Gary is never at a loss for a good story.

It’s part of his charm.

Thing is, as parents, you just never know who might be listening in …

We got that big fluffy sheep-dog toy for John as a gift when he was seven or so. (It’s actually a puppet. And very soft.)

When we asked John what he named the fluffy beast, the answer took us by surprise:

His name is Dead Skin Eater.

“What? Why would you name him that?”

You know, Dead Skin Eater. Like in Dad’s story.

“Oh, gross! You know that story?”

Of course. It’s the best.

I beg to differ, but you be the judge. Here’s Gary‘s grossest story ever:

Years ago (before we met), Gary worked part-time at his uncle’s business, Weyer Electric (with a last name like Weyer, your career path is on your birth certificate).

Mid morning, the workers gathered for lunch. After downing his sandwich, Tony took out his pocket knife and started scraping the dead skin off the callouses on his hands.

When the other fellas protested, Tony set them straight: Oh, that’s nothing. You should see right after I get out of the shower and get to work on my feet. Then the dogs come runnin’!

Apparently, John held that story close to his heart, waiting to use it to name the next puppy dog to enter his life. The name stuck.

Dead Skin Eater is still here in our home, on a shelf. And I still shudder inside when I remember the gross story that inspired his name.

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