Urban Fur: Meet The Iron Lady

August 18, 2010 by
Filed under: 11232, Sunset Park, Sunset Park Brooklyn 

This afternoon/evening yours truly went on a photo walk with a frequent contributor of my photo pool: Carnade. Knowing my affection for Mexican culinary items we decided to check out Sunset Park. He played tour guide. Where he went, I followed. One of the stops we made was at the above bodega: Sam’s Grocery. It is, as I learned, a very curious place. For starters I met Sam: he is Lebanese. For those of you playing along at home (and to make it perfectly clear) we are in a bodega which sells Mexican groceries whose (very nice) proprietor hails from the Middle East. Stuff such as this is why I love New York City. But it gets much more interesting, as you will see.

Meet Sam’s bodega cat in residence. Carnade inquired as to what this fetching feline’s name was.


Sam replied. Carnade and I couldn’t believe what we just heard so we asked again.

Thatcher, you know after the British Prime Minister. It’s a nice name, yes?

Sam said.

Me (once I absorbed what I have just heard):

I guess it depends on one’s politics.

Then Carnade asked the $64,000 question:

Do you like Margaret Thatcher?

To wit Sam gave the coup de grace:

No, I hate her.

And then he proceeded to explain why. Inasmuch I could ascertain Sam’s dislike of Ms. Thatcher had something to do with Cyprus. Exactly why Sam elected to name this (very friendly) cat after the Iron Lady remains a mystery. Methinks it is probably better that way.

Miss Heather


4 Comments on Urban Fur: Meet The Iron Lady

  1. rheingold on Wed, 18th Aug 2010 10:16 pm
  2. Perhaps after Becky Thatcher?

  3. missheather on Wed, 18th Aug 2010 10:20 pm
  4. Nope. He made it very clear: MARGARET Thatcher.

  5. rheingold on Thu, 19th Aug 2010 1:48 am
  6. What next, an orange tabby named Oliver Cromwell? We Irish don’t rule the nabe no more, but do the kittehs have to rub it in?

  7. missheather on Thu, 19th Aug 2010 2:22 am
  8. I hear you. Speaking from a decidedly Garden Spot point of view I dread the day I encounter a pickle-helmed pussy named Otto, a goose stepping mouser named Ribbentrop, or worst of all: a mustachioed tabby named Joey Stalin. It’s bad enough I find empty fifths of

  9. Cossack Vodka
  10. all over the damned place. What’s next? Kulak Vodka? Third Partition Vodka? Gulag Vodka? This is the stuff that keeps me up at night, rheingold.

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