I will always be poor and that is okay. I know if I won the lottery today, tomorrow we would be looking at a place with land and room for an exotic animal menagerie where my wife and kids could mother to hundreds of furry friends. Some might even be feathered but not many. I’m certain they (all the women in my life) would grow the operation until all the lottery winnings were spent and we would die alone in the middle of hundreds of wonderful animals.

There is a look that Supermom gives me when the thought of a new animal enters her mind. A sideways glance that tells me instantly, “This next question is just a formality. You sir, are getting a new pet.” I have learned to offer helpful dissension while planning for the event.

A few quick examples;

Chester is a cute puppy we rescued from the underside of a bridge. He appeared to be a Golden Retriever. He grew to be half Great Pyrenees and now weighs 102 pounds.

Victorious was a kitten that threw herself at my feet while running from a dog attack. The children were watching it unfold from the side window of the minivan. I picked up the bleeding ball of grey fur and placed her in a cage with some milk and a warm towel. She survived a day so I gave her worm medicines. This made things worse as her system cleansed but in five days it was a new kitten. She now remembers me by voice and finds me when I visit her new home.

Friday we got some chickens for Easter. One chicken was actually a repayment owed to my mother for the aforementioned rescued dog, Chester Sparkles, eating a hen that got out of the house. It’s a farm and the circle of life comes round on the regular. Anyway, the baby chicks are little fuzz balls that chirp and peck. The number one name suggested was “Pecker” or “Mr. Pecker”. I completely support a chicken named “Pecker” because it is logical and ironic at the same time. Supermom has the override. No Mr. Pecker but we do have four new chickens living in a cage on the back porch.

Then, Friday, I am walking out of Walmart and I pass my mother walking in. She says, “You’ll never guess what is in my truck.”

“Hmmm. An animal of some sort.”

“TeeHee, Its goats! They are so cute!”

Jane mentioned wanting a goat and Mamaw just needed an excuse. Why do I surround myself with these hopeless animal lovers?

I carried the kids to see the babies the next morning and they insisted on naming them.

Prima picked her favorite baby goat and decided instantly that his name was “Boobfreckles”. The goat has skin wattles that dangle from his neck and I guess to a five year old they look like boobs. And freckles…? The dangles are just part of the marking of the specific breed. That didn’t matter to Prima, they are obviously boob-freckles.

I couldn’t believe she called him Mr. Boobfreckles. It is definitely better than “Tit-Neck” or “Nipple-Throat” or “Breast-Mole”. The other goat was spared the indignity of body part names and was named Cortez the Goatsplorer.

We need to work to influence the kid naming rules to move away from actual descriptions or any of the five senses. Think about it. We had animals named Blackie, Brownie, Whitey, Fluffy, Stinky, Speck, a three legged dog named Skip, and our cat is called CAT. Horses tend to have a white blaze on their forehead so there is a ten percent chance that any horse with a blaze is named Star. That may be the safest route, to name easy and innocent names.

If you have children who name animals after body parts, this post is for you. And to Mr. Boobfreckles. At least they didn’t wait until he matured, I am not standing in a field and calling for Mr. Danglenuts. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.