My mother once confessed that she was so frustrated over her inability to potty-train my younger brother who, not coincidentally, was her last child, that one day she sat down in the middle of the living room floor and cried. When my brother, who by this time was walking, talking and beginning to drive the car, asked what why she was crying she told him — and from that point forward he was miraculously trained. This story, by the way, pretty much tells you all you need to know about my mother and younger brother.
This story came back to me after we brought home our new puppy. We had no problem training Lucy; in fact by the end of the first week she was essentially housetrained, an impressive feat for a 9-week old puppy. My frustration was Lucy’s absolute refusal to come when called and although I was certainly not ready to weep in the middle of the floor, I would have considered shedding a couple of crocodile tears if I thought it would work.
That’s why last Saturday I was on the back porch calling “Lucy, Lucy,” over and over again while Lucy ignored me as she kept chewing Baby, the horrible, filthy stuffed monkey that is her constant companion. My partner came onto the porch. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Lucy still won’t come when I call her,” I said. “I don’t get it. She’s so smart otherwise.” I demonstrated: “Lucy, Lucy. Here, Girl.” Lucy rolled on her back and ignored me. “See?” I said.
My partner got a weird look on his face; after 20 years I know that look very well and I was instantly suspicious. “What?” I said.
He knelt down on one knee and whistled softly. “Ali,” he said. “Come here Ali.” At which point Lucy ran to him and licked his face. I was silent for a moment. “Ali?” I said politely. “Who is Ali?” As soon as I said “Ali” Lucy ran to me and licked my face.
My partner was instantly defensive. “This is Ali,” he said, referring to the beast who I had been calling Lucy. “Look at her face. She doesn’t look like a Lucy.” He paused. “I changed her name while you were stuck in New York City during Hurricane Sandy; I may have forgotten to tell you.”
“Huh, I said eloquently.
“It’s short for ‘Alligator’” he continued, “because when she bites down on something she won’t let go.” This was very true; as evidenced by the hapless Baby who was but a shell of her former self.
I had to agree that the new name did suit her better mainly because she would finally come when called and by the end of the week she was responding good-naturedly not only to “Ali,” but to all its logical derivatives: “Ali McBeal,” “Ali Gator,” “Ali Khan” and, my personal favorite, “Ali Baba.”
Several days later Ali and I were having a tug of war with Baby; I was determined to throw Baby in the washing machine and Ali was equally determined that I would not. “Ali Gator,” I said, panting slightly, “please let go.”
Just then my partner walked into the room; Ali instantly dropped Baby and ran over to lick his face. Not missing a beat I scooped up Baby and threw her in the washing machine with plenty of bleach. When I returned, my partner was looking at Ali thoughtfully.
“She sure is growing fast,” he said. “Do you think ‘Ali’ is a good name for a big dog?”