One time, years ago, I started making a list of all the nicknames I had for the Hobe: Orangino. Hobey Wan. Clicks. Herr Mittenspiel. Grampy. Creamsicle. Tolstoy.
I stopped after, like, 37, because it was still only a fraction of the list, because he would keep licking a plastic bag like a big weirdo no matter what I called him, because they all meant the same thing, the thing all nicknames mean, that he was known, that he was loved.
And he is, more than all his names can say.
Tags: friends orange cats