We call our dog Dogma. Christian Dogma. Usually we shorten it to Chris but whenever we want to make guests uneasy we use Chris’s formal name. Contrary to what you might think, the poor canine was named by my six-year-old brother, who, so far, has no grasp of formal Christian dogma and doesn’t realize the sweet, sweet irony of the dog’s name.
Dogma was christened after my little brother watched an episode of Thundercats. He loved the crusty, rotting, antagonist, Mum Ra, and thought he could use a similar naming scheme for our shiny new labradoodle puppy. He started with DogRa but the family thought that sounded too Mongolianoid so he suggested we call him Dogma. The name stuck like thrift store crazyglue, and the educated folks in the family still chuckle with insider joke satisfaction at every utterance of the dog’s name.
One day, maybe two weeks ago, our pastor and his wife came over for pork dinner. While they were eating and excitedly discussing obscure theological minutiae with my parents, Christian Dogma jumped onto the table and gobbled up all their pork tenderloins.
Well executed.
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