I have a little black & white kitty, named “Violet,” who usually hides under the bed whenever she hears humans stomping around.
Her skittishness eventually trained my daughter Brontë to walk softly and approach gently, which made Brontë the only other person Violet doesn’t fear.
Delighted with her newfound cat-enchantment skills, Brontë asked me one day how Violet got her name.
“Well, I was thinking about naming YOU ‘Violet,’ but Daddy didn’t like it,” I told her.
“Why? Violet is a great name!”
“I don’t know, but we had to agree. He didn’t like Violet or Zelda or Brynn and he figured all the kids would call you “Salami” if we named you “Salome.”
“That’s probably true,” she nodded.
“Yeah, he was really good at figuring out all the ways kids could butcher potential names. But I ended up naming the cat “Violet” instead.”
The tale made an impression on Brontë. Lately, she’s been insisting she has an evil twin named “Violet,” running around town.
Whether she’s picturing a parallel universe in which she’s named “Violet” or establishing a future fall guy for some developing nefarious plans, I’m still not sure…