Cemetery Cat: A Hero Cat Needs a Hero's Name

Cemetery Cat in a candid image captured before her rise to fame.
Cemetery Cat in a candid image captured before her rise to fame.

After a torrid 48 hours, Cemetery Cat is our most famous New Zealander and, most likely, our next Prime Minister. She was found in the dead of night by an American alt-country singer. Back then she was just a few tufts of hair and some eyes peering out of a black graveyard backdrop. Somehow, even in her darkest, most possum-afflicted moment, it was clear she was destined for bigger things.

Stars soon began tweeting about her. Her talent was discovered by adoring fans. She became a hashtag. News agencies jumped on board. Finally, after an epic struggle, she was captured in a trap laden with KFC.

Every element of her story echoes Lorde’s, bar one: Lorde started out with a name. At the moment they’re calling Cemetery Cat Kim. It’s too tethered to the man who discovered her. Cemetery Cat needs to be a star in her own right. Newsworthy has taken it upon itself to give her a moniker that will serve her well as she embarks down the diamond-encrusted path of stardom.

If we’re going to immediately renege on the paragraph preceding this one and name Cemetery Cat after a Ryan Adams song, it should be this one.

Cemetery Cat. More like Cemetery Crap.

That black and white stray had me and a group of well-educated adults hanging around a creepy cemetery for hours late last night.

While it teasingly tiptoed around a cage meant for its capture we waited in the dark, afraid to talk, afraid to move.

We had everything its stray heart could desire: tuna, cat biscuits; even a bucket of KFC.

Cats are master manipulators. Last night Cemetery Cat had us wrapped around its fluffy little paw.

This will teach Ryan Adams for meddling in our stray cat affairs.

If I have to explain this one, you’re (un)dead to me.


A pair of criminals skulk among the graves. They peer through the darkness at a bank across the street; waiting for its security guard to take a break. Suddenly, they hear a scuttling near the crematorium. “What was that?” “Probably nothing,” comes the reply. “Why’re you so spooked anyway. No-one’s seen The Reap--”. His sentence is cut off; replaced with a muffled scream. There’s a blur of claws. A haze of fumbling violence. A pooling of blood on the cemetery ground.

How about Mary? That is a decent name.

When your name's Cemetery Cat, you don’t need to change your name. Cemetery Cat is the best name in the world.