A cat named Jaguar

Our cat is named Jaguar - I wanted to name her Smudge, but one of the disadvantageous of having a creative and stubborn family is that everyone had their own idea as to what her name should be and they were all dismissive of mine. So the names went into a battered black fedora and mine lost out.

Sixteen years with a name like Jaguar has taken its toll on the cat who developed into a bossy, high-handed (high-pawed just doesn't have the same connotations) huntress. A spayed tortoise-shell cat, unmellowed by motherhood, she is still a formidable mouser after all these years. I am sorry to have to tell you that she also kills birds, at least she eats what she catches, leaving the remnants where someone is sure to step on them. All that activity has helped her keep her kittenish figure - in fact the vet thought she was only six at her yearly check up.

If she were only marginally larger she would hunt down and devour our poor dog, who, due to his lack of seniority, has been in her thrall since puppyhood. Hobbes is a big, furry beast who barks ferociously at all who stand in our foyer, but little Jag can still terrorize him just by sitting nonchalantly in a doorway he wants to pass through, say to get a bite to eat. I have happened upon this scene numerous times. Hobbes frozen in fear watching the cat with the whites of his eyes showing, while Jag sits pretending that her sole purpose in taking up the doorway is to thoroughly wash herself. As soon as I arrive Hobbes' gaze shifts to me piteously pleading for deliverance from his formidable dominatrix.

Jag is her nickname, and this too has had a less than desirable impact on her character. Like the sleek, expensive car she is imperious and assumes we humans are there to cater to her every whim. This includes being fed at the crack of dawn, a fact she unhesitatingly reminds us of as soon as she hears that shift in breathing that means we are close to waking. Most mornings I am greeted by her increasingly querulous yowling.

Another drawback to being named after a finely tuned racing car, is that, though very affectionate, she can only tolerate being petted for limited amounts of time before her refined nervous system goes into overdrive and she lashes out by biting the hand that pets.

Despite these flaws, which have gotten worse as she ages - a fact I take note of as I approach old age myself, she is unstinting generous with herself when I most need solace. I am positive that had we named her Smudge, she would've developed into a kindly queen mother-ish sort instead of the fierce despot she has become.