"We just need a name; you could change it later. How about 'Skid'?"
Skid. It worked, in a wry, sly, humorous kind of way. One syllable. Doesn't rhyme with important words like "come" and "no." No confusion with "Sunny" and "Coco" or "Sassy" and "Bumpus" and "Shoe," or even "Twister." Hum.
But I'd taken too long to answer.
Maybe, Dr. Powers suggested gently, maybe the joke was out of line, maybe the name wasn't appropriate.
He was such a small pup, curled up on that examining table.
Oh no, I assured her; the name works. It's a pretty good name, even. Go with it. We looked at the puppy curled on the examination table between us, she and I, and listened for a moment to the quiet shush of the air conditioner.
The first thing she was going to do, she said, was dip him. His skin was bumpy with fat ticks and crawling with fleas. Then she'd monitor him, deal with all of the problems that could pop up during the next several hours. She'd call periodically to report on his progress and check on my willingness to fund further procedures.
"He's a lucky dog," she said. "Most people would have just left him there."
"I couldn't do that," I said. >>
