One particularly frustrating afternoon as I was brainstorming on my laptop, my massive black cat Bear decided--as cats will do--to drape all 17 of her pounds across my keyboard and smear nose jelly on my computer screen. "No Bear," I said. "Kjgfffe3 is not a business name." And I put her down on the floor.
She would have none of it.
When I returned to my laptop to type the name for the first time, I set Bear on the floor and this time she stayed. The letters looked good together: the capital "C" fit nicely beside the terminal "k" and two of the initials were the initials of my first and last name. Notoriously chic, black cats exude elegance, attitude and mystery, all of which were appropriate qualities for the kind of woman I wanted to dress. Moreover, my years rescuing cats had taught me that black cats were typically the last to be adopted, the "misfit toys" whom no one wanted. What a perfect company name for a misfit gal who restored the castoffs of fashion history into beautiful swans. The name stuck and a decade later, it still fits me like a vintage size 10.
Bear was my best friend and faithful companion for 17 years, and the day she died a piece of me died with her. As close to a daughter as I'll ever have, she taught me that sometimes the answer I can't seem to find is right in front of me. Drooling on my laptop.