by Pa Rock
Farmer in Winter
When it comes to naming things I don't always get the job done. I never name my cars, for instance, although my sister always does. But I usually manage to find a name for pets, animals who reside in and around my house at my specific invitation. The first two pets I remember were a cocker spaniel named "Penny," and a large hound that was called "Bozo" though I suspect that my parents named both of them.
Then, when my sister and I were growing up, we had a large yellow tomcat named "Jimmy." It seems like my dad got Jimmy from his mother and she had already named him, though the reason for that particular name remains lost in the mists of history.
I also had two small pet alligators (probably caymans) while I was in college. The first was named "Milhous" in honor of our reptilian President at the time, and the name of the second escapes me - though somebody from my circle of friends at the time will probably jog my memory. Both died of natural causes and are buried on the campus of Missouri State University in Springfield, Missouri, in unmarked graves.
When the kids were growing up they had a little dog named "Banjo" who managed to get run over several times before finally dying of his injuries. It seems like I chose that name, though I can't remember why. We also had a black cat name "Blackie," clever, huh? And then there was Rusty, a wonderful pooch who was with our family several years. Rusty was named after "Rusty Pails," a fictional character that I created and nourished in a newspaper column. (The entire "Rusty Pails" experience of fifty-some columns is scattered about this blog in various locations - and he may appear again at some point.)
Now I have two pets, both with names. Rosie, of course, is my five-year-old Chihuahua that I bought at a roadside puppy stand when she was just six-weeks-old. My granddaughter, Olive, who was three at tie time, named her. I learned later that Olive had named her for "Dora the Explorer's" little sister. And Fiona, my outdoor cat who was gifted to me by a neighbor as a kitten several years back. I named her after Fiona Gallagher, Frank's oldest daughter on "Shameless," a cat who was always running around with her tail in the air. One of Fiona's sons also lives at The Roost, a large yellow Tom who has had several names over the past few years, but none of which seemed to stick. Now, when I do need to converse with him, I call him "Old Yaller."
Occasionally I will also impart a name on some wild creature who seeks to share my space. There was a particularly chatty large red squirrel who would stand on my apartment porch when I was living in the student section of Columbia, Missouri, several years ago. We became good friends, and at some point I had the realization that his name was Bob, and, in appreciation for me figuring out who he was, Bob would usually come running when I called.
The first year I was at The Roost I had a young armadillo who dug little holes all over the big yard for an entire summer, but he never saw fit to reveal his name. Some animals, like some humans, are either painfully shy or just don't care to get too close to others. I have had several ground hogs with burrows in and around the barn over the years, and though we saw each other regularly, again no names were exchanged. The deer who gather at the pond at twilight are also private creatures.
One morning I had to go in the barn before daylight for some reason, and when I turned on the overhead light I discovered two young possums affectionately cuddled together on a bale of straw. They ignored me, and I quickly doused the light. Again, all remained anonymous.
One time the barn was home to a pair of skunks. That was quite a drama until they apparently got tired of smelling themselves and voluntarily moved on. The skunks, too, kept their names to themselves.
But yesterday evening I had one more wildlife encounter, and this one, like Bob the Squirrel, had a name that was somehow obvious.
For the past several weeks I have been noticing small holes around much of the backyard. My thoughts were that they must be from the squirrels, of which there are many, digging up the food that they buried in the fall. I just wished that they would learn to backfill after retrieving their treasures.
Late yesterday as I was walking behind the sheds toward the pond, I came upon a young adult armadillo busily digging little holes in the dirt in search of root crops and bugs and worms. At first he didn't see me and kept on digging, but as I returned from the pond he spotted me and scampered off toward the barn. (Actually it was as much of a "bounce" than it was a "scamper.") When he reached the barn he went inside through a hole in the foundation that the cats and groundhogs also use.
"Goodnight, Larry!" I shouted as my armored new friend disappeared into the old barn.
Sometimes you just know.
But I'll be damned if I ever name a car!
Farmer in Winter
When it comes to naming things I don't always get the job done. I never name my cars, for instance, although my sister always does. But I usually manage to find a name for pets, animals who reside in and around my house at my specific invitation. The first two pets I remember were a cocker spaniel named "Penny," and a large hound that was called "Bozo" though I suspect that my parents named both of them.
Then, when my sister and I were growing up, we had a large yellow tomcat named "Jimmy." It seems like my dad got Jimmy from his mother and she had already named him, though the reason for that particular name remains lost in the mists of history.
I also had two small pet alligators (probably caymans) while I was in college. The first was named "Milhous" in honor of our reptilian President at the time, and the name of the second escapes me - though somebody from my circle of friends at the time will probably jog my memory. Both died of natural causes and are buried on the campus of Missouri State University in Springfield, Missouri, in unmarked graves.
When the kids were growing up they had a little dog named "Banjo" who managed to get run over several times before finally dying of his injuries. It seems like I chose that name, though I can't remember why. We also had a black cat name "Blackie," clever, huh? And then there was Rusty, a wonderful pooch who was with our family several years. Rusty was named after "Rusty Pails," a fictional character that I created and nourished in a newspaper column. (The entire "Rusty Pails" experience of fifty-some columns is scattered about this blog in various locations - and he may appear again at some point.)
Now I have two pets, both with names. Rosie, of course, is my five-year-old Chihuahua that I bought at a roadside puppy stand when she was just six-weeks-old. My granddaughter, Olive, who was three at tie time, named her. I learned later that Olive had named her for "Dora the Explorer's" little sister. And Fiona, my outdoor cat who was gifted to me by a neighbor as a kitten several years back. I named her after Fiona Gallagher, Frank's oldest daughter on "Shameless," a cat who was always running around with her tail in the air. One of Fiona's sons also lives at The Roost, a large yellow Tom who has had several names over the past few years, but none of which seemed to stick. Now, when I do need to converse with him, I call him "Old Yaller."
Occasionally I will also impart a name on some wild creature who seeks to share my space. There was a particularly chatty large red squirrel who would stand on my apartment porch when I was living in the student section of Columbia, Missouri, several years ago. We became good friends, and at some point I had the realization that his name was Bob, and, in appreciation for me figuring out who he was, Bob would usually come running when I called.
The first year I was at The Roost I had a young armadillo who dug little holes all over the big yard for an entire summer, but he never saw fit to reveal his name. Some animals, like some humans, are either painfully shy or just don't care to get too close to others. I have had several ground hogs with burrows in and around the barn over the years, and though we saw each other regularly, again no names were exchanged. The deer who gather at the pond at twilight are also private creatures.
One morning I had to go in the barn before daylight for some reason, and when I turned on the overhead light I discovered two young possums affectionately cuddled together on a bale of straw. They ignored me, and I quickly doused the light. Again, all remained anonymous.
One time the barn was home to a pair of skunks. That was quite a drama until they apparently got tired of smelling themselves and voluntarily moved on. The skunks, too, kept their names to themselves.
But yesterday evening I had one more wildlife encounter, and this one, like Bob the Squirrel, had a name that was somehow obvious.
For the past several weeks I have been noticing small holes around much of the backyard. My thoughts were that they must be from the squirrels, of which there are many, digging up the food that they buried in the fall. I just wished that they would learn to backfill after retrieving their treasures.
Late yesterday as I was walking behind the sheds toward the pond, I came upon a young adult armadillo busily digging little holes in the dirt in search of root crops and bugs and worms. At first he didn't see me and kept on digging, but as I returned from the pond he spotted me and scampered off toward the barn. (Actually it was as much of a "bounce" than it was a "scamper.") When he reached the barn he went inside through a hole in the foundation that the cats and groundhogs also use.
"Goodnight, Larry!" I shouted as my armored new friend disappeared into the old barn.
Sometimes you just know.
But I'll be damned if I ever name a car!
1 comment:
My good friend, Rosemary, from undergrad college days in the late 1960's, came through with the name of the other alligator. He was "Log," Log and Milhous, not sure how I could have forgotten one and not the other. They were with me for several months and lived well off of flies, bugs, hamburger, and other bits or raw meat - and live minnows from a local bait shop were a real treat! Thanks, Rose, for being my unfailing memory!
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