Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates.
AN: Written on the two hour train ride to Uni's Open Day and on the two hour return trip in a non air-conditioned train in over 30 degree heat. Gotta love summer Down Under. Inspired after naming the wallaby that eats in the garden on the odd occasion. A little lighter than anything inI'll Be Back Soon and Devils in Disguise. The Plot Bunny of Silly Shenanigans strikes again...
The Importance of Naming a Tracy
The decision to get a family pet was not one Jeff and Grandma Josie Tracy had agreed on lightly. Josie figured that five Tracy grandsons were enough of a handful as it was, and adding a pet to the mix would effectively add another Tracy to the family. She wasn't sure she could handle it.
After months of the boys' good behaviour, pleading, badgering and even employing the puppy-dog eye look on their father – the look that Lucille and Grams had grown immune to – the two adults had caved in, on the proviso that it would be the boys that looked after the pet and cleaned up after it. It was like a precursor to raising a child, and Jeff had hoped that the experience would put Scott, or even John – who knew what teens did these days? – off from attempting to make him an extremely young grandfather.
The boys had agreed to the conditions easily. Too easily, Josie Tracy realised. She hadn't worked out that the boys had crossed their fingers behind their back when they agreed.
Of course, the next decision proved difficult too; it was hard to get the boys to agree on what pet they would have. It was an unorthodox family meeting, Josie reflected, as the boys had the opportunity to express their desire for their preferred family pet.
"I'd like…" Scott mused, stroking the bottom of his chin thoughtfully. Josie heaved a sigh of relief as she spotted her eldest grandchild was clean shaven, having finally given up on the idea of maintaining stubble to assert his masculinity. "I'd like a kitten. Or a bunny."
Peals of laughter burst out around the dining room table. John retched theatrically into his cereal bowl. At fifteen, John was going through his I-hate-anything-cutesy-and-fluffy stage.
"A kitten? My God, Scott, your oestrogen levels have skyrocketed if you want a kitten!" Gordon howled, banging his fists on the solid oak. "Shouldn't have shaved the hobo facial hair from your face. You'd have been more man."
"First of all, Gordon, I don't have high levels of oestrogen in me; I'm pretty sure I'm male." A pause, as Scott looked to his lap. "I just checked; I'm certain I'm a man."
"Doctors could have gotten it wrong when you were born, back when the dinosaurs were still alive," Gordon taunted.
Ignoring Gordon, Scott went on to justify his bizarre pet choice. "A kitten depicts your inner personality. I wouldn't expect an eleven year old to understand it. A kitten or a bunny says, I'm sensitive, and I'm not afraid to cry in a completely manly way. Chicks dig that."
John rolled his cornflower blue eyes exasperatedly. Trust Scott to try and use his pet to attract the fairer sex. He had no intention of exploiting the latest addition to the Tracy family in that way.
"Alright, Scott, your preference has been noted," Jeff said. "John?"
"I want an armadillo."
"John, it has to be a practical pet," Jeff sighed, placing his pen down.
"An armadillo is practical," John argued. "It's armoured on all sides, making it resistant to attack."
And there it was; the reason John wanted an armadillo. Due to his supreme intelligence, John had often found himself a victim of bullying throughout his schooling career. Even though teachers at school were informed of the situation John faced, very little was done to prevent the matter from escalating further. To John, an animal that was resistant to attack would have been practical, perhaps even the embodiment of a wish John nurtured – to be safe and protected from the insults and violence that came his way.
"Failing the armadillo, I'll settle for a thoroughbred horse. Seventeen hands, so that I can enter it on the race track and make money from the winnings."
"Consider it noted," Jeff sighed, knowing that there was no way an armadillo or horse would make it as the Tracy family pet. Josie Tracy would never have allowed it.
"A budgie," Virgil stated. "Easy to look after, and they trill prettily."
Well, Jeff thought to himself, scrawling down Virgil's choice on his legal pad, we're more likely to get a bird than an armadillo.
"Fish," Gordon answered. No explanation necessary.
Alan wanted to adopt a tiger, but as soon as Jeff pointed out that the whole idea of having a pet was to teach them responsibility, the eight year old went off in a huff as his idea was rejected.
In the end, Josie Tracy had decided on a puppy, and that was the end of the matter.
The next free weekend, Jeff awoke well before his sons, intent on heading down to the local animal shelter to pick out a puppy. There was a reason to leaving the boys at home; firstly, he wanted to surprise them by making good on this promise, and secondly, he knew that his boys would squabble and bicker over the kind of puppy they would welcome into their lives. This way, he was able to prevent World War Three from breaking loose.
Cradling the box that held the newest addition close to his chest, Jeff assembled his rambunctious bunch in the kitchen.
"Meet the newest Tracy," he said, lowering the box so the kids could peer in. A small puppy dozed on a bundle of newspaper, tail tucked between its rear legs.
"What breed?" Virgil asked, placing a hand in to stroke the soft, dark fur of the puppy.
"A Doberman," Jeff replied.
"He's cute," Alan added, timidly copying Virgil.
"He'll be a real girl magnet," Scott grinned, earning him a cuff around the head from his father. "He's not aggressive, is he? It'll be a turn off for the ladies, if he is."
"The dog is not for you to use as a way of finding a girlfriend, Scott," Jeff warned. "You're meant to be looking after the puppy; it'll teach you responsibility. That's training, cleaning up after it, feeding it and playing with it."
"Yes, Father," Scott intoned, rolling his eyes.
"Does it have a name?" Gordon asked, pulling free from John, who stood as far away from the box as humanely possible.
"No. You can name her whatever you want. That's right, boys, her," Jeff reiterated, chuckling at the expression on their faces. "I figured you needed more female influence in your lives."
"Lightning McQueen!" Alan yelled, waking the puppy, who yapped loudly. Scott reached inside the box, lifted the puppy out and placed her in the newly purchased dog bed.
"It's a dog," John sniped, leaning against the stainless steel fridge, blonde hair covering his eyes. "Not a car."
"Fine," Alan responded aggressively, crossing his arms over his chest. "We'll just have to call her Muttley."
John raised one fine eyebrow, recognising the name of an antagonist from the retro cartoon Wacky Races. "Then that would make you Dick Dasterdly."
Screeching with rage, Alan flurried out of the kitchen, incensed that John had managed to wind him up so easily.
A week had passed, and the latest member of the Tracy family still did not have a name.
Well, that wasn't quite true; she simply wouldn't respond to any of the monikers the Tracy boys had tested out on her.
Alan insisted on calling her Muttley, despite Gordon repeatedly pointing out that the Doberman was female. The puppy, clearly unimpressed, ignored Alan's attempts to hail her.
Gordon, on the other hand, wanted to name her Nemo. Virgil had pointed out that Nemo meant nobody in Latin, but Gordon simply chortled and waved a dismissive hand in Virgil's direction. "If we lose her, heaven forbid, when someone asks us why we're looking, we can tell them we're finding Nemo."
Virgil preferred to call her Clementine. He justified the name by pointing out that they could whistle My Darling Clementine to call her back to them. Unfortunately, the idea didn't work; the dark browned, furred animal refused to return to heel when she heard the tune. Instead, she span around in helicopter circles, chasing her own tail, barking up a storm.
John, starting to warm up to his pet, had wanted to call her Kitty. "How can you not like a dog named Kitty?" he had reasoned, pointing out the irony of the name. It elicited a laugh from Scott and Virgil, and even Jeff had to hide his grin. But Kitty did not stick.
Scott, for the most part, had not attempted to give her a name. He relied on using terms of endearment to call her to him, alternating between 'honey', 'pumpkin' and 'cupcake'. John had placed a bet against him, challenging Scott to find a name the dog would respond to, under the condition that it couldn't be a name that came from food. A time limit had been set, and today was the last day for Scott to make good on the bet, otherwise he'd have to fork out ten dollars to his smug little brother.
It was late Friday evening when Scott came home, tired and out of sorts, after having a hard day of high school, and then an intensive ice hockey training session. His bones aching, his muscles sore and his brain fried, he wanted nothing more than to collapse into his favourite armchair and veg out in front of the television, watching the only movie – a romantic comedy, worst luck – showing while munching on popcorn.
Throwing his hockey kit in the back of the closet, leaving his skates out so he could sharpen the blades, Scott sighed in frustration. From the sounds upstairs, it seemed that Gordon and Alan were entangled in yet another fight and Grams was trying to sort it out, without disturbing Jeff as he worked in his office. Virgil was at a friend's house, starting on a group project and John, no doubt, was locked in the attic, gazing through his telescope.
Perhaps that's a sign, Scott thought craftily. Maybe I'll have popcorn and some of the muffin slices Gram's made without getting caught. After all, there are no witnesses to my crime.
He loaded the plate up with an array of sweets, coupled with several pieces of fruit – he was a stickler for balancing out sweets with healthy food – and headed into the lounge. Flicking on the television with the remote, Scott was ready to lean back and flop down onto the armchair. A pair of dark chocolate brown eyes peeked up at Scott from the cushions on the chair. Scott bit his tongue, frustrated at not being able to relax. How many times had he told the Doberman to not climb on the furniture?
Really, he huffed, one of the others should have sorted this out, instead of leaving me to deal with it.
"Get out of my chair, dammit," he ordered, pointing to the floor.
The puppy yapped and complied, jumping off the chair, landing on the floor with a thud. It was the first time the dog had followed an order without being enticed by the prospect of a treat, or a nugget of food. It seemed that Scott had found a name the dog would respond to. Scott smiled, stroking the Doberman softly behind the ears. He'd get to keep his ten dollars.
Take that, John!
"Dad? Grams?"
Two sets of feet thundered down the stairs.
"Scott? What is it?" Jeff asked.
"I found a name for the dog," Scott grinned, munching on one of the many apples on his plate.
"What is it?"
"Sit down, Dammit."
Josie Tracy sucked in a deep breath, thinking that the instruction was directed at her and Jeff. "Scott Jefferson Tracy! Don't you dare speak to your elders like that! Why, I have half a mind to wash your mouth out with soap right now!"
Marching over to her grandson, she pinched the tip of his ear tightly between her index finger and thumb, dragging him to the kitchen.
"Grams, no, wait, you've misunderstood!" Scott protested. "I was talking to the dog!"
Stunned, Josie released him, repeating what he had just said.
"Yeah. I found a name for her."
Jeff pursed his lips. He supposed he should have been grateful that Scott had managed to name the pet, as this would mean that she was more likely to respond to their calls. But dammit, Dammit was not what he would have voluntarily called his pet. Looking at the scene in front of him, he figured trying to change the dog's name would be like fighting against a rip tide; ill-advised and almost impossible.
"The name stays, Mother," Jeff sighed in resignation, resting on his haunches as he tickled the dog's underside. The puppy rolled over, panting furiously, tongue lolling out of her mouth to one side, tail wagging from side to side.
"Dammit the dog, welcome to the family."