Nibs, Nibbing, Nib the Cat. He’d answer to any and all of these and, I dare say, several more besides. Just so long as the calling of the name was accompanied by sufficiently assertive vocals and the rattling and clattering of spoon on dish, sure sign of scoff on its way!
“Nibbins” — reformed witch’s cat and feline hero from long ago childhood tale, The Midnight Folk — appeared to suit. We liked it. He appeared not to mind. So it stuck: as family name, lucky name, if not that ineffable secretive name that, as is well known no human will ever discover.
Though there was nothing lucky or auspicious about Nibbins’ arrival under our roof.
We were first alerted to the existence — and sorry plight — of this creature in a series of ever more frantic phone calls from a friend attempting to balance feline care with working abroad for half the year. A long, complicated story ensued: how she had rescued him from the street when her life had been rather less hectic. How she had instantly fallen for this middle-aged and somewhat bedraggled grey gentleman. And now, she too was failing him!
“Cat Protection?”, I suggested gently. But she wasn’t having it. In vain I explained the life of luxury he might expect in one of their foster homes. Yet, no. Nibbins had been taken in and then abandoned on her watch and she felt guilty with a capital G. He was now HER baby and she…
