They Call Him “The Chicken”

Back in September, I brought home an eight week old kitten on a Saturday afternoon. That evening, I named him Othello, only because a Shakespearian name suited him well.

Sam liked the name fine, though calling Othello by it never came natural. Within his first week at the Agsar-Biddlecombe residence, Othello had a nickname. He looks like a tiny baby chicken, Sam would tease. Baby Chicken became The Chicken. In time, The Chicken became Chicken.

Tonight, all was well in the Agsar-Biddlecombe apartment. I was nursing the end of a cold, ate two ice cream bars and made an excellent soup. Sam came home early from work. The Beverly Hills housewives were getting along in Hawaii, and I decided to comb Othello and give him a flea treatment.

Ten minutes later, he was drooling all over the place. To say I panicked would be an understatement. Sam braved the kitten’s claws and tried to rinse off the flea medicine, while I called around to find an emergency clinic open at 10 at night. I couldn’t speak correctly, jumbling my words, losing my train of thought, maybe even stuttering a little. Before too long, I swaddled my twitching kitten in a fuzzy blanket, ready to face the coldest winter night in Florida this year.

At the clinic, Sam filled out the intake papers while I held Othello in my lap. I looked over and saw

Name: Chicken

Age: 6 months

Breed: Siamese Mix

Color: Seal Point

In many cultures older and wiser than ours, names aren’t given immediately at birth. Or, names are given later in life, when an event of true significance worthy of a new identity takes place.

Two hours, and $200 we didn’t have later, the kitten is sleeping peacefully in bed. From this day forward, he shall be known as Chicken.