Checking My Soles

You claimed my name came from my feet, not my appetite, which sounded completely ridiculous until I actually looked. I hopped back into my blanket burrow behind the armchair, flopped onto my rump, and grabbed one fuzzy hind foot with both paws. Straining my neck until my plush collar bunched up, I turned the paw pad upward toward the evening lamp light. Sure enough, stitched right into the pale fabric beneath the toe seams was a neat little embroidered orange carrot with green frills. I inspected the other foot—identical. Well, I suppose your grandma had sensible taste after all, even if it took me years to inspect my own soles.