SCHTICKS AND STONES

Jay and I have a dog we named “Muttel,” after my grandfather.

FRIEND: How could you do such a thing — give your dog your grandfather’s name?
MOLLIE: I loved my grandfather, and I speak to the dog in endearing terms. He’s my adorable, soft little puppy.
FRIEND: Oh . . . well, I guess that’s okay then.
MOLLIE: Good, because I also couldn’t pass up the pun value.

Of COURSE it’s okay! It’s just the initial shock, no plotzing required. My mother’s father, an immigrant, took an Americanized name, Marcus. His Hebrew name was Mordechai. But everyone who knew him personally called him Muttel. Surely you have a grandfather or great-uncle with the contraction of a Hebrew name . . . Feivel (Phillip, Frank, Floyd), Label (Lawrence), Tevye (Theodore), Shepsel (Simon). In the secular Jewish community, this lovely little custom is dying out; we just don’t do that anymore. Among my contemporaries, I have one friend who is “Mutty” (Morton on his birth certificate) and one named Hesh (Hershel). I think they’re the last I’ll ever know.

The only Yiddish nicknames we ever gave our sons were tateleh and boychik. Those are generic and interchangeable and don’t even COUNT.

What . . . again you were expecting a punch line? Like The New Yorker, I should make a contest out of this.