The dog's name is Pollywog.
She's black. She's fat in the front end and skinny in the butt end and she only has a couple of legs.
You want to call her Trixie but she's been called Pollywog for half of her dog life which, in dog years, is still half her life.
If your brain is as intact as the dog's life, meaning you have half a one, then you will start calling your wife Trixie and just leave the darned mutt alone.
You can't, after all, teach an old Wog new Trix.
So today I caught myself doing something I haven't done since high school: I practiced writing Mrs. Cathy Webster.
I can't believe I just admitted that!
What am I, 12? HA!
Seriously, though, I am going to need some practice. Like ol leg-challenged Wog, I am an old dog. I don't have too many new trix in me. It's going to be challenging to learn a new name; nay, another new name.
Name number three. Robb. Olliffe. And, in September, Webster.
I see a trend towards the tail end of the alphabet here. I wonder what that means.
It's a good thing I'm not terribly attached to my names. Seems I'm trading them like hockey cards.
I've thought a bit about the whole name-thing. It is quite fashionable, these days, to keep the name you were born with, or to hyphenate it, or to pick something new altogether.
I don't want to go back to Robb, although I'm proud of the name and my family ... it's been so long, that's all, that it seems almost to belong to someone else.
And I certainly don't want to stick with Olliffe, my ex's name, although I have grown fond of signing Cathy O. It has a Jackie O flavour to it that I quite enjoy.
I thought having a different name than the boys might be an issue but they know who they are and they know who I am and I don't think they'll confuse their mother just because she has a new name.
If they do, I'll wear a name tag.
And perhaps hire them a tutor.
Perhaps if I have any questions about my new name I can ask Dave's ex, who, coincidentally, is also Mrs. Cathy Webster.
That's all I need to say about that.