We are boarding a Morgan gelding named Wind Dancer. He’s OK for a horse, I suppose, but I don’t like him. He thinks he’s special just because he has a cool name. Why should some dumb animal have a dashing romantic name like that, when I’m stuck with plain old boring “George”? In fact, my name freaks me out. It’s weird and unnerving that my parents had the premonition to name me “George”, before I was born. It’s like somehow they knew that was what everybody was going to keep calling me once I emerged from the womb.
Anyway, it’s cruelly unfair that I can’t have a name with at least as much panache as a horse. Imagine that you’re be-bopping along, minding your own business. Suddenly, you hear somebody off to your left calling out “Hey, George!” At the same precise instant, off to your right, you hear a different voice calling, “Hey, Wind Dancer!” Which direction is curiosity going to turn your head, do you suppose? Are you going to instinctively rubberneck to look at the guy with a name like a balding middle-aged plumber, or will you be desperate to get a glimpse of the being whose name is reminiscent of a Native American Chief or a groovy hippy chick? See what I mean?
To read the entire story please visit our Chinook pages.