size, I have settled on “Abner Snopes,” and as many derivatives as can be squeezed therefrom. Before you get the back story on that, you must hear about some that didn’t make the cut.

From the time I was quite small, my Aunt Evelyn had a dynasty of feral cats living on her roof. There was ALWAYS one (at least) whose name was Wee Beastie, and sometimes there may have been some overlap. For the second time in my life, I tried to name the new kitten Wee Beastie, because it’s so darn cute, and it also gives me a chance to boast obliquely about my purported ancestors, the Scots. Both times the name failed to stick. The first time, Wee Beastie rapidly became The Dweeb. The Dweeb was a bully, and he hounded our lady cat, Digby, to the point of exhaustion daily. Our efforts to reform him failed, and we eventually sent him to live with his grandparents. To my sorrow and regret, The Dweeb died of feline leukemia at about age eight.

The new guy, I also tried to name Wee Beastie, but that began to morph into Mr. Beast, and I don’t want to name him after a YouTuber, no matter how philanthropic. Other efforts included Guttersnipe, which began to devolve into Sniper, and then SniperWolf (another YouTuber, so same problem). Honorable Mention goes to my sister Laura, for suggesting Bran Flakes; a name I told her she should use, because any self-respecting cat needs multiple names. Second Honorable Mention goes to my husband, for suggesting Spot (on account of his stripes, you see).

A couple days ago, though, I finally remembered that I had always wanted to name a cat Abner Snopes. There are maybe three or four people in my circle who know, without a google search, the origination of this name. It comes from a story some of us read under duress in high school (under the watchful eye of the Dread Mrs. Rogers), called “Barn Burning,” by the inimical William Faulkner. Abner Snopes was the anti-hero of this deeply depressing story (in my early thirties I swore off this kind of fare; but the character’s name is still darkly hilarious).

Anyway, “Abner Snopes” and its ever-developing list of derivatives rolls off the tongue in a way that the other names did not. So done deal. He can go by just Abner, or Little Abner, or Little Abner the Professional Mattress Tester, or Snopes, or Snopey, or Snopes-dot-com, or My Little Fact Checker. Snope-meister? Abby Normal? Have at it, my friends. The possibilities are endless.

The Naming of Cats by T. S. Eliot – Poems | Academy of American Poets