The sudden thought that I learned to name cats from my grandmother. It occurred to me--it pounced on me like a cat itself, in the form of a long-gone feline companion Grandma kept: Jezebel. The mad blue eyes, the natural haughty expression. The thin, dark tail that flicked as though she wished it would rattle like a snake's. Jezebel was a Siamese, black and burnt-marshmallow cream. I remember wanting to pet her, and being reminded that she was too good for me.

Like many a cat, Jezebel could be sweet as honeyed milk, and soft as her paw with the claws drawn in. But then, the claws do come out...

Years later, I brought home a tiny, clumsy ball of fluff whom I named Circe after the sorceress who turned all Odysseus' men to pigs. Circe and I have now been friends for 16 years, and I know that her name fits her. Lithe and beautiful even in her advancing years, the blue-gray and dusty cream Himalayan. Her own mad blue eyes are just beginning to cloud.

It is only now, thinking of Jezebel that I realize a name like Circe for her. Like a Jezebel, Circe is both sweet and wicked, resistant and irresistible. You want to hold her and stroke her silky fur--and perhaps she will let you...