Naming things is fun. Right now, it is our number one family activity. We're on a tentative dog hunt, and we've recently met an elderly little fellow that has no name and no home, and we're thinking of inviting him to stay a while to see if we can all make it work. As people that have deliberately dropped out of nearly every commitment possible except our jobs and evening dinner, acquiring any sort of obligation is completely whack-a-doodle. But the list is adorable. I'm a fan for real-people names: Brad, Mo, Gordon, Johnny Cash. P's are always a little exotic with a nod to former lives: Darko, Pivo, Tsunami. And Gus's, well Gus's are ridiculous: Doctor Donut, Po, Microwave, Doctor Microwave, Doctor Po, Miss Pearly (that's for you, KB!), and Grampa. The last one makes us laugh so hard, it might just win. This potential canine friend arrives as we re-sign our lease. This is significant because it is the first time in 24 years that I will have lived somewhere beyond 24 months. My adult life has no idea what that feels like. Today at sacred dinner time, P said earnestly, as if we were signing up to climb Everest or marathon across the Sahara, "I really hope we make it." I do too. For the first time ever, I don't want to pack up and find new digs. I'm voluntarily staying. This means something.
Maybe what will help us plant ourselves is something to name. Our strange little feat of strength is digging into community and getting a little dog hair in our tidy, transient lives. So, we're looking at happy-eyed orphans and wondering if they need to stay too.
Doctor Donut (or Grampa?) and his two teeth.
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