Is a name all that important?
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Phantom shows little interest in the new names his owner tries out
WHEN ANGEL, my one-eyed Siamese, joined us so many years ago, she was quick to learn how the household operated.
She was just a kitten then, no more than six months old when she walked up to me on the soi and demanded food. In my home, she soon figured out where the food was, which cats would accept her (they all did) and where to do her business.
It took much longer, though, for her to learn her name. For weeks, whenever I called “Angel” and looked at her, she would look back at me in complete incomprehension and, I think, annoyance.
I understood completely. When she lived on the soi, she had to depend on herself to survive. She had no need of a name. She already knew who she was.
Right now, with a little embarrassment, I have to tell you that plans to change Phantom’s name have not been successful. It’s true that “Phantom” doesn’t suit him, but I’m wondering if he cares.
I was hoping that the huge, elderly American shorthair boy would respond when I called him by one of the names you readers kindly sent in, perhaps one blink for “no” and two blinks for “yes”, or even a look that said “Yes. That’s me.”
Alas. He made no response at all to “Leo”, “Tiger”, “Suea”, “Rammasoon”, or “Tosakan” – not even to my personal favourite “Pharaoh”.
Then I tried calling him “Phantom”, the name he was given when he went to live with his previous owner. He didn’t respond to that one either. When I think about it, he doesn’t respond to his name, but to my voice. I could be saying anything, and he’d still meow at me.
In fact, I don’t remember him responding to his name except once, when, last year, Wild Child Manohra rushed into his private room and began screaming at him. He didn’t say anything, just pounced on her and held her down.
Manohra is three kilos; Phantom seven. She couldn’t run away. Under his weight, she couldn’t even get up. Slowly and systematically, Phantom was reaching for her throat with his teeth. He was going to kill her.
I grabbed a small mat and held it between his head and Manohra’s body, so that neither cat could see the other.
Then in what was (I hope) a calm, assertive, authoritative voice, I said: “Phantom!” The boy looked at me.
“Phantom!” I said again. “Get off that cat immediately and go to the corner.” Slowly, comprehension began to return to Phantom’s eyes.
“I’m not in any mood for a catfight,” I told him. “Phantom! Move yourself.”
And you know what? He released Manohra and walked away.
Manohra herself was not so obedient. As Phantom walked away, she thought about attacking his rear, but I still had the mat, and I used it to block her and move her towards the door.
In a few moments, the two cats, now out of sight of one another, calmed down, but I think each continues to hold an abiding dislike for the other.
A few weeks ago, I decided to use the same sort of command on Phantom again, when the boy refused to let me give him his pills. “Phantom!” I said in a calm, assertive, authoritative voice, “be cooperative. Open your mouth and take your medicine.”
And you know what? He refused. I guess the magical words only work when you’re breaking up a catfight.
I don’t know how Phantom lived when he was with his former owner, still less how the owner before that treated him.
Perhaps he’s never had to respond to a name. Just like Angel, he doesn’t need anyone to define him. He’s always known who he is.
