. . . which was just an abbreviation for mon petit chat, she was with me for 17 years . . . but . . . now we have Fireball . . . not much on a creative name . . . he was named by the fireman that saved him at the Victorian house I previously lived in.

This house had cats . . . a lot of them . . . that found some unknown entrance into the walls and spaces between floors. Edgar Allan Poe wouldn't have stood a chance here. Every night you could hear one or more padding along the walls or under a floor . . . a bit unnerving at times . . . but we never did have a mouse problem . . . fair exchange. One of the strays had given birth to kittens between floors . . . and that became very noisy. After managing to locate where the litter was I pulled up flooring to get them out and found homes for them . . . all except one, who ended up on the third floor roof one night . . . my younger son hearing its distress cries said "Mom, the fire department rescues cats." Tough moment . . . you really don't think they do, especially if you live downtown where there's a whole lot more going on than a stranded kitten and it's a snowy night . . . but . . . you can't let a child down . . . "Hello . . . ummmmm . . . do you still rescue cats?" As it turns out it was a slow night, doing this type of rescue where I was living at the time counted as "practice" . . . so out came the hook and ladder truck! One long ladder to reach the third floor roof and a hook to grab the kitten out of the rain gutter. Walking up to me the fireman pulled out a little black kitten and said, "Here's Fireball. I named him for you." The little crowd that had gathered gave a cheer, my sons had big smiles and I had a kitten . . . on occasion the boys do call him "William" saying it fits him better . . . Fireball doesn't care as long as he gets fed . . .