Who's in the doghouse?

To my father, all dogs are male. I don't know how many times last week he called Hopeful "him," but I know that after the second day, I gave up trying to correct him. Can't teach an old dog new pronouns.

My parents' visit revealed to me how much more I know about my neighbors' dogs than about my neighbors. We went for a drive around my usual walking route and my narration went something like this: "That's where Leo DiCaprio lives. That's not his real name, but he's this cute little runt of a dog that thinks he's the king of the world, always trying to order around those nosy basset hounds. Up here is where Grizzly lives--he looks scary but he's a real sweetheart--and across the way is Goofy, which is not his real name but we call him that because he lopes like a Disney dog. Up the hill here you may see Courage, a scraggly-looking but friendly mutt, and then around the corner is the perky beagle named Scout, who likes to tag along on walks. On your left you'll see the house where Duke used to live until he decided to curl up and die under our back shed. That's his son there, Duke Junior, but he's not quite as gregarious as his dad."

I could go on. Just don't ask me the names of all the human beings who live with these animals. I know a few of them to say Hello to but I know only one of them very well. I don't see most of my neighbors much, but I encounter their dogs often enough to know how to handle their personalities, and when I refer to them, I always choose the correct pronoun.

One of these days I'll learn the trick of knowing my neighbors. Until that happens, I'll cut my dad some slack for choosing the wrong pronoun.