"It is estimated that sarin is more than 500 times as toxic as cyanide."

The cat, fraught with despair over lack of identity, begged us to either end her life or name her. While we briefly considered the former, her incessant purring at night has become much like a sound machine, and without that white noise I would have to hear Scott's sleep-mumbling and would spend my nights awake wondering if he just said "Aunt Fanny's on fire!" or "Death to the squire!" It's all open for interpretation, you see. At any rate, the cat has a name and, with it, a renewed will to live. Sarin (the name, not the cat) was part contribution from two of Scott's friends in D.C. (Sara and Erin) and part googled meaning, as sarin is a nerve gas and the cat is rather rank. Yes, sarin gas is odorless, but we feel the cat occasionally stinks badly enough to cause neurological damage and be used as a chemical weapon, and therefore the name is appropriate.

She's currently sitting on my lap, stinking up my jacket and following the cursor from one side of the screen to the other. She has pawed the touchpad twice, and if I pause long enough, she tries to crawl onto the keyboard to sniff the still cursor.