We call him Lance Bass because he's always 'n the damn sink.
Actually his name is Mr. Bonkers.
I didn't name him that. He used to belong to our next door neighbor, but he fell in love with my little dog, the Late Great Milo, and started mooning around. He was skinny and wormy and fleabitten, with his hips and ribs sticking out, but he was sweet, and I started feeding him and letting him hang around the kitchen with Milo. He'd always try to sneak upstairs but I wouldn't let him.
I called him "Kitty" or "the cat," but Gideon -- who was 17 at the time -- objected: "He needs a real name, Mom."
"So name him," I said. I didn't really want a cat.
Gideon dubbed him Mr. Bonkers, after the cat in That 70s Show
that gets run over. In December 2005 we officially adopted him, got him wormed and fixed and had various wounds of his stitched up, and now he looks more like a big, soft Tony Soprano than a slatty stray. He's incredibly sweet and very quirky and likes to be hugged tight like a football, poops outside and scratches on a log in the back yard and is just the best cat in the universe. And people always smile a little when they learn his name.