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to not have to suffer the humiliation of the veterinary nurse's raised eyebrow at any subsequent visits, Mom came home and told us to name the cat, and to do it quick.

Over the following weeks, we tried several names, but none seemed to work. The cat had an extra toe, so his feet resembled mittens. He was far too dignified to be a Mittens, and yet friendly enough so Sasquatch didn't suit. He didn't answer to cow-related names, Bessy, Bossy, Daisy. It wasn't long before all appearance-related names were exhausted.

Meanwhile, we struggled to get him to take his medication. It was literally a family effort to get the banana-flavoured antibiotics down him (incidentally, he didn't take to the name Bananas, either). My brother held his front paws, I held the back. Dad pried his jaws open and Mom squirted the medicine in. When we were finished, we'd all have a few scratches, but Dad bore the brunt, having to deal with those teeth. Subsequently, his name suggestions usually included expletives and weren't at all flattering. We thought we had a winner with Jaws, but when we tried that, he gave us a disdainful look and walked away.

I guess the medication started working eventually. I don't know how, because it seemed that we ended up wearing most of it. But it must have been working, or else the cat was worried he was healing too fast and therefore on his way back outside. He began to scratch at the sore, until it became raw. So Mom tore a rag into strips and wrapped one of them around his neck, securing it with a safety pin.

Eventually he learned that he could scratch the dressing and get some relief. He'd also scratch the sofas just because, and the screen door when he wanted out. One day, Mom got so fed up with all the scratching that she yelled "For Heaven's sakes cat, if you don't stop scratching I'm going to make you into cat stew!" He stopped scratching and trotted over to where Mom was standing, and rubbed up against her legs. We had discovered his name. Stuart, Stu for short, stuck.

It took years for that sore to eventually heal, and Stu was never again a barn cat. Turns out he had more patience than Mom, and she ultimately grew resigned to having a house pet. Stu, unfortunately, died a few years ago, of old age and renal failure. He died in the house, in Mom's arms. He has paved the way for other house pets though, and through the scratches on the hardwood floors, the holes chewed in the couch cushions, and the hairs covering our favourite black sweaters, he leaves his legacy. Stu taught Mom that a dream house without a pet isn't really a home at all.

Learn more about this author, Emily Falshaw.
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