Any animal that makes a habit of visiting your property, I think, deserves a decent nickname.
When people say, “Hey, there’s a dog in your yard.” I say, “Yeah, that’s just Scraps.”
“Really? Is that the dog’s name?”
“It is now.”
Scraps earned his nickname not only because he looks like he’s made out of scrap parts from 57 different dogs, but because that seems to be his preferred food.
One of those free range dogs that always seems to be on the move, Scraps loves nosing around for any little scrap he can find. Maybe he’s a famous fortune hunter in the dog world, or a great canine explorer, but to me he’s just Scraps.
Not long after Scraps claimed my back yard as his own, a cat moved in and decided that he now owns the place. He struts around with the kind of arrogant bravado only a cat can get away with, and looks at me scornfully, as if I’m the one doing the trespassing. I don’t see him offering to help with the taxes, though.
Predominantly grey with four white legs, he’s not a bad looking fellow as far as felines go. I resisted the temptation to name him Socks, because that’s just a little too cliche, and is probably his real name anyway,
Because his socks go all the way up his legs, I decided instead to name him Chaps. I generally leave him alone, like any sensible person would when someone in chaps wanders through your yard, but he can be a little annoying at times.
Chaps doesn’t have the manners that Scraps has. He shamelessly sits atop the grill, sniffing out and licking up whatever I cooked the night before, and has a real knack for finding chicken bones in the garbage can.
When a stray decides that my place is the place to be, I don’t get too upset. They’re usually up well before me anyway, they don’t stay too long, and they never complain about the music.
It isn’t always easy to come up with the right name for a backyard guest, so don’t force it. Give it some time, and the right one will come.
Earlier this summer, another cat started showing up and competing with Chaps for a little taste of barbecue sauce and pork ribs, with a hint of buttered shrimp, garlic and rosemary.
Covered in black fur except for one white leg, such a cat could only have one name.
Gordon Whitefoot.
I don’t see Gordon Whitefoot too often, probably because he is on tour this summer, and has an estate far superior to my humble abode.
And I don’t know if he likes his new name, but it has to be better than what my grandmother came up with; when she would swing her corn broom and call everything Scram.