in delight. But all we couldhear was â Hay -soos thisâ and â Hay -soos that,â and each time, we became more annoyed.
The nerve. To name someone elseâs pet. Why, Iâd never dream of going over to their house and presuming to rename one of their fancy cats. My back prickled.
I heard Miss Southern Belle, Bridgette, calling Flash from her backyard. â Yoo-hoo! Hah, Hay -soos! Come heah, darlin!â she cooed. I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth.
âDonât go, Flash. Donât go over there. Donât answer to that!â I sent thought waves to encapsulate my new donkey in a protective mental force field, willing him to stay away.
But no. Uh-uh. Flash appeared to be completely over his initial shyness as he trotted over to the fence, happy as a clam to respond to his alias  âespecially if there were carrots involved. Day after day, I watched in disgust as he sold his dignity for a handout. Flash, where is your self-respect?
This could mean only one thing: war. A subtle war. I hitched up my mom jeans and applied some lipstick. A shot of hair spray. Ready.
I dropped Flashâs name into every conversation with our neighbors, whether it fit the context or not.
âNice weather weâre having! Flash sure is enjoying it.â IÂ emphasized his name with just a little edge and waited for their response, which never came.
âOh, what a lovely outfit youâre wearing. I should call Flash over here to admire it.â
âI hear thereâs a new movie coming out. I sure wish I could take Flash to see it.â
I made a point of correcting every mention of the unmentionable name I heard. But, having been raised in church, I did it only in the nicest, sweetest way possible, so as to keep my Christian witness.
Bridgette said, âI just loove to heah Hay -soos bray! He just makes me happy.â
âOh, I know.â I smiled. â Flash can certainly make some noise. Flash is so silly. Flash really likes to hear himself.â My strategy seemed to fall on deaf ears.
Undaunted, I employed another tactic: I spoke directly to Flash himself. He obviously needed a good talking-to so he would stop running over to Bridgette every time she called him by that other name. Not his real name. The name that somebody else dubbed him.
I took my donkeyâs shaggy head into my hands and looked into his warm, brown eyes. He flared his nostrils and gave me an innocent look in return. His muzzle hairs poked in all directions, giving him an extra boost of audaciousness.
âFlash,â I said. âBaby, youâve got to stop this business of responding to â Hay -soosâ every time you hear it, when that is not your name. You already have a name: Flash. Itâs Flash, because I own you, and Iâm the only one who has the right to name you. Other people can call you any other name in the book, but get this straight: Thatâs not your name. You belong to me. You are mine . Therefore, whatever name Iâve given you  âthatâs your name.â
I saw a spark of understanding in his expression, so I let him go. But not without one last mom glare and a two-finger point from my eyes to his and back again that told him I meant business. I wanted to see a change in his behavior, and thatwas that. He lowered his head and kicked the dirt. Yes, he obviously understood.
Now if I could only get over feeling intimidated by our wildly successful neighbors and flat out tell Bridgette and Steve to knock it off. But I somehow couldnât bring myself to confront them. I felt fine with light, brief conversation and thinly veiled hints, but Iâd seen Bridgetteâs website with her impressive bio, the list of prestigious boards she served on, and the glossy photographs of all her high-end corporate architectural designs . . . and the words just stuck in my throat. My paint-splattered work clothes, the Ford Explorer with fading
Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child