I have a cat named Toots.  No, not toots, like what a train does.  Toots, as in Toot-sie.  I used to write her name when we went to the vet, but after a few times of having my cat’s name pronounced like a gaseous cloud, I quit writing Toots on the paper.  Now I write Tootsie—even though that isn’t really her name.

I named Toots—oddly enough—after a dog that bit me when I was a teen-ager.  I was riding my bike, and a dog ran out, grabbing my leg in its teeth.  As I shook my leg furiously, trying to get the dog to release me, I heard someone shouting, “Toots!  No, Toots!”  I thought to myself how funny it was to have a huge dog mauling my leg, and have its name be something like Toots.  And I never forgot the name.

My Toots isn’t a Black Labrador.  She’s an exceptionally tiny, hugely furry gray kitty, who is usually very sweet.  She’s not the brightest bulb in the basket, but that’s okay.  She eats what I feed her, and she goes to the bathroom outside.

 And not once has she bitten my leg.