by Rand E Oertle

Created on: April 14, 2009

Blue Air

It was my master's wife's fault from the very beginning. I really didn't even find out about it until I was older, old enough to have earned some respect. For the first six months of my life, I thought my name was Kipper, a reasonably fun name for a studly square-faced boxer like me. I don't like to brag, but I was beautiful with my brindle coat, perfectly cut ears and tail and a "chest line" to die for.

I didn't walk, I pranced. I was the master of my domain, until of course, my master came home. He was one of those kind of humans who tried to act stern, but I could win him over with just a bounce or two and a tail wagging for all its worth.

"Hi Kipper" he'd say.

I would shake with excitement. I'd jump around, wag and being a boxer salivate, or as "she" called it, "slobber." She was very nice and fed me well and regularly. But the master was the MASTER, and boy did I love my master. He had a couple of kids, a girl and boy, but he was the real boss. Anything to make him happy was my main goal in life, and when I heard that proud-of-me, tone in his voice it was a thrill and a chill. I could be deliriously happy for days.

The boy kid was named Rand. He was great fun and played with me all the time, but he knew who my heart and loyalty really belonged to...his dad. At about 6 months after my ear forms were removed, I remembered a conversation the boy had with the wife, his mother.

They were talking about my name "Kipper" and he asked his mother where she'd gotten the name. To my shock and chagrin she said "Oh, I took it from a can of Kipper Snacks. What did she think I was a fish? I was burned. I'm not a fish. I have papers to prove that I'm a full-fledged registered, good-looking if I do say so myself, Boxer. I have my pride, ya know! But it only got worse.

The wife tells the kid, that Kipper, was just my nick name. Oh, great, if my nick name is taken from a can of kippered herring, what name did this woman put on my official registration papers. I dreamed, of course, that if I could read, I would read on my papers: "King the Magnificent," "Lord of the Manor and Grounds," or "Glorious Idol of Dogdom." My mind flew into ever more fanciful dreams of my glorious name.

Then I heard it. I was more than bummed. It was, well, embarrassing that a splendiferous specimen like me had the officially registered name of, I can hardly say it: "Jotta, Jotta, Jing, Jing." Where in heaven's name did this female person come up with that? I should have taken a dump in her kitchen!

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