Huckleberry is the name of my cat. Shelley is the name of my turtle. And Gobbler is the name of my dog, an adorable black pug.
Okay. I don't have a cat. Or a turtle. Or an adorable black pug.
But I DO love picking out pet names. This hasn't always been the case. I got ownership of my first cat when I was around 4 years old. Handicapped by the pressure to pick the "right" name, the cat became affectionately known as "Blankety-Blank." My next cat, a white bruiser, was named "Coconut." Cute, right? I was probably around 7. (I got a new cat after I discovered Blankety-Blank's rotting carcass in the bushes at the home of one of our neighbors; he had clearly been hit by a car, or maybe mauled by Sasquatch.)
I think the seeds of my affection for clever and ironic pet names can be traced to my dad. While my people were primarily cat people (with a rotating cast of hamsters, guinea pigs and bunnies), my dad once brought home a three-legged dog he found by the side of the road. We called it "Tripod." A dog we got while on a camping vacation was named "Wimpy" because it cried whenever I locked it inside the family tent. And, my childhood best friend's brother's friend once had a dog named "Deeohgee" (say it aloud -- you'll get it.)
BMG and I are getting a kitten, and he will be named "Huckleberry." I'll keep you posted.