My husband and I many years ago got a beautiful gray cat from his sister.  The cat was small and had come to her house looking for food.  After some coaxing, she got it to a place where she could catch it, and we took it home.  And named him Boaz.

We thought Boaz should have a little companion and were delighted to hear about some kittens being born a couple of blocks over at a neighbor’s (that was before they became prolific; our little town  now has millions) (really) (I’m not exaggerating).  We were excited to choose Bo’s new companion kitty.  After careful consideration, my husband decided on a female that we were going to name Ruth for the wonderful love story in the Old Testament about Boaz and Ruth.  Off we went, Ruth in tow, to introduce the two.  And they got along well, although Ruth seemed to like to wonder a little more than she should (outside cats).

The big day came for Ruth to go to the vet for her big prespay check-up.  I, the proud cat mommy of Ruth, got her out of the carrier and put the little, well-behaved darling on the table.  (I found out later they are so well-behaved because they have been freaked out by the carrier.)  (Or so the vet said.)  After checking Ruth very well, and checking her a second time, he looked at Ruth and frowned.  I thought, “Oh, no.  Something’s wrong with Ruth.”

The vet looked at me, as he lovingly held Ruth, (I was sure by this time she was almost dead) then he looked back at Ruth and said, “What did you say you named your cat?”

“Ruth,” I said.

He looked at me and smiled and said, “Well, you better start calling him Babe Ruth.”

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