Now, about Vindaloo (I know, I'm doing this backwards-- you'd think I'd start with the older cat first, but you'd be wrong.). A few years ago I volunteered for a short while to teach English to some Somali immigrants in Indianapolis. Despite years of second language acquisition theory study and enough Swahili to communicate with the husband, I proved lousy at this, and on my second try, after putting up with me for a while they politely suggested that it was time for the wife to begin making dinner (at 2pm) and could I please go. So I went, feeling like the biggest loser ever, to hang around in their lawn until my husband, who had gone off to work in a coffee shop during my planned hour of tutoring, came back to pick me up. There was a small herd of kids next door who were luckily very friendly and not too citical of my loitering on the curb, and so I discussed life with them for a while. They invited me over to their place to wait on my ride. They had kittens. Lots and lots of kittens, and they were looking to get rid of them, so when their mother got home, and my philosopher showed up, we had more general discussion of the excess kitten issue, and it was agreed that we would pick one out, and come back in a few weeks when it was old enough to remove.
We went back as planned, and acquired a kitten. I think it was not actually the kitten we had initially chosen, but hey, it was still a kitten. Good enough. She meowed her fool head off all the way home, so we decided to call her Vindaloo for her spiciness. Also because Vinda Lou sounded like it could be a good Southern name.
She lived in the guest bathroom for a few days, acclimating to her new digs. When we finally let her out to meet Ballyhoo, this is how it went:
He was very polite and cautious, and kept his distance so as not to alarm the kitten. Vindaloo, on the other hand, puffed up like a fluffy balloon, scuttled sideways, and hissed. Ballyhoo took this with his usual good humour. Before long, they were (and continue to be) best pals.