So. Nori. Some of you might be familiar with that word, but many are not. When Nori and I first met, her fur was jet-black with some texture and her name was not Nori. I thought of the black seaweed prepared into thin strips and wrapped around various raw fish, cooked things, and seasoned rice. The name just seemed to fit her. So I changed the name given to her by the rescue organizer and "Nori" was reborn.
Often, when people ask her name, and I say, "Nori", the response is, "oh, hi LORI." A few months into being Nori's human, I would correct the verbal offenders, and say, "No - it's NNNORI, with an 'N'." Now, I rarely bother to correct anyone who butchers her name. It does annoy me that anyone thinks I would name my dog Lori (I mean, come on, have you ever met a dog named Lori?), but I often don't have the energy to do my spiel about what it means and how to pronounce it.
That's another thing: pronunciation. Nori is a Japanese word, so the correct pronunciation involves the rolling of the "r". I find that Spanish speakers (in addition to Japanese speakers, obviously) have the ability to pronounce her name correctly, no problemo. Someone I know actually called her "Nordy", which made me think of the Nordic Track.
In turn, my significant other gets annoyed with yours truly when I anglo-cize "Nori", failing to roll the "r" properly so that it is easier for many to understand. I can understand this point of view. The United States is a nation of immigrants, and I wish people with names like Chan Kong, Eduardo, or Anoushka never felt the need to change their names to Jackie, Ed, or Ann, just because they wanted a name that seemed easier to pronounce properly. However, learning to roll your "r"s isn't always an easy task, and I'm not in the business of teaching people how to do it.
So her name is Nori. Don't wear it out, but you can practice saying it out loud.
12 October 2009
"Rescue" is the new black...
So...here we go. I have decided to remain faceless and nameless in writing this blog because my muse, my inspiration, is my little dog, Nori. So she deserves any recognition that might (or might not!) result from this creative endeavor.
Nori is a rescue dog. She is loving, lovable, funny, fun, objectively cute, quirky (more on that later), emotional, and objectively of an above-average-for-a-dog intelligence. However, when people stop to ask me about her, inevitably one of the first questions is, "What kind of dog is she?" After over a year of being her human, I have my response down cold, and it always involves the explanation that she's some kind of mutt and from a rescue organization.
Rescue. After Obama announced post-victory, many months ago, that Sasha and Malia earned their new puppy, he also made a point of stating that their family would seek out a rescue dog. Never mind that Bo Obama is not REALLY a rescue dog (there's been enough written on that topic, so I won't bother with it here). More importantly, Obama generated support for the idea that adopting or rescuing a dog is Cool with a capital "C".
Case in point: one day, walking Nori in the city, a very attractive, made-up, and dare-I-say posh woman stopped me to comment on Nori's adorability (is that a word?) and to utter the forthcoming question, "What kind of dog is she?"
Although I suspect Nori of being a "yorkie-poo", "schnoodle", or one of those other cutsey mashed-up doggie designations that's all the rage now, I steer clear of actually using those words and incorporate the words "some kind of poodle mutt" and "rescue". In response, the woman said, "Oh, well I have a rescue dog too."
I find that superfluous response more and more common. Previously, when "rescue" was used to describe a pet, it was offered more as an apology/explanation when the pet did something otherwise inexcusable (e.g., snarled at an outstretched hand or chewed a hole through the fence). As in, "oh, sheesh, I'm sorry but, you know, he's a rescue." Now there's some sort of invisible, hipster badge attached to having a rescued animal. Rescued animals are no longer seen as simple charity cases. Now, having a rescue connotes that you're empathetic, sympathetic, generous, patient, humane, and diplomatic, among other good qualities.
I suppose it doesn't really matter if "rescue" is the new black. I just hope it isn't a trend that goes away so quickly, especially in this day and age of lay-offs, foreclosures, and the resulting overflowing animal shelters and rescue organizations.
Nori is a rescue dog. She is loving, lovable, funny, fun, objectively cute, quirky (more on that later), emotional, and objectively of an above-average-for-a-dog intelligence. However, when people stop to ask me about her, inevitably one of the first questions is, "What kind of dog is she?" After over a year of being her human, I have my response down cold, and it always involves the explanation that she's some kind of mutt and from a rescue organization.
Rescue. After Obama announced post-victory, many months ago, that Sasha and Malia earned their new puppy, he also made a point of stating that their family would seek out a rescue dog. Never mind that Bo Obama is not REALLY a rescue dog (there's been enough written on that topic, so I won't bother with it here). More importantly, Obama generated support for the idea that adopting or rescuing a dog is Cool with a capital "C".
Case in point: one day, walking Nori in the city, a very attractive, made-up, and dare-I-say posh woman stopped me to comment on Nori's adorability (is that a word?) and to utter the forthcoming question, "What kind of dog is she?"
Although I suspect Nori of being a "yorkie-poo", "schnoodle", or one of those other cutsey mashed-up doggie designations that's all the rage now, I steer clear of actually using those words and incorporate the words "some kind of poodle mutt" and "rescue". In response, the woman said, "Oh, well I have a rescue dog too."
I find that superfluous response more and more common. Previously, when "rescue" was used to describe a pet, it was offered more as an apology/explanation when the pet did something otherwise inexcusable (e.g., snarled at an outstretched hand or chewed a hole through the fence). As in, "oh, sheesh, I'm sorry but, you know, he's a rescue." Now there's some sort of invisible, hipster badge attached to having a rescued animal. Rescued animals are no longer seen as simple charity cases. Now, having a rescue connotes that you're empathetic, sympathetic, generous, patient, humane, and diplomatic, among other good qualities.
I suppose it doesn't really matter if "rescue" is the new black. I just hope it isn't a trend that goes away so quickly, especially in this day and age of lay-offs, foreclosures, and the resulting overflowing animal shelters and rescue organizations.
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