Author: meerkatkit

Part 1 (scroll down for Part 2)

Kit and I recently mounted an expedition into the bowels of the fridge. Me because it had a decidedly murky air about it, and I intended to clean it; him as a search party for his last Easter Egg that he believed had become separated from the main group, and got lost in there.

I believed his egg was very unlikely to turn up, but that was because I had inside information, being that I had eaten it, thinking he could not possibly finish all the eggs he had received, and he wouldn’t notice.

It had quickly become apparent that I had underestimated Kit on two counts.

Firstly, according to a Timetable he had written, he felt did have the capacity to polish off the eggs, provided he remained disciplined, and didn’t let anything else, like vegetables or bath time, get in the way. (I confiscated The Timetable when I found it hidden My Partner’s guitar, along with three picks two raisins and a dead bee.)

Secondly, I was under the misapprehension that he did not have the capacity to count as high as the number of eggs he had received. Wrong again! Kit had counted his eggs accurately, and sadly, one remained unaccounted for. His Treacherous Mother remained silent.

During my Cleaning Frenzy, I identified a piece of green slime that had once belonged to a cucumber, hidden underneath a wilted lettuce leaf. This gave me a Good Idea.

A few months back, I acquired a cactus, Spike Milligan. Suspecting that he needed plant food, I scooped up the contents of the bottom of the vegetable bin, and made him a delectable dinner of compost. My intention was primarily waste minimisation. But within a week, he had started to grow!

Soon, he had outgrown his little plastic pot. So, I took Kit to the garden centre to buy a new pot for Spike. Kit enjoys an outing, but he does prefer to be the reason for it.

“Can I have a new pot, too?” he asked.

“How would you walk around with both legs and your tail stuck in a pot?” I replied. He went into a deep sulk for the next minute and a half, after which he got bored, and hurried off to undertake a thorough investigation of the topsoil.

Upon our return, I left Spike on the balcony ledge to catch some rays and went inside.

Suddenly, I heard an anguished squeak from the balcony!

Part 2

Racing to the balcony, I left my coordination, dignity and a trail of destruction behind me, like a dog in a cone collar at dinner time. Kit staggered through the doorway, forlornly holding up two paws covered with tiny puncture wounds. (I had a few, myself from unexpected encounters with furniture edges. You always seem to have just the right amount of furniture until you are in a hurry, when it suddenly starts to seem awfully crowded!)

“Spike did it!” Kit cried, “He was going to jump off the balcony. I tried to save him, but he spiked me.”

I comforted Kit, and went to fetch The First Aid Kit. It is filled with fun stuff to play with when his parents aren’t looking, like needles, scissors and all manner of things that get stuck in your fur or up your bum!

Kit informed me that it is named after him, rather than the other way around. Quite why he imagines anyone would name their offspring after a collection of tablets, ointments and wound dressings is anybody’s guess. When I tried to tell him about synonyms, he said, “I love Synonym Buns,” so I gave up.

I sat him down and tended to one paw at a time, trying to distract him with Disney sticking plasters. This was completely ineffectual,  as he still bit me when it hurt!

In truth, I felt his story was about as convincing as a Drag Queen with a beard. “What made you think that Spike was going to jump?” I asked.

“He’s standing right on the edge of the ledge! You told me if I see someone doing that I should ask them if they are ok, in case they want to jump,” Kit explained.

“Did you ask Spike if he was ok?” I enquired.

“Of course I didn’t! He’s just a plant. Plants can’t talk.”

“In case you had forgotten, they can’t jump either,” I remarked casually, “Are you sure you didn’t push him just a tiny bit?” I asked gently.

“Maybe,” he admitted, “You’ve been Pampering him like a Princess, and ignoring me all day. Spike Milligan gets a new pot, Spike Milligan gets to sunbathe, Spike Milligan gets a special dinner!”

“Well, how about I make a special dinner just for you?” I asked him.

“No thanks!” he exclaimed, quickly adding, “I don’t like compost.”

“Don’t worry,” I laughed,  “No compost. What would you like?”

“Can I please have Land Prawns?” Kit asked excitedly, using his name for scorpions, a meerkat delicacy.

And so it was that later on, we sat down to a dinner of Land Prawns, Normal Prawns and Synonym Buns. Spike Milligan was not invited.

One fine November day, I was sitting at the table minding my own business when Kit did his best to burst into the room (a rather Herculean feat given his size compared to the size of the door!) He righted himself, assumed a dignified pose, and declared that I was in Big Trouble! With him.

“It has been brought to my attention,” he said haughtily, “That the name Kit just means ‘baby meerkat.’ Firstly, I am nearly four years old; I ought to be just Meerkat by now! And thirdly [his numbers go a bit random when he gets excited], why couldn’t you be bothered to think of a proper name for me?! Parents are supposed to have arguments about what to call their kids. You did when we were naming your cactus! You love that Spike Milligan more than you love me!” He started sobbing theatrically into his paw.

“Oh dear! Poor Kitten,” I said soothingly. “You had better sit down and let me tell you the real story behind your name.”

“It had better be good! And don’t call me Kitten,” he sniffed grudgingly. So I began.

“Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a girl named Kathleen. She had five brothers (poor thing). Her mother thought that Kathleen was the most beautiful girls’ name in the whole world, so she bestowed that name upon her only daughter.

But Kathleen disagreed. She thought it sounded indecisive, like a dithering halfwit of a name that wanted to be Katherine, but halfway through changed its mind to Eileen. She didn’t like it at all. By the time she was a teenager, she had begun to insist on being called, Kit.

When Kit grew up she had a daughter, who she named Karen. Karen is my mother. So that means that Kit was?”

“Your great-great-big-aunty-twenty-oneteen-times-removed on your mother’s best side?” Kit guessed.

“Close!” I said kindly, “Kit was…. my grandmother!”

“That’s what I meant,” said Kit.

“She died a few years before you were born at the ripe old age of 99 and three quarters (a fact which would have irritated her a great deal, had she not been dead). But I loved her very much, and I thought it would be an honour for you to be named after her.”

“Hmph!” said Kit. “You named me after a girl!” And he stomped off to sulk.

I called after him “Aren’t you lucky we didn’t name you Kathleen?”