It has happened again. We should have known it would happen. It happened to her mother. And to her mother’s mother. And now it has happened to her.
First was her grandmother who went through reams of names which wouldn’t stick. The only thing that would stick was “Big Orange,” since she was quite large and bright orange.
This is a naming problem that runs in the farmer’s family, the tendency to just call an animal by its color. The farmer’s family, growing up, would always – just for example - have a black cat. The cat would have a clever official name, like Midnight or Satan.
The farmer’s father would come home from work and see the cat and say, “oh, hello, Blackie.” Or, “where is Blackie?” And all the cats gradually became Blackie.
Anyway finally Big Orange received a name through the kindness of blog commenters. It was an X Year so it was particularly difficult to think of anything, but in the end a brilliant name was devised for her even though we must admit that to this day around the barn everyone calls her Big Orange.
Eventually she had a daughter who was also orange, but a much paler orange, and not quite as large as B.O. This daughter was called Tangerine, or Tangy for short, but that couldn’t be allowed to stick because it was a Y Year. So eventually another excellent name came from the blog, even though – you guessed it – everyone here still calls her Tangy.
Well, owing to some new slats on the buck gate which apparently allow for conjugal visiting through the eye of the needle, Tangy is now a teenage mother. Her week-old daughter, who is the palest orange yet – shading actually into pinkish-yellowish – has already been through several names.
It is a Z Year, and her failed monikers include: Zinnia, Zinbad, ZZ-Top, Agent Zero, Zinfandel, and Zsa Zsa. She is now being called – you guessed it - Pinky.
She needs a real name. A Z Name. One that will stick to her.