According to T.S. Eliot, all cats have three names: the common one used around the house, then a unique and particular name which belongs to no other, and lastly a self-secret name. If the self-secret name is NOT unique (Eliot was not clear on this point), I may have found out Stormy’s. (‘The Naming of Cats’ by T.S. Eliot)
Based on the abuse of his “winter quarters”, I have determined that he must be calling himself Elton John. This porch cat has a heated sleeping box, but when the temps approach freezing at night, and in deference to his age, we bring Stormy inside, and set him up a space in the laundry room.
This morning his quarters look like he was entertaining Benny and the Jets along with the Hell’s Angels in there.
Henceforth, he shall also be known as Elton John, who famously destroyed hotel and motel rooms as thoroughly as Hunter S. Thompson or Keith Moon.
As I’m writing this, “Elton” seems to have shaken off the excesses of the night, and is now howling for his breakfast. I’d better bring a catnip-mimosa along with his kibble. Hair o’ the dog, you know…