An opossum showed up underneath my bird feeder the other day. Look at me being all formal - hereafter, it shall be referred to as a possum. He's been coming back fairly regularly, too, which has added great excitement to my daughter's life.
She thinks he's cute, which is about the last adjective I would use to describe it. I certainly hope she refines her tastes by the time she starts looking into a mate. While all kids are cute in their own way...nobody wants trolls for grandchildren.
Since she hasn't even turned 3 yet, perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself a bit.
On several occassions we have watched him, and I have played the role of amateur backyard marsupial biologist as she queried me about him. "Does he have thumbs? Can I pet him? Will he lick my face?"
Well honey, I imagine that he has thumbs but he's a bit shy and we should probably allow him to eat in peace. (That is all daddy-speak for, "I wouldn't go near that rat with a 10 foot pole.")
The other morning, we walked upstairs to her room to get ready for school and she asked what his name was. I pondered for a moment, and thought "Roscoe" would make a fine name. When we got to the top of the flight, she looked at me in all seriousness and asked, "Did you say 'Shopko', Daddy?"
I corrected her that I said Roscoe, to which she replied, "But I like Shopko!" So now she has an adopted wild possum named Shopko that lives in a tree. She informed me of that last tidbit. I can neither confirm nor deny where his home is.
My father reminded me that the 'talent' for naming animals is inherited. When I was little, I loved trains. In fact, my favorite book was "Tootle the Train." So when my folks got a little black lab puppy when I was about 2, I began calling it "Tootles."
The name stuck. My poor dad. He had this beautiful, graceful hunting dog. When he was afield, the other hunters would be directing their dogs, "Rex, heel!", or "Magnum, come!" My dad was stuck with, "Tootles, fetch!" I have a newfound appreciation for my dad and what parents will do for their kids.
The worst part of it for me is that I have an eternal connection to that name. You know the stripper game, right? Your first pet's name + name of the street you grew up on = your stripper name.
Ergo, my handle is the uber-erotic Tootles Van Buren. That's right, ladies. Tip those hips, Tootles Van Buren is in the house. Awesome. At least I know a guy, 'Spanky Evergreen', who sympathizes with me.
Hopefully, civilization will have evolved/my daughter will be more high-minded than her father and that silly name game will have run its course by the time she gets old enough to have to share her name.
Furthermore, I'm hopeful that she remembers that she had a pet dog for the first 2 years of her life...and that Shopko the possum isn't her first 'pet.'
Otherwise, I fear that she will mention this silly possum when she plays that game. I'm sure up nort' there are, ahem, "gentlemen's clubs" where a gal named Shopko Heather would command top (wrinkled, filthy) dollar.
But still. While I hope she becomes a scientist or an astronaut, I'd like to think she's a little classier than that.
Maybe it isn't too late to change his name to Target...
