For the sake of science, answer the following to the best of your ability.
Would you rather be named after:
- Your grandma
- Your favorite Hobbit
- A living legend with the power to save the planet
(You are ineligible for this poll if they all happen to be the same individual.)
We all know that cats humor our name selection, then go on to call each other by their real names. We all know that we will never know these names. They are more majestic than “Shaquille” and jauntier than “Ferlinghetti.” They are funnier than “Eugene Buddle-Lubbers” and more solemn than “Solomon.”
There is not a cat in the history of the Earth who has ever referred to herself as “Kitty” or “Tigger,” although there are credible reports of an “Imperial Tapioca IV.”
But Tabby’s Place is unique by every measure, and today we bear a rare honor.
We host the only cat whose human name and feline name are one and the same.
Behold the venerable Pol.
If your first response is, “I wish he could behold me back,” fret not. Microophalmia may have taken his eyes, but nothing could steal Pol’s sight. Pol has eight thousand senses. Pol has a goal of getting eight thousand autographs in his People Who Adore Me book (have you signed his P.W.A.M. yet?). Pol does not need visual confirmation that life is a full-fat hootenanny of hope.
On the list of Entities Jauntier than Ferlinghetti, Pol tops toddlers, blue jays, and men who insist you call them “Kev, not Kevin.” Pol is popcorn and electricity. Pol is candied ginger and carbonation. Pol is the biggest bubble you ever blew and the uproarious laughter after it bursts. Pol is a backwards baseball cap and a cat committed to moving forward with complete confidence.
If your second response is, “Haven’t I seen this cat before?”, your vision is beginning to clear.
“Pol” is very close to “Pól,” the Irish form for “Paul.” Pol would get along famously with Paul Rudd, Paul Newman, and that uncle who taught you to put black olives on all ten fingers at Thanksgiving. But Pol was named for no Paul.
Pol lives with diabetes, the way you live with a temporary shortage of tater tots, or the gap between Mumford and Sons albums. He would prefer that his blood glucose behaved, and he would have chosen a pancreas that didn’t forget its lines. But Pol knows that every injection and inconvenience is temporary, while the party is forever. Pol knows he lives in a world where people kiss his forehead, and people in boardrooms are inventing new flavors of squeeze-poultry as we speak, and somewhere Mr. T is pitying some fool who is not Pol.
Pol also knows what you’ve figured out by now.
He was named for Polly.
We will never know if their family trees hold hands underground, but it’s possible. Pol bears more than a passing resemblance to the lithe legend we all love. The ballet body type has little to do with it. The tabby-and-white paint job is the least of it. The absent eyes are less than the least of it.
The presence of love is the name of the game.
Polly was the pioneer, beloved in Beirut and borne across the ocean to our arms. The angels of Animals Lebanon adored her. They miss her. They hold our hands across the miles as we love her together.
When Polly’s saviors met a second cat too perfect for sight, they honored him in the best possible way. They named him for his forerunner.
This is the point at which I’m going to give you a chance to change your poll answer. Would you rather be named for:
- Your grandma
- Your favorite Hobbit
- A living legend with the power to save the planet
- Someone utterly, unconditionally loved
As Pol knows, #4 is always #3.
As you can see, a good name can see you everywhere you need to go.