The Yackstar has to be nearly twelve. I should know, but I don’t, and each time I wonder, I have to count. That wouldn’t be easy either, but the day I use is the one I met with the RTR’s principal. He was going to be in the first grade, and I was going to enroll him in our neighborhood school. It was April Fool’s Day and we’d just had to put our dear old cat Holis down.
You don’t forget things like that.
Her name isn’t really the Yackstar. It’s Precious, but you’d never know that because in much the same way that our dog’s name changes, hers does as well. But I only really called her the Yackstar when I was referring to her and her proclivity for yacking on the rug near the laundry room, which is now beyond all possible methods of repair.
Right now, I call her Fresh Nuts. Yes, I know she’s a female, and no, she’s not crazy. It’s more of a deriviative: Precious, Freshness, Fresh Nuts.
Probably not, but I think it’s hilarious.
But when she’s finally decided to venture outside in what seems like weeks, and then decides to sneak into the cranky neighbor’s yard, and then yeowl loudly about not being able to figure out how to get back into our patio, I don’t think it’s hilarious at all.
There’s no way I’m hissing, “Here Fresh Nuts! Here, kittakittakitta. Heeeeeeeerrrrrrreeeeeee Fresh Nuts!” No. I have to use her proper name so when the cranky neighbor slams not one, but two of his windows at 11:30pm even though I’m barely making a sound, he won’t think I’m being derogatory.
She slept outside all night, and when I hissed over at her the next morning, she ran from the bushes sporting spider webs and dried leaves, yeowling to get through the fence. Even the guaranteed to get her complete and undivided attention sound of a catfood can being tantilizingly opened and the droolworthy aroma of Friskies Turkey & cheese Dinner In Gravy waved under her nose couldn’t inspire her to remember how to squeeze through the fence.
So I left her there.