My name is Wilma
My name is Wilma. I was called Willem for a day. That was the day before we went to the vet. The day that I was found on the grounds of the place where my lady-human worked. It was in the Netherlands, in a small coastal town called Noordwijk where they have lots of tulip fields. That place was called Willem van den Bergh so they called me Willem, much to the dislike of my man-human. “It is too similar to my name, Wim,” he said. But that wasn't the reason it didn't stick to me.
Even now Willem seems to suit me more, it sounds more adventurous than Wilma. And I am nothing like that cavewoman on tv. But after the vet said I was about nine weeks old and only weighed ninety-nine grams, she added, “Oh yeah, and she is not a Willem.”
I think a lot. Sitting downstairs on our couch in Leeuwarden, Friesland, the Netherlands, I am mind-telling this story to my lady-human. At the moment she only writes sad poems about our other cat Prince who went to the vet a couple of months ago. Supposedly for a few pills, but he never came back.
Yet, here I am, alive and kicking. I mind-speak to my crying human; “Dude! Look at me. I make you happy, write about me. I have had many, many adventures like the cat in the book you just read.”
See, I heard my lady-human talking about how much she liked the book she had finished a few days ago. It was about this Japanese cat called Nana because his tail was in the shape of a seven, nana in Japanese. They went on a road trip. A road trip? I have been in the sky. For days and days. So come on, tell my story.
I have been around the world, all the way from The Netherlands to New Zealand with my ginger friend Sailor who sadly came back with us in a little pot. The young man Prince got to travel back with me, but now, only a few years later, he too is in a little pot. It really is up to me to tell our story.
