Here's a fun little story from my childhood. It's probably Floyd's favorite and today is his birthday so instead of a tribute to him, here's something to make him laugh (when he reads it in a month or so).
When I was about 3-years-old, my parents brought home two baby kittens. My sister and
I promptly gave them the names Kelli and Katie, which probably not
coincidentally, were our own names.
That's what happens when you let 3- and 4-year-olds choose the names. We loved those cats!
I'm on the right. And I really love my knee socks.
It
wasn't until a few weeks later that the names became a problem. My mom took us to watch my
dad's baseball game. As we pulled out of
the driveway, she hit a cat. The cat was
injured, but alive, so she quickly drove to the baseball
field a few blocks away.
When we got to the game, she
hurried to the fence and called to my dad who was the first baseman. He was likely unimpressed that she was interrupting
the game, but his emotions changed when she said, "I just ran over
Kelli." In a panic, he said,
"Is she okay?" (note - my dad is not really known for being calm in emergency situations while my mom, the nurse, is totally professional). My mom replied,
"Oh, I don't know, she's home on the driveway kind of flopping
around. I think I broke her leg."
My dad was terrified and stricken and as he
tried to process this information, my mom continued with, "Do you think I
should just back over her again?" It was this startling statement that made him realize it was Kelli the cat, not Kelli his
daughter who was injured.
We learned our
lesson and named our next cat Goblin.
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