If you hadn’t noticed it in the photos you might have guessed from the name that I arrived in this world decorated with stripes. I’ve still got stripes in fact and expect to stay that way for life. I’m very proud of my stripes. I think they are elegant, suave and sophisticated. Such striped perfection is anything but common despite human prejudice: tabby cat, common moggy......who do they think they are referring to? Me?
Not me.
In French I am Le Tigré. Now that’s a moniker with more than a nod to my big orange cousins. F was learning French around the time I adopted them and referred to me over the weeks that I spent checking out their garden and house as Le Tigré. Now here, I thought, is a human that acknowledges my status, respects and understands my cool charm, my refined chic, my lithe and sinuous grace. (*Note from the secretary:Mr B tells me he did the ‘eyes’ things like the cat in Shrek.)
Imagine my dismay to discover on moving in that they decided I need a name, “...as opposed to a description” she said, and they turned Le Tigré into plain ol’ Tigger. It ain’t common I tell you; it’s just a human thing this naming business. The more familiar they get the more the name morphs: Mr T – is OK, Wigger Woo – is not. Moosh is just plain weird, and oi usually means I am in some kind of trouble.
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