Let's Not Rush This

My mom gives me a dog for my ninth birthday. She says, “There needs to be some father figure in this household” as she fits as collar around his neck. He’s a Bernese Mountain breed with a lame hind leg and fur that sticks to your hands if its was hot. Mom says he needs an ID ‘straight away’ and asks me his name.
“I don’t have a name yet,” I say.
She rolls her eyes and stops working the collar. “It’s just a name Andrew,” she says.

Mom gets like this. Exasperated is the word Dad uses. She breathes loudly through her nose and starts tapping one foot.

“Don’t be so exasperated mom,” I say, but that just makes her more. Now she’s pulling on the collar and the dog lets out a small whine.

“Can I think about it? I need time,” I say. She nods but it doesn’t seem enough so I add, “I need to see what kind of dog he is.”

I know what she’ll say. She’ll say, “He’s a Bernese Mountain dog!” but that’s not the point. I need to know what name will fit. Dad says I’m such an Andrew and Mom says she gave me the name so I hope she’ll understand how important this is.

“Well what are we going to call him while you make up your mind?”

“Dog?” I say, and she lifts her hands up like the criminals do with cops and says, “whatever you want.”

It doesn’t take long for me to meet Dog. Or maybe I should say all of Dogs. He’s not a ‘straight shooter’ as mom would say. He’s actually everything. He can be sad or mad or quiet. Like yesterday, Mom had me wait in my room when Dad dropped me off. Dog ran into my room - crashing into my legs, licking my ankles. He was really, really happy. Then when the shouting started Dog froze, his eyes look wetter and he pushed his face up against mine as we sat in the corner quietly, listening.

It comes to me that same day. It’s a good name and I am excited to tell Mom. “I’ve got a name for Dog!” I say.

“Oh?” She’s at the computer reading something without her glasses. She doesn’t look up.

“Proteus,” I say.

She scrunches her face in a way that makes her look small and says, “Prometheus?”. From her tone I can tell she doesn’t like it.

“No!” I say, getting exasperated myself. “Proteus.”

“What is that?”

“It’s a Greek sea god,” I say. She spins around and her eyebrows sat high on her face.

“Mom, Proteus changed into anything he wanted. He was a changer,” I say. Still she looks confused. Dad was right when he said Mom just didn’t get it.

“Like a Transformer, mom!”

She speaks slowly and gives me a weird look. “Did your Dad teach you this?”

I watched it on the Transformers DVD extras but I didn’t want to tell her that. Instead I say, “I can read Mom”.

Her mouth is open and she looks as wounded as Proteus, when he was just Dog, that day they were fighting. I bite my lip and looked to Proteus. That was only yesterday.

I think she might say no, give him an easier name and I start thinking up a good backup when she says, “How do you spell it?” and I have to admit I don’t know.