Y, because we Love Them  

Man’s best friend; nope, not the female or a pick-up truck or even a gun, we’re talking the original four legged kind and this excludes pussy cats, hamsters and guinea pigs. These are the real tail wagging, tongue lapping, fetch this stick, and chase the ball, cute and cuddly puppy dogs, warm and dear to our hearts; especially when we’re kids.  I’m sure everyone remembers their first dog and being strapped with their first real challenge as a kid, naming that pooch. It can be most difficult when left to the imagination of babes, look out.

            My first, the year 1959, a boxer bull dog and me just after reaching the ripe old age of six, my parents assigned that responsibility to me for naming him.  A dog barely with its eyes open, how did they possibly think I could name MY DOG? I had never named anything before so what did I know about choosing one. Not only did I now have my firs dog; I had my first pet of any kind. Parents sure know how to put the pressure on you. What made them think I could pull this off? Oh, but they reminded me he was MY DOG so I must choose what he should be called; some sort of right of passage. Just like them saying “and you will take care of him.”

            I had not yet started first grade so I didn’t know how to see Spot run yet or I would have possibly dubbed him Spot, even though he had no spots to speak of. We had just returned from a two week across country trip to California to visit relatives where I had met my uncle and aunt’s tiny tan little lap dog, a Chihuahua called Teco. I didn’t know any other dog names so I decided to name mine the only one I did know, so Teco it was. I didn’t exactly infringe on the other Teco’s name because he lived 2000 miles away so I just figured, why couldn’t I have an East Coast Teco? How did I know that my relatives would soon move to our town where two Tecos would reside; a miniature and extra large version?

            Over the next thirty six years, seven canines would pass through my life and naming them would become much easier once I learned the Y formula. Living in the south, most names ended in the letter Y. I for example am Tommy. My friends were Billy, Larry, Speedy, Donny, Stanley, Jody, and Stevie (sounds like it should have ended in a Y doesn’t it?) My first crushes were on girls named Sherry of first grade monkey bar fame and Trudy. My wives were named Beverly, Shelby and Judy.  My first car was a Chevy; well, only if I exclude the VW bugs. My first manly car was the Chevy Monte Carlo, its first year off the assembly line. My daddy with a Y, bought the first one in town.

            After Teco departed for doggy heaven, a stray dog wondered into my life and I named him Happy. He was a yellow and spotted medium sized mixture who always looked like he was smiling; thus his name. That dog was a kleptomaniac. He brought me all sorts of need stuff from around the neighborhood, including a nifty baseball glove.  I had no lost and found department. Possession was 9/10’s of the law, right? What ever happened in the backyard between me and Happy, stayed there? As strays go, some years later he disappeared and I wasn’t happy about that.

Then came along a tiny little white baby Chihuahua with this brown spot around one eye and with Teco still living and breathing I couldn’t reuse that name. For no particular reason that I can remember, I dubbed him Tippy. Poor Tippy met an odd demise coming in contact with rats and contracting some incurable infectious disease. We had to put him down as we’d later have to do to Teco. My first two dogs never lived to ripe old ages. That’s a tough thing for a kid to understand. You killed my dogs?

My mama became more attached than me; if that was possible, and vowed we would never have another dog in our house. Shorty after that she allowed me to get a third dog, not counting Happy the stray; and my second Chihuahua; this one tanned with these bulging eyes. I dubbed him Poppy, getting better at the dog naming. While Poppy did live to a ripe old age, he too became stricken with something that eludes me now, but he had to be put down by a vet. I’m glad we don’t do this to people.

Fast forward to 1972, married to Beverly, my first wife, a rite of passage, we had to have a dog, the American way. A neighbor’s Yorkshire terrier, a little hussy apparently, had a tryst with a poodle producing three furry little York-a-poos and of course we just had to have one of them. We would call our brand new baby girl Taffy. I so loved that pooch. When the wife and I separated a year later, she took Taffy with her. I sure missed her; Taffy that is. She had been accustomed to a fenced in backyard and under my ex-wife’s supervision fell victim to a car accident. I’m sure glad we didn’t have any kids.

With wife number two, Shelby, I adopted Buffy, her dog, a Pick-a-poo. Boy, poodles must be horny little boogers. They never pass up an opportunity. We instantly became best friends. I’m talking about Buffy.  During the marriage we took in a black poodle named what else, Blacky. He chased something into the highway and met the same fate as Taffy. We had no fenced in yard. I cried like a baby. Buffy later became inflicted with some weird sort of intestinal ailment. The vet had to put her out of her misery. We were left with a cat named Sheba. Apparently Y names didn’t apply for cats.

My mama still vowing to never own another dog talked me into coming with her to see this cute little Pomeranian that needed a home. You got it. I fell for it and took her home. Mitsy, she was named and being the animal lover I am we became inseparable; couldn’t say the same for wife #2. Now in the 1990’s, this time the dog came with me and I moved back in with my folks for a while to ride out the divorce. During that time mama became way too attached to Mitsy and spoiled her rotten like she did all the dogs in her life. Mitsy became a lap dog and begged at the dinner table under mama’s influence.

Judy and I married. Now while Judy would never mistreat any animal, she wasn’t an animal lover. I think she convinced mama that she should keep Mitsy and keep her she did. I retained visitation rights. Feeling guilty I suppose, that I for the very first time since my sixth year on this earth had no pet, she surprised me with a salt water aquarium for Christmas. I soon saw through her little scheme. Fish remained in the tank, didn’t shed, didn’t have to be taken out at night and we didn’t have to worry about them when we took vacations.

Salt water fish came with their own issues though and are much tougher to regulate in an aquarium than fresh water fish. I killed over a dozen fish the first couple of weeks, too impatient to allow the tank to balance and cycle out chemically.  I did eventually enjoy it once I actually had live fish swimming about and none belly up. Oh yea, Mitsy eventually had to be put to sleep too. I never had to put a fish down but I have flushed a few.

Fast forward to 2010, I now have fresh water fish and we live in a new neighbor. Most every neighbor around us has a dog and they walk them all the time. Judy knows them all on a first name basis, neighbors and canines alike, as she walks most every morning.  I’ve considered loading a few of my fish in a Ziploc bag and walking them around the neighborhood. Of course I would have to name them first. I don’t suppose it would be that difficult if I imposed the Y formula or maybe it would just be too fishy. Oh well, guess I was always alphabet challenged. I learned nothing from seeing Spot run. Swim fishy…swim…see fishy swim. Y because we love them…