Have you ever wondered how much your name has to do with who you are? I mean, if your parents named you Helga Brunhilda, are you destined to be a rather masculine female wrestler? If your name is Joseph Robert, are you certain to become a redneck named Joe Bob? Or what about the opposite side of that coin? What if your parents named you Tiffany Heather Amber, do you have any choice but to become a beautiful, but ditzy, cheerleader?
The reason I wonder about this is not so much about my children, wondering whether I've helped or hindered them with their names. No, rather it's about the animals who live in my house.
The old man of the bunch is Socks. Socks began life six years ago, shortly after we moved into this house. He was the teeniest little runt of the litter you ever saw! Mostly black, but with a white chest, white markings on his face, four little white socks on his paws and stunning green eyes. His mother ignored him, so I fed him by hand for a few weeks. One of his front paws was smaller than the other, and it appeared for a while that he was going to always walk with a limp (it later caught up with the others). But you must know, of course, of another famous Socks; Socks in the Clinton administration. I believe, by naming our cat after a Democratic cat, we have altered his perception of the world; our Socks is a staunch believer in the welfare system. He hangs out all day on the recliner, waiting for someone to give him a handout (dinner).
The next member of our little animal clan is Mr. Jingles Wigglebottom, Jingles for short. He's a Jack Russel terrier, and he has no idea that he's five years old. He thinks he's still a puppy. Santa brought Jingles to us (hence the name), and he was the cutest little thing! He's still seriously cute and funny, and he's fairly small, but he thinks he's the biggest dog on the block. And he absolutely CANNOT sit still. But with a name like Jingles Wigglebottom, does he have a choice? Really?
Then there's Piglet, the guinea pig. She was just your average guinea pig when we brought her home for Chloe's ninth birthday. A year and a half later, she barely fits through the tunnel of her house. Piglet has become Hogzilla! If we had named her Tiny, would she still fit in the hamster-sized ball we originally bought her (because she doesn't now)?
And now, we come to the latest addition to our family. Last December, while waiting for Charles to pay for dog and cat stocking stuffers (yes, we are that kind of people), I wandered over to look at some cats in cages. Most of them just looked at me with boredom, as cats are wont to do. One actually growled at me. But one sweet, fluffy little kitty jumped up and began purring, meowing and rubbing her head against the finger I poked through the bars. I fell in love on the spot. But alas, I know my husband is not fond of cats. One was enough.
But I just couldn't get that sweet little girl out of my thoughts. So the next day, Charles told me to call and see what we needed to do to adopt her. She was home with us by Christmas. The people at the cat rescue had named her Antoinette. It seemed to fit, so we kept it. In retrospect, we should have known.; you've never seen a more self-absorbed, needy kitty than Antoinette. Fresh water in her bowl isn't good enough; no, we have to turn the bathroom faucet on for her to get a drink (oh, and now she's taught the other one to expect it, too). If I'm reading, apparently that's the signal that her head MUST be rubbed thoroughly. If there was ever a cat who was an Antoinette, it's her.
So did we set our animal family on the paths to the creatures they would become? Would they be different if we had named them Fluffy, Fido, Tiny and Teresa? Or would they still be a lazy moocher, a hyper dervish, a collossal furball and a demanding prima donna?
Ah, well, we may never know. So...let them eat catnip!
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