OK, so either history/legend/folklore is sadly mistaken, or my cat is seriously mis-named. Our friend, Randy came to visit today. As he came into the house, Lancelot did a swervy-dervy little dance, sported a look of sheer terror, coupled with panic, and finally simply turned tail and ran. Where is the knightly courage? Where the desire for a quest? Where defending the honor of those incapable of defending themselves? Nay, kind sir -- this Lancelot doth push his shovel mouth across the feline bowl to satisfy his own belly, quake in fear at the least loud noise, startle easily at the sight of anything the least unsettling, and run from any situation requiring courage so hard and so fast that his feet slide right out from under him. . . .I pray we have mis-named him. I prefer to keep my image of Lancelot, passionate, bold, courageous, chivalrous. . . and somehow none of those can I apply to my own Lancelot, save perhaps passionate in the area of his catfood or when you choose to rub the top of his head. Passion is certainly the only thing my Lance has in common with the legend.
Perhaps Henry Louis Mencken was right after all when he said, "Legend: A lie that has attained the dignity of age.”
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