And my cat’s name is, imagine, Cat-Motya. He knows his name very well, and lightning appears in front of me, murmuring, it is worth calling him several times with a quick speaking: "Cot-Mot, Cot-Mot!" - at least on the roof, at least in the basement, at least in the courtyard. In the office, the same idea begins: I register him in honor as Kotya Motya, a smiling American doctor appears, looks long, and eventually issues: Who is Motya? Cotta Mouta?" The mouth and the ear do not lead, espresso. He’s generally worried about one thought of hiding from my uncle a little bit, for example, my forearm. In this place, the doctor usually politely asks if the cat is exactly called as I wrote, or if I have just communicated it somewhere, a treasure...