Yesterday we went and picked up our new kitten. My mum arranged it for Harry's birthday, despite my insistence we wanted to wait a while following the death of our beloved Wilson.
But apparently what I say means jack shit to her. And in this case I am pleased. I am besotted.
This baby was born in a manger. As in a stable. It is the offspring of the stable cat of a Thoroughbred Racing facility. The mum is the resident mouse chaser and the dad was a local Lothario who has never been spotted again. So our kitten is a total bastard which means it is likely to be smart and not have to have major surgery to correct extreme inter-breeding deformities later down the track.
So initially, as it was born in a stable I wanted to call him Jesus. But then I was not comfortable with the likely chance I would have to stand on the back veranda yelling JESUS.... JESUS! when it was time for his dinner.
So then Harry came up with Wally. He wanted a little tag on his collar that read Where's Wally along with our phone number. I thought this was genius.
But then a few days later he changed his mind to Lewis. God knows where it came from. And that was fine with me until I was watching Chelsea Lately and it hit me.
I asked Harry what he thought of the name Chuy and he loved it! Because he thought it was after this.
And most other (stupid) people that do not watch Chelsea Lately think he is named after this.
So we were left with Chuy Lewis. And it has stuck. And as soon as he stops falling over when he runs, I am going to place him on a training program to eradicate WoogsWorld of all Indian Mynah birds. Will keep you posted on his progress.
