The son—named Kelson, who his mother Maxine said from her hospital bed of pain, “name him anything you want”—asked:
“What are you going to name that dog?”
That dog, tongue extended in a pant, was a 20-inch-tall statuette given by my second daughter Cynthia, in exchange for a horse—yet to be delivered. And as readers know, children and animals must be named.
The Golden Retriever who sailed with us was Captain Jack. The Calico cat shipmate we named Bosun Mate. And yes, our sailing family named one dog Skipper.
Maxine’s miniature French poodle was named after the fourth French Musketeer D’Artagnan.
Our last pet, an adopted two-year-old standard poodle, we renamed. Instead of Buddy, we kept a similar sound and named him Brandy.
When her three children gave Margaret a baby Russian Blue kitten, she named him Sasha. A nickname belonging to a university student in Russia who looked after us for four months. And a nickname for Alexander—once a Russian Czar.
Decided to name the dog statuette Fred. Same as my closest university friend. Fred worked his way through college as an apprentice printer. Later, I became Publisher Fred Barbee’s partner in weekly newspapers and a radio station.
In editing classes I warned students about the deadline demands of a not-so-mythical Fred-the-Printer.
Dog statuette, tongue protruding outside jaws, caused me to choose a full name: Fred-the-Panter.
