Frank

Frank

When I lived in a house full of roomates and college students, we would often go to Flo's restaurant on Sunday mornings to treat our hangovers with biskets and gravy. One day, my roommate Doug asked if we could have a cat as a house mascot. Unable to think of a good enough objection at the moment - I tried to deflect the question with one of my own:

"What would we call him or her? Certainly, our cat needs a name, right?" I thought this would cause Doug hours or days of deep contemplation (and give me at least enough time to finish breakfast). Just then the waitress walked behind him - and yelled for the busboy.

"Frank." Doug answered my question in a heartbeat, simply echoing the waitress. So that was settled, and soon a girlfriend brought over a kitten to match the name.

Frank was black with a white shirt and shoes. We bought him a white flea collar and drew a little bow tie on the buckle with a Sharpie. Because the buckle always rotated to Frank's front. He would look like he had a little tuxedo on whenever he sat and stared at us... which was often.

Frank was my first and only cat so far. I miss him.

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