The cat of my youth was a brindle tabby named Napoleon, who sometimes sat on my bed watching me while I slept.
I knew a cat near the end of its life who sat at the top of the stairs staring into the basement's blackness.
Several years ago, a neighbor and devout PETA member, skipped out on her rent, leaving behind a black long hair cat and its litter of kittens. I named it Lucky.
A friend's domestic short hair, Ethyl, got sick one night while sitting on my lap, and had the courtesy to jump onto the floor before it puked.