(In case you’re coming to this video from somewhere other than the video that contains part one of this story, here’s a quick rundown: I had to rename my kitty Japurri Purrker since Jabari Parker was no longer on the Bucks. After struggling to come up with a new name for him, I learn that my cute Latina neighbor also has named her cat after a celebrity. She invites me into her apartment, ostensibly so that our cats can meet each other.)
I walk into my neighbor’s apartment. It looks a lot like mine from a layout perspective, but it has more of a homey feel. I have bare walls and basic furniture; this woman has paintings everywhere and the furniture is varied and colorful.
Japurri steps cautiously out of his cat-carrier when I open its door. He sniffs the air urgently, clearly aware that another cat lives in the residence. Just at that moment, Jennipurr Meowpez emerges from the bedroom to investigate the new arrivals. She sees Japurri and stops in her tracks. They stare at each other warily.
“She’s never seen a boy cat before,” the Latina comments, and again I am annoyed that I don’t know her name. I look around for anything, maybe a stray piece of mail or something, that will tell me her name, but I can’t find one. All I know is the name of her cat.
“Japurri’s in the same situation,” I reply. “He got a ballsectomy when he was little, though, so I don’t even know if he likes girl cats or not.” As if proving my words wrong, he takes a tentative step towards Jennipurr, then another, then some more, until they are a foot away from each other. I ready myself to step in and separate them if they start fighting.
They don’t fight. Instead, Jennipurr takes the opportunity to walk to the other side of Japurri and start sniffing his rear end. Japurri, not liking the tickle of whiskers on his back legs, hops up on the arm of the couch, where he receives his first-ever ear scritches from a hand other than my own. Jennipurr momentarily looks sad that the inter-cat bonding moment was broken, then flops over on her side and begins cleaning her paws.
“I just don’t know what I’m gonna name him,” I say as Japurri purrs and rubs his cheeks against the woman’s hand. “The Bucks should have signed some players with more flexible names.”
“Hey, sit down, we’ll figure this out,” my unnamed neighbor says, scooting over on the couch to make room for me. She pulls out her laptop and brings up the Wikipedia article for the Bucks as I sit down next to her. Her behavior doesn’t seem overly flirty, but I remain on guard, remembering my vow to never again give a woman the keys to my heart.
She scans down the list of names, and I can see her reaching the same conclusion that I had made: there is simply no better Bucks-themed name for a cat than Japurri Purrker. “We could do ‘Cat Pawnaughton’,” she suggests half-heartedly. “Or ‘Purrsan Ilyasova’.”
“I already came up with that one.” I reply, telling myself that I’m imagining things when she shifts over just enough that our legs are touching. “I’d rather do one where both the first and last names are transformed by puns. Cat Pawnaughton is decent, I guess.”
My neighbor suddenly closes her laptop and sets it aside, even though I don’t believe that we were done with the assigned task. Now I am on full alert. I try to avoid looking directly at her, but I can’t help it, and when I do, she’s staring at me with a very intense look on her face. “I’ve got something else we could do,” she says. I’m pretty sure I know what she’s talking about, and my resolve is crumbling. Our faces get closer together.
Suddenly, we’re interrupted by a sound that’s familiar to both of us. Japurri is making the wet heaving sounds that can only mean one thing: a hairball is imminent. “No, Japurri!” I yell. “Not on her couch!” His back is arched, his mouth his open, and he’s ready to deposit a slimy pile of sludge right on the arm of the sofa. I grab Japurri around the stomach with one hand and run towards the door with him under my arm, knowing that it takes him a while to produce; if I move fast, I can get him to my apartment before disaster strikes.
Without saying goodbye to my neighbor, I rip open the door and sprint down the stairs, leaving the cat-carrier behind. Japurri is still heaving. However, when I run into my apartment and drop him in the bathtub, he just sits there, looking at me. The heaving has stopped without him having produced so much as a drop of puke.
Understanding comes to me. “Thanks for getting me out of there,” I tell Japurri. “That was clutch.” I pick him up and carry him to his kitty bed. “You know, after all that, maybe I won’t rename you. I think you’re always going to be Japurri Purrker.” When I put him down, he doesn’t curl up and sleep like I expect; instead, he trots to the kitchen. Soon, he returns with a foil-wrapped package of Pop-Tarts which he drops at my feet.
“I love you Japurri,” I say with gratitude. “You’re the best little kitty.”
Japurri purrs in agreement.