Friday, July 28, 2017

Say My Name, Say My Name

Thanks to the sum-sum-summertime, it's been too darn hot to walk the Royal Rescue Pup (of questionable lineage) in the midday sun. The scorching pavement could toast his tender tootsies. Does the SJG strike you as intentionally cruel? Of course nyet! Don't be a nar, as Mr. Ben Starr used to tell his children on a daily basis. And by nar he meant fool. What else did my blunt-talkin' mensch of a daddy say to his offspring? Hmmm. So many colorful things. Oh, here's another favorite: "Kids, don't embarrass me." And now, to awkwardly segue into the point of today's blog, assuming there is one: Growing up, and on into adulthood, I've rarely been called by my given name. Instead, I've been known as Carolita, Lita, or Litaface. My brother was always, always Johnny, until one day, he sent out a press release that said, "I'm no longer Johnny. Call me John." Well, that was a hard habit to break, let me tell ya, but with a lot of prayer, a lot of trial and error, I haven't called him Johnny in about a week. Progress!
And yet, despite my best efforts to act like a grownup, I just can't help it. I have nicknames for everyone I adore. This includes hubby, my sons, my tiny extended family, my dearest friends, and of course, my dogs. I have pet names for them all. (See what I did there?) The Great Late Dusty was never just Dusty. He was Dusty Bear. Dusty Boy. Duster. Dusty LaRue. Doo. Dooby... What is wrong with me? Please let me know when you figure it out. Others have tried. (List of shrinks available about request.) And the boy who came to us as Blake has acquired many wonderful pet names, too. Blakey Man. Mr. Sweetface. Stinky Boy. And yet, hubby prefers his given name. A case in point: Last night, as we walked Cookie Punim in the coolish early evening, we stopped to say hello to neighbors. "I always forget your dog's name," she said. In perfect sync, hubby said, "Blake." And I said, "Blakey." Her husband looked at her. She looked at him. Then, she said, "So it's Blake?" I shook my keppy. "It's Blakey." Hubby said, "It's Blake." "No really, it's Blakey," I insisted. Hubby pointed to the doggy name tag. "Blake." The husband said, "Have a nice evening." The wife smiled. They exited, sidewalk left. But our debate continued all the way home. We called it a draw. But just between us, his name is Blakey. Formal name: Sir Blakey. Glad we cleared that up.


  1. When he is 10, said dog will drop a soupbone on your right toe with a canine-tooth incised demand that you call him Blake. You, of course, will comply to this precious request and hubby #1 will simply smile. Regards, Steve, nee Stevie