I am the mother in this story, and know from personal experience there is nothing fun about the empty nest syndrome. He left home eight years ago. I should be over it by now.

I'm not.

He lives too far away for me to visit weekly, so I must comfort myself with Alexander Graham Bell's invention, the telephone. I know he's just kidding when he asks me not to phone daily.

He wanted me to call yearly. We compromised and settled on weekly.

During one of these aforementioned conversations, he casually informed me that he is the proud owner of a kitten. Apparently, his place has mice and setting traps wasn't getting rid of all of them, so he took time off work and went to the local animal shelter.

The secretary at the animal shelter told him they had about fifteen cats for adoption and to take his pick. He walked up to the first cat, petted it, and it started purring.

Nope, not that one.

He walked up to the second cat, petted it, and it, too, started purring.

Nope, not that one.

He walked up to the third cat, petted it; the cat hissed and spit and scratched his hand.

Yep, that's the one.

Unfortunately, the animal shelter had run out of adoption papers and asked him to come back the next day. He needed a cat that day, so off he went to the local pet store.

His main love for pets leans towards dogs, so I had a sneaking suspicion that I would end up with this cat once it's purpose was over. I am the keeper of his castoffs and have quite a menagerie. I am even the proud owner of a van that was bought for a hundred bucks and a case of beer. This van, of course, is not roadworthy, and next year I will plant flowers in it. Ah, such is life!

Hence, I was interested in what my (uh...er...I mean, his) new cat's name was.

"Name? Name? Who needs a name? Once the mice are gone, so is the cat," he informs me.

Now, normally I'm not a mother who interferes or offers unasked for advice, but this was too much. I couldn't keep quiet. You can't have a living creature and not give it a name.

I said as much and after minimal persuasion on my part, my son concurred.

Now, to choose a name.

We started with Fifi and Foofoo; my personal favourites.

Nothing. Nada. The cat didn't so much as blink; just sat there looking at my son.

We proceeded to try every name we could think of; from one end of the spectrum to the other. We finally ended at "Killer."

Nothing. Nada. The cat didn't move, didn't blink, not even a whisker twitched.

Exasperated, he said, "Mom, I think this cat is stupid."

"Meow."

"What did you say, son?"

"Nothing, I just called the cat stupid."

"Meow."

"Mom, the cat likes the name Stupid."

"Meow."

"Son, you're not calling your cat Stupid."

Laughing, he says, "Come here, Stupid."

"Meow. " Purr, purr, purr.

"Aw, cute little Stupid."

"Meow."

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" (me)

"Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" (son)

"Meow! Meow! Meow!" (cat)

Suddenly, my future flashed before my eyes and I had visions of me yelling out my front door, "Here, Stupid. C'mere, Stupid. Time for dinner. Here, Stupid, Stupid, Stupid."

The neighbours could assume my ex-husband is back.

Meanwhile, back at my present, I can hear my son laughing and playing with his new cat and the cat meowing and purring with her new owner.

I know I'll be up all night thinking of an alternate name and I know tomorrow I'll be breaking the one-phonecall-a-week agreement.

Until then, my immediate family consists of me, my son Steve, my dog Samantha, my cat Snowball, and my soon-to-be cat, Stupid.

Sigh...