Rascal’s Name

I’m reading a book, when all of a sudden my mom comes upstairs and asks me the most random question of all: “Do you want to buy another cat?”

And me being me says, “Yes.”

So now I am staring at fifteen cats, all of them asleep except . . .

“That one.” I breathe, taking him in. He’s pure black with green eyes. And my mom agrees.

The pet store says that his name is Rascal, which means mischievous. I can’t see how this fluffball could be a rascal. He needs a new name. But none of them are right. Not Star, or Midnight, or Shadow. So what?” I ask my mom.

“Sleep on it,” she says.

So I do. I toss and turn all night though, thinking of names until I fall asleep.

“Crash! Whoosh! Meow!”

“Rascal’s dying!” I scream out loud, jerked from sleep. I rush downstairs, my parents following close behind. And that’s where I see it, Three pans have been knocked from the drying mat. Our touch sink has been turned on, and the wash basin is overturned. And sitting in the middle of it, licking the sink for food, is our new cat.

I walk up to the sink, seeing his pure black fur. He looks up to me and stretches a paw out.

“Rascal,” I say. And now I know his name. “Rascal.”