The Name Game (Part I)

Early in life I learned the pleasure of naming animals, as well as the power that came with it.  I was a suburban Adam, labeling the critters in my tiny universe—turtles, rabbits, and (mostly) dogs.  When our dog Tippy gave birth to a litter of puppies, I named one of them Jerry—after myself—hoping, I supposed, that my parents would let me keep him.  They didn't.

That's me holding Jerry the dog.

Tippy was the first in a succession of family dogs.  Next came Sally and then Sox, who lived to the ripe old age of eleven.  Sox was certainly not an original name (how many dogs and cats have been burdened with that too-cute moniker?), but I must have thought the spelling was clever.  Sox was a Border Collie mix, but the only way she even remotely resembled a Border Collie was in her coloring.  She had the energy of an old cat and was just as interested in fetching, or playing at all, really.  However, she was the most loyal dog I've ever had, and she wanted nothing more than to be loved.

Sox in her golden years

My adult experiences with dogs have been less fortunate.  After a sweet but high-strung Dalmatian named Barney was killed (by a train, of all things), I adopted a mutt named Effie (after Sam Spade's secretary in The Maltese Falcon).  My ex-wife let me choose the name because she knew I was resistant to getting the dog.  I was right to be.

The first night we had Effie (she was just a few months old), she whined endlessly, and when I reached into her kennel to comfort her, she bit through my thumb.  When I turned the light on, I could see that she was frothing at the mouth and convulsing.  In the morning I made a trip to the doctor's office for a tetanus shot while Cindy rushed Effie to the vet's.  The poor pup had suffered a seizure, brought on by distemper, and from that point on, she suffered the effects.  She was often unruly, aggressive, disoriented  A year later she was diagnosed with cancer, but after a series of complicated (and costly) procedures, she recovered.

Effie on a rainy day—the oppressive
weather matched her personality.

When Cindy and I divorced and I had to move to an apartment in another town, it was obvious that neither of us could keep Effie.  But I found her a good home with a loving family, and the last time I saw Effie, she was happier than ever.

After my two previous experiences, I decided to steer clear of dogs, and it would be another ten years before a four-legged critter walked into my life.  That, of course, was Chabo, whom I described in an earlier post.

The ever-circular Chabo doing what she did best

When Chabo died, my wife Susan wanted to get another cat almost immediately, but for a variety of reasons, none of which I will chronicle here, we didn't find a suitable match for two months.  Less than a week ago, however, Susan and I adopted a six-year-old tabby named Samantha, a "Second Chance Pet" who needed us as much as we needed her.  Beyond the immediate circumstances that led to her being in a foster home, we know very little about Samantha, but given the hard life she has led in recent months, we didn't have the heart to rename her.  She deserved to hang on to her own identity.

That being said, Susan and I have already given her several nicknames—Riley, Rita, and Zonkers, among others—but she will always be little Sam, who just might be the sweetest cat I have ever known.  But we have barely gotten to know each other.

Sweet little Samantha

Bedtime for Brownie



Susan with Blue, along with baby blanket and quilt, 
all of which Susan still owns

Like most little girls, my wife Susan loved her stuffed animals. She never cared for Barbie dolls—or other plastic toys, for that matter—filling her bedroom, instead, with a menagerie of furry friends. One of her favorites was a floppy-eared dog named Blue. He was Susan's first stuffed animal, and he shared her crib from early infancy.


Over the years Blue's fur has worn in spots, and his coat has appropriately aged to white. Despite losing his nose and tongue, he has managed to hang in there. Susan still has him in her possession.

Blue, as he appears today—a little worn and not so blue

Blue was a snuggly pooch, and for several years he shared Susan's bed with a dozen or more stuffed toys. One night when Susan was eight years old, she crawled into bed with another prized companion, a teddy bear named Brownie. Like Blue, Brownie played music. As Susan settled down to sleep, she wound Brownie's little music box, expecting to hear the familiar strains of a lullaby, but her little companion produced barely a note.

Maybe she had over-wound the stem, or perhaps the bear had endured one too many cycles in the washing machine, but no pleading or shaking of the bear could coax him to play. Naturally, Susan turned to her parents for help. She padded into the living room, bear in tow, and handed him to her father, explaining the problem. "Cheap piece of junk," he grumbled, before tossing the hapless Brownie into the fireplace and atop the still-smoking embers. I can only imagine Susan's shriek of alarm or her father's look of surprise at that moment.

Susan's mother, fortunately, had the wherewithal to save Brownie. She pulled the singed bear from the embers, dusted him off, and shepherded little girl and animal safely to bed.

Susan was not traumatized by this experience, nor did she judge her father harshly for the way he handled the situation. "He was just a little impatient," she notes, coming to his defense, and she always recounts the narrative with a smile. "Dad had a short temper," she adds, reacting to my skeptical look.

Still, I have to think Brownie's near incineration had to affect the way Susan viewed her father. Surely, we all experience pivotal moments when we see our parents with fresh eyes. Some people may cruise through childhood believing their parents can do no wrong, but most of us experience "Brownie" moments.  I certainly did.

Susan's experience reminds me of Sharon Olds's poem "The Clasp," about a mother who loses patience with her four-year-old daughter after the girl repeatedly pushes her toddler brother onto his face. Finally, the mother (who narrates the poem) grabs the girl's wrist and "compresse[s] it, fiercely, for a couple / of seconds, to make an impression on her, / to hurt her" (5-7). The narrator describes how "[i]t happened very / fast—grab, crush, crush, / crush, release," (11-13), as such things do, and it is clear that the mother knows she went too far and did not intend to hurt her daughter, her "beloved firstborn" (7).

What echoes Susan's experience is the daughter's reaction to her mother's extra exertion of force. The narrator says that her daughter's "deeply open eyes took me / in, she knew me, in the shock of the moment / she learned me" (18-20). I sense that Susan "learned" her father—in all his complexity—when he tossed Brownie onto that fire. She learned that he did not like to be bothered, that he wasn't always focused on her needs, that he could be cruel.

Susan also learned that her father had a good heart and that he quickly realized his mistake. A few minutes after Susan's mother tucked her back into bed, Susan's father paid his daughter a visit. He went to her bedroom and apologized for what he had done.

Olds takes her poem in a darker direction when the narrator confesses to the readers that she "even almost / savored the stinging sensation of the squeezing, / the expression, into her, of my anger" (7-10). While not exactly comforting, those key words—"even almost"—assure the readers that the mother is not abusive, just human ... and honest.

I cannot end without reporting on Brownie's current condition. Like Blue, he is still in Susan's possession, as well loved as ever.  His eyes look a little scratched and his fur is a bit matted. If you are brave enough to wind his music box, he will repay you with a tune, but you have to be patient: "Rock-a-bye Baby" will trickle out for half an hour or more—one sweet, sad note at a time.

The scrappy Brownie, as adorable as ever

Works Cited

Olds, Sharon.  "The Clasp."  180 More: Extraordinary Poems for Every Day.  Ed. Billy Collins.  New York: Random, 2005.  101.  Print.