In Which I Become Afeared of Lady Felicity Marchwell's Wrath

Or perhaps, more accurately, her disappointment.

I'm supposed to be working on a new wedding dress. I have half a corset and bits and pieces of a tartan crinoline scattered over the desk. However, John-Lewis doesn't stock left-handed sewing scissors these days, so I'm typing with one hand while my other twitches on the desk trying to recover from the pain of using tools designed for the dexterous members of the human-race. My thumb is a lovely shade of violet in case you were wondering. (I'm fairly certain that you weren't, but I was taught to share).

I didn't mean to start a new blog post. I know one is long over due but when I started this break from sewing I intended to wrap a birthday present. I have, however, run into a bit of a snag: I can't find it. And writing this post may keep me from freaking out.

I bought the missing present months ago, having spotted the perfect gift at one of those rare times when I had both the means and the inclination to shop (a rare thing these days). Husbando agreed that it was an ideal gift for Lady Felicity Marchwell (names have been changed to protect the innocent) and we coasted through late Winter and early Spring, content in the knowledge that a good friend, in possession of a variety of hobbies, would not be in want of a gift.

Wherever her present is at the moment it is certainly very SAFE, but it's doing neither myself nor her Ladyship any good. Unless my brain decides to cooperate and I can dredge the location of the gift from my memory, I will need to find something else to give to Lady F. She may like the replacement, but I will know that it isn't right. Part of me will always wonder if she would have liked the original gift better. Anything I find will be tainted by the fact that it is not what I meant to give her. If I can even find a replacement.

'But it's just a present,' you say. 'Calm down dear. You'll find something else.'

Yes, I will. I will find something else and I will attend Lady Felicity's Festivities with a happy heart and I will have a good time. But that doesn't change the fact that somewhere in my house is a present which cannot be given.

There is almost nothing sadder than a present that cannot be given.

Things You Cannot Name a Dog

I was having a conversation with my father last night. They are thinking of getting a new dog. We discussed the where and the how and the when and even though nothing about the actual purchase of said dog has been decided, and the entire conversation was only theoretical, we then moved on to the most important question of all: what to name it.

Earlier we had been talking about the rules of the English language (my dad and I frequently have this kind of conversation. Some people take their kids fishing, my Dad talks to me about rules of syntax and diction. I like it this way.) We became fixated on the fact that there are some rules that we simply cannot explain. For example: I can say 'the long, thin, metal rod' but saying 'the metal, thin, long rod' sounds wrong and I automatically reject it as an option when deciding word order. Why? What is the rule that governs this? How does my brain know that 'long thin metal rod' works but the other options don't when no one has told me what the rule is? I can't sufficiently explain it and neither can he. But we both know that the words belong in a certain order and we will always follow that undefined rule.

Back to the dog discussion.

In the same way that there are word orders that are correct and word orders that we reject, there are some things that you simply cannot name a dog. Not without it being strange. Why is this? What rules govern the naming of dogs and why is it weird to name a dog Jason? Not that my Dad wants to name the dog Jason. He just wonders why he can't. The problem boiled down to three basic points:

There are some names that work for dogs that don't work for people, like Spot.

There are some names that work for both people and dogs, like Max.

And then there are people names that simply do not work for Dogs:

Gregory.

Ruth.

Michael.

Think about it. You have a dog, some kind of spaniel maybe. A nice dog, maybe a bit drool-y and he chews your shoes, but he's sweet. You introduce him to a friend and you say; 'This little guy is Robert. We got him from Animal Control.'

No.

Bob works - I know of a lovely Bob-the-Dog, but Bob isn't short for Robert. Max, Rex, Heather, Rosie, Holly, Abbie, Angus and Norman work. So it isn't a rule against giving animals people names. Some people names simply don't compute. Robert, as a dog name, doesn't work. Neither do Susan, Anita, Peter, Maria, Anthony, David or Tracy.

Seriously - can you picture yourself in a park shouting 'Peter! Peter come back here! Get away from that duck!'

I can't. It seems silly and I would never name my dog Peter.

Why?

We talked about it for awhile and could only come up with vague boundaries - things that are not part of the rule but which help narrow it down:

- It has nothing to do with being able to add an 'ie' to the end - Ruthie and Suzie don't work any better on a dog than Ruth or Susan, though they both work for people.

- More formal versions of names are not automatically out - both Michael and Gregory are out (as are Mike and Greg) but Max and Maximilian work (though we conceded that Maximilian might only work on some dogs - probably a sheepdog).

- Traditional names sometimes work and sometimes don't: you can't call a dog Edmund, Edward, Timothy or but you can get away with Arthur and Norman.


My father has decided that as he cannot explain the rule, he's going to flout it. The current front runners for the name of the new dog are Gary and Elizabeth. My mother, who has no choice but to take part in these conversations when they happen, is angling for Harriet or Susan. The decision on 'to dog or not to dog' seems to have been decided in favour of 'to dog'. All because you can't name a dog Gregory.

I'll let you know how poor Gary/Elizabeth/Harriet/Susan gets on.