Having attended an all male school from grades 6-12 and been raised by my father from the age of 13-18, some see extreme irony in the fact that I have three daughters. Yet they forget that I have a son, albeit a furry guy, named Woody.
Woody was our first kid. A practice run, if you will. We bought Woody from a breeder in 1997. Woody is a purebred Cockapoo. When I went to pick him up to put him in the car for his first ride home with us, he was sporting lipstick, and not the kind that women apply to their lips. At that point, at least for me, his name was made. When Jill raised the question about a name for him on the ride home, I relayed the anecdote about Woody's wood when I went to put him in the car. Jill blushed. She hemmed and hawed. How could that form the basis of his name? How would (no pun intended) we explain that to our friends? Family? Who cares. It was too funny. And so it was that Woody's wood would stick with him forever.
Not that a simple name is good enough in this family. Oh no, there must be nicknames. Some of Woody's call signs: Wood, Woodman, Woodster, Lissle Zozzie (Poppy's name for him), Mr. Butt (long story), Mister, Woodmont, Woodrow (when he is in trouble), Woodrow Wilson Dog (when he is real big trouble!), Eku (the kids came up with this one. I have no clue why), Woody Otter (after the playful otter we saw in Allentown, PA), and, recently, Old Man.
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