My parents got a new dog on Saturday.
You will recall, because there is a test coming up (remember?), that their old dog Lonnie passed away late last year.
Neither one of us were sure how ready they were for a new dog–Mom seemed to recover faster than Dad, and truth be told, I’m still not sure he wanted a new dog … but that’s all moot now.
Mom called on Saturday while Ray and I were out furniture shopping (that little venture only cost us $4000, but that’s another story). “Are you home?” she asked.
“No,” I said, “We’re out. Why, did you want to bring the new dog by?”
“How did you know we had a new dog?”
“Because when you stopped by last week you said you were going to the Westie rescue today and I figured that if you called and asked if you could stop by that would be the reason why. How’m I doing?”
“We have a new dog,” she confirmed. “But she doesn’t have a name yet. They were calling her ‘Tata,’ and … that’s just not going to work.”
I called later in the day to see how things were going, and Mom told me that the neighbor dogs had been over to play, but that she had balked at going for a walk on a leash. “Have you named her yet?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “She doesn’t have much of a personality yet. We’re going to have to wait and see.”
My mother has a habit of coming up with bizarre names for pets that eventually get whittled down to nicknames that require vast amounts of explanation in the unlikely event that anyone asks. Lonnie was particularly contentious: Mom had found her running around the back yard at the school where she worked, which was named “Avalon.” Mom thus decreed that we should name her “Eva Lonnie.” (Get it?) I wanted to name her “Gracie,” after comedienne Gracie Allen (seriously, how did they not know??). Eventually we settled on Lonnie Grace, although we never used her middle name because my mother has a tendency to give everyone the middle name “Louise” for reasons that are better left uncontemplated.
So, I was expecting a slightly longer procedure involved–it took us nearly two weeks to name Lonnie–and was thus surprised when I got the midday e-mail on Sunday from my folks to all of their friends and relatives announcing the arrival of “Brandy Alexandra.” Accompanied by photos that I’ve since deleted, so I can’t post them here.
I called. “Did you really name her ‘Brandy Alexandra’?”
“Yes, we did,” said my father. “What’s wrong with Brandy Alexandra?”
“Because any dog of yours is monumentally spoiled, and that’s the sort of name that just gives it away up front,” I replied. “It screams ‘I get carried everywhere on a satin pillow.’”
“Funny you should mention that,” said my father, who then proceeded to relate the story of how, when they attempted to take her for a walk the previous evening she had balked, refusing to move–so they just picked her up and carried her with them.
I think they’re hoping that she’ll get used to being out, and see that the end of the walk results in coming home again, but I see a dangerous precedent. After all, my father did construct a staircase for Lonnie to use to climb on the bed when she got too old to jump.
I should look at it this way: at least they have someone to pay attention to again …
