Did You Ever Call You Car A Girl?

Did you ever call your car a girl?  Some say it signifies something.


Who knows.

Does  The Honorable (and lamented) late David Crockett’s act of naming his musket “Betsy” signify anything?  Davey – and his famed but probably mythic coonskin cap spent a lot of time away from home and hearth, wife and kin.  He slept, possibly, more times with Betsy than his bride.

Do people who name their cars do the same.  Remember, cars are not cats.  This is an important distinction.  Cats have claws and fine discrimination, though like dogs have morals belonging in an alley.  My Teddy Bear – which I taught to kick off from the ceiling at age eight or so through its mysterious disappearance about age 14 (both of us were fourteen at the time if you must know the sordid details) was named, not oddly at all: “Teddy.

I think that failed Republican president namesake would have approved of the name if not the familiarity and the aerial lessons as well.  But stuffed terrycloth appropriately appointed and dyed are not cars or rifled muskets from Kentucky. So the question stands still: what do we make of men (mostly, though some television would have us believe women play the noumenal game as well) who affix anthropomorphic labels to their guns or cars – or possibly both?

I understand – though it falls a mite too close to the above topic – the need to afix names to dogs, cats, canaries, horses, chicken, ducks, geese, elephants, and pet fish: after all, did not The Deity so charge man with the naming of the kine?  But, then why no personal name for worms, butterflies, toads, sickle cells or even, gasp, doormen or ushers?

The query has evoked a churn.  I hate National Public Radio.


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