Years ago, I used to receive a newsletter from an animal shelter. It informed readers about cats and dogs available for adoption and asked for the public's financial support. In most respects, it was typical of such newsletters. The newsletter's author had one quirk, however. Animals were never referred to as animals or pets; inexplicably, the writer always referred to them as critters. (i.e. "The critters are eating and drinking again since being rescued." "The critters will appreciate having more space in which to roam." "The critters thank you for your support.")
I still wonder if the author was a kinder relative of Yosemite Sam's.
This newsletter author's penchant for calling animals critters came to mind years later at work. I used to supervise a night team of sports data gatherers at a previous workplace. Shortly after the company moved to a more upscale building, our manager told us it would be important to avoid using profanity during business hours.
"You never know when (name of an executive) will walk by," he told us. "All of us, including me, will need to be careful not to swear."
Although none of us swore constantly, occasional profanity went with the territory of a fast-paced, deadline-intensive sports job. For my part, during the early hours of some shifts, I turned into Yosemite Sam.
"Arrrrrggggghhhhh! That dad-blasted varmint!" I once exclaimed about a coach. "Why hasn't he turned in his team's stats yet?"
Wondering if anyone had received a fax or email with the missing stats, I walked over to the part-timers' row of desks. Momentarily forgetting who and where I was, I asked, "Have any of you varmints heard from that coach yet?"
Unfortunately, none of the varmints had heard from him.
