I’ve always considered myself the King of Naming Things.
Currently, I have two fish named Sir Digby Chicken Caesar and Kevin Spacey, a hippo-shaped watering can named Bernard and numerous owl figurines with names like Archimedes, Anyong Haseyo and Merhaba.
I even named the scar on my boyfriend’s leg (it’s Herman).
While I’m not sure where I got my penchant for anthropomorphizing everything, I’m certain my inability to give my pets normal names comes from my father.
On Sunday, Daddy regaled us with stories of his turtle, Chorpy and Weekeaster, his favorite bird. We’re all enthusiastically discussing the origins of Chorpy’s name when out of nowhere my dad blurts, “I had a pet roadrunner!”
Caris & Me: You did?!
Daddy: Yeah, I just couldn’t catch him.
Caris: So, you never had a pet roadrunner.
Me: You had a roadrunner that ran through your neighborhood.
Daddy: Then, I almost had a pet roadrunner.
Me: That roadrunner was not your pet.
Daddy: I said ALMOST.
We never did find out the roadrunner’s name.
But I’ve decided to call him Finneus Shacklebot.