What’s In a Name?

While on a La Femme Nikita jag, in 1992 we learned of a 2-week-old kitten dying from an upper-respiratory infection. Suckers for a sob story, we had her brought to our home and, though it was touch-and-go for several days, she pulled through. We began planning for her adoption. Living “on the road,” there was absolutely no way we could keep her. No. Way. We were used to this. Yes, it’s always hard to say good-bye, but at least we get to have them for a while, and then watch them ride off into the sunset. We would have her for another couple of months, and were thrilled.

Already, we could tell she was going to be one very interesting adult. Every cat assumes it’s smarter than we humans, but it takes a special cat to honestly and sincerely believe she’s also bigger. And leave it to a runt to pull that off with aplomb. How could we not be charmed? Convinced that, had La Femme Nikita known love and “emotional security” as a child she would not have become an assassin, we named this spoiled little princess “Nikita.” Yup! We’d “show everyone how it’s done.”

Her health regained, Nikita blossomed into a full-fledged terror [as kittens are wont to do], and amused us, no end. Though so small she still spent most of her time peeking out from my turtleneck, when on foot, she managed to shadow us around the grounds. Soon, she was hunting us, with every intention of bringing us down. She cracked. us. up…

When she was two months old, we didn’t want to, but we had to start looking for “perfect parents.” Figured we’d start with our landlords, when next we paid the rent — on the most fabulous place, ever! We had the attic apartment in a 100+ year-old Victorian, on the side of a mountain covered with redwoods. It was the oldest estate in Marin County, deer roamed acres of terraced gardens, we had apple trees and blackberry bushes and solitude, but were only a ten-minute walk from downtown San Rafael. Two huge though empty mansions, several cottages more quaint than the Geneva Conventions, all at the tail-end of a dead-end road, and we had it almost to ourselves. The landlords kept an office downstairs, trusted us to keep an eye on things…it was a little slice of Heaven.

First of the month rolls around, I hear someone in the office, and take the rent check downstairs. As is usual in late Spring, every window is open, and I see the daughter at her desk. I wave to her, check in hand, she waves me in, we begin to chat. Almost immediately, her eyes are focused beyond me and her mouth is agape. I turn to look, but can only see Bro and Nikita playing in the garden. Are they in danger? “What’s wrong?!” She’s too stunned to speak. “What’s wrong?!? What are you looking at?!” She stutters, “he…he…he can touch that cat?!”

“Nikita? That’s the kitten I was telling you about, last month. Why are you so surprised?”

“You can touch that cat, too?!?”

“I don’t understand. Do you think you know her?”

“She comes in through the window, every morning!”

“Nikita?! Are you sure we’re talking about the same cat? She’s only been here for about six weeks, and I do let her out on the balcony every morning, but — I don’t think she could get all the way down here and through the window. We have to be talking about two different cats.”

“I know that cat…that is the cat. You can touch her?!”

“What does she do when she comes down here. You sound terrified, but she’s two months old, and teenier than tiny! We can’t be talking about the same cat! Can we? What does she do?”

“Anything she wants.” [I laugh.] “Seriously! She comes down here, every morning, and she won’t let me use my desk or the photocopier.”

I’m cracking up, now. “Oh, come on. She’s a pocket pussy! And she’s so sweet!! I’m telling you, we have to be talking about two different cats.”

“No. That’s the cat. She comes in here every morning, she jumps up on my desk, and she hisses at me. I try to get my files out of the drawer, and I work in the kitchen. She takes things out of my purse and hides them. She ran off with my keys the other day and it took me two hours to find them.”

“Oh, my God, this is terrible! I’m still having trouble believing we’re talking about the same cat, because she’s just a sweetheart, but. If we are talking about the same cat, why don’t you stop her?!”

“She scares me!”

By this time, Bro’s in on the conversation [Nikita is watching from his shoulder], and although I’m interpreting exactly what’s being said [he's deaf], he’s not getting it. And he’s worried. “A really mean cat keeps coming in here and attacking her? That’s bad! We have to start keeping Nikita inside so she doesn’t get hurt!!”

“No, Bro. She says Nikita is the mean cat who keeps coming in here and attacking her. And stealing her keys! And not letting her use her desk!”

“That cat could hurt Nikita. She’s not going outside, any more.”

“Okay, one more time. Nikita is mean. Nikita is — oh, my God. Nikita is an assassin!!!”

Now Bro’s cracking up. This simply does not compute. “Nikita is mean. Teeny-tiny, cute, sweet baby Nikita [kiss.kiss.kiss.kiss.kiss] won’t let her use her desk.” He’s not buyin’ it. But we decide not to ask her if she’d like a kitten…

The next day, I’m grazing in the blackberry patch when I hear a blood-curdling scream. It’s a man’s voice, and it’s coming from our foyer. What the…I race toward the door in time to see the DHL man exiting to the porch, and his crisp, white shirt is covered with blood. “When did you get a cat?!” You have got to be kidding me.

He was covered with deep scratches, and I began apologizing profusely, but he cut me off. “No, no, no…it’s my fault. I saw your door open, and figured I’d just leave this on your desk. I shouldn’t have entered your apartment. It’s my fault.”

Bro and I were stunned. And appalled. This was not good. How were we ever going to find her a home? There was now no denying that she had her peccadillos. Okay, so it would have to be someone “special.” Because we could not and would not keep her. Period. End of story. Cats don’t have passports, and we never tarry.

That very week, her generous nature was also revealed. She brought me a diamond bracelet and a ruby ring, and when I heard one of the neighbors yelling, “who the hell took my allen wrench,” it was clear she was shopping for Bro, too. We quickly found rightful owners and returned all of our gifts, but they kept coming. Luckily, the neighbors were both amused and inspired to secure their valuables.

After watching her stalk and terrorize two friends the size of Hulk Hogan, we realized she wasn’t going anywhere. When she brought home a six-foot-long rattlesnake — its “neck” between her teeth, and its fangs clamped onto her collar — we realized that we had to go somewhere. We would never be able to keep her inside [and us sane] were we to remain in her stomping grounds. And that’s when we left California.

She’s pwned us, ever since, and is known [from coast to coast] as That Bitch, Nikita…

.