Today I have a metaphysical question for you. A few months ago a new cat started wandering around my mother’s house. It was not her cat, but it kept showing up. Then it started coming in and eating out of her food bowl. But it was still not her cat. Then it started eating from her food bowl regularly. And still, it was not her cat.
Then it started allowing my mother to pet it briefly. But still it was not her cat. Then it began sleeping on her bed in the afternoons. Still not her cat. Then it allowed longer petting sessions. Then it became best friends with my mother’s other cat. Then it began hanging out on the piano. Then she gave it a name. And yet, my mother still insists it is not her cat.
Philosophers tell us that defining one’s terms is critical in any rigorous discussion, and certainly edge cases always provoke difficulties. Surely, though, somewhere in there we passed the edge and left it far behind? Perhaps at the point when our furry visitor went from having no name to being “that cat” to being TC and finally Teecee. I submit to you that Teecee is my mother’s cat, and the iron logic of this conclusion depends in no way on her desires. The cat decides, and it has made itself clear.
Anyway, that’s Teecee on the left and Tillamook on the right. They’re both good-size cats, but in this case the camera really has put on a few pounds. They aren’t that big.
YIKES! I got the wrong cats. Here are Teecee and Tillamook:
And here’s the original picture I put up. That’s Luna on the left and Tillamook on the right. Teecee isn’t quite this cuddly yet, but obviously pretty comfortable with the other cats in the house.
