Boopsies, an Animal Tail (article) by Lisa Adams on AuthorsDen

I am self-outing to expose the nickname abuse pets suffer daily. I have mentioned our pets in several articles. They are wonderful little beings, all of them. One of my paralegals, Rob, and I got to discussing our unique petsters at work the other day. As usual, the banter left me collapsed in laughter, probably causing tribal council members to wonder whether they had hired an insane person as their attorney. Specifically, we discussed nicknames we had given our pets. Feign to deny it. You all do it. Forget that one of Rob's dogs had been named "Hoochimabob." That alone is worthy of a chuckle or two. We sorted through the transmogrifications of pet names starting with our oldest. For him it is his cat, "Necromancer" - a gorgeous black cat whose photo sits on his desk. Kitty is sporting a Santa Claus hat and appears to be ready, willing, and able to scratch the photographer's eyes out. Necromancer is called, "Neecro," "Kitty cat," and "Old Man." He is going on 1000 and will outlive all of us. After Rob had self outed, I went through the exercise. Our oldest dog, Gina, is beautiful. Red and fluffy and very much the alpha dog, she has gone by "G-Bear" (her street name); "Gina Bear;" "Crusty Lady" (as she aged and gained a tendency to growl when awakened to go to the bathroom); "Old Lady"; and "Food Dog" (she always wants to eat). Thomas, our big tom cat, is has been dubbed "Tommy Cat"; "Ymmot Tac Igmu" (Tommy Cat Cat, with the first two words backwards and the third word "Igmu" - Lakota for cat - please do not even inquire about the origins of that one - and no, we do not drink or do drugs); "Stinkus Maximus" or its variation, "Stinky Tom" (his early Roman and pirate names respectively); and "Petit Thomas" (in case we ever move to France). There is Kelly, aka "Kai Li" (she is part Sharpei), "Bag Mouth" (she barks and her mouth inflates like a grocery bag); "Punxatawny Pinks" (she has a cute pink nose and we are convinced she tells us when it will be an early spring, like Punxatawny Phil); and "Pinks." Maxine and Emma, the sisters who turned up at the tribal office two Halloweens past, are the "Stink Spots" (on the bed, at night, they looked like ink spots, but commit bad acts); "Foot Attackers" (their favored sport just as one is falling asleep); and "Freaks" because they leap through the air and sport bottle brush tails at the drop of a hat when a game is on. I have even seen them run sideways one the BACK of the sofa - that is, bodies parallel to the ground at a 90-degree angle. Now, Maxine even has a fairy name: "Stinkleberry" because she is the queen of committing bad acts under cover of darkness. Freaks, indeed. Sapa, the youngest dog, is called "Sapa Bapa" (Lakota for black dried deer meat - I just had not known that when I said it); "Bops"; "Shebops" or "Sheebs"; and "Kitty Dog" (As a pup, she would sit in the window along with the cats). Once too large for the window frame, we dubbed her, "Vulture Dog" because she would stuff herself into the window frame anyway, all hunched over like Snoopy on his dog house pretending to be a vulture. But my all time favorite is T.C. Clemente. T.C. (short for, Tree Cat) has had a scandalous past. We first heard her one stormy day in New Jersey. As we searched for the source of the pitiful howling, we spotted this small cat REALLY, really high up in a neighbor's tree...stuck. We called her, she cried. We called the fire department, they would not help. We spread a sheet out after she came down a little bit, and attempted a fireman's rescue. "Jump, jump," we had yelled. Upon realizing just how ridiculous the whole sideshow must appear to neighbors, we folded the sheet; Mel concluding, "She'll come down when she gets hungry." A storm hit and there was T.C. clinging to the uppermost branches as they swayed in unison, the wind howling and rain pelting her little body. Still she howled, and nothing could be done except wait. I had become completely distraught over the plight of the tree cat. Five days later, she still had not come down. I credit this directly with the presence of our neighbor's dog, the barkmeister, Cano. Even when Cano was not in the yard directly below the tree, T.C. was clearly terrified of the unholy noise that dog made; and which had prompted many a late night, "Shut up Cano," from our side of the fence. Our friend Choi came over and suggested she might like tuna, which stinks bad enough that she could smell it all the way at the top of that tree. Choi was right. That petite cat shot out of that tree so fast and scarfed down the entire contents of the can in under five seconds. We took her home. Some weeks later, T.C. had become content to tease Gina, hang about, and bask in the attention lavished on her. Out of the blue, I had casually asked, "I wonder what we would name our animals if we lived in India." T.C. fell prey to being the first named. "Bhupinder," I blurted out. We laughed, because it fit. It really suited her. Mel laughed before shortening the name to "Boops." And it stuck. "Boops" soon became "Boopsies" also. As if that was not bad enough, one day, Boops was bad. As bad as a cat could be, actually. If you own cats, that could be a myriad of things, so use your imagination. She ran into the t.v. room, Mel close at heel, and jumped in my lap. Only then, under protection, would she attempt a fierce look. It was then Mel had uttered the most chilling nickname of all. A nickname that carried the implication of scandalous behavior, and bad acts undertaken under cover of darkness. A name to be used on none other than a very bad kitty..."Spoob." She was Spoob a lot that first year. Then she was spayed and got fat. We have kept her away from food, but she insists on committing acts of Spoobage by shooing the others away from the bowls, sucking down their contents like a Dyson vacuum cleaner - you know, never losing suction. I have been forced into becoming a bona fide Friskies Nazi, literally picking her up and moving the food away once she has had the portion recommended by the vet. Now she looks like a meatloaf. Ergo, the nickname, "Meatloaf." But "Boopsies" and "Spoob" shall be eternally associated with our little tree cat. The moral of the story is, there is not one. Suffice it to say, neither Rob nor myself are ashamed of the love that inspired the nicknames. They sound stupid because they are. They are also a great source of laughter. Our pets both inspire and torment us; here to be loved as they love us. They respond to their nicknames, and probably have a few creative ones for us. Once we figure out their language, perhaps they will let us in on the secret.

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