Dog's Days & Dogma

The Dog Days ... "when the seas boiled, wine turned sour, dogs grew mad, and all creatures became languid, causing to man burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies"* ... have arrived in Rabat, and they're barking in full force. Simply put, it is stinking hot and equally stinking humid. So yesterday, in what would prove to be a futile attempt to combat Rabat's current weather woes and to briefly escape the travails of packing, Mr. Cat in Rabat & I ducked into stinking hot and equally stinking humid café for a beer, gin & tonic, Smirnoff Ice glass of orange juice with our friend and fellow gin & tonic poker-aficionado Mr. N.

During one of my many rants, I apparently gesticulated wildly (which I often do) and took the name of Allah - if not in vain - then in some other capacity (which I often do) which had the affect of raising Mr. N's eyebrows. Being passably omniscient, he advised me that, betwixt gesture & declaration, I had effectively converted to Islam. "Now you'll have to choose a Muslim name," he added ever so sagely.

Like many of the world's disgruntled malcontents, I am not terribly partial to my name and would embrace the opportunity of choosing one anew with metaphorical open arms. What name should I choose? The three of us began to deliberate, brainstorming every female name common to Morocco, but it soon became apparent that there weren't too many we all liked, let alone could all agree upon. Quite simply, too many names sounded like an expectoration produced after a long night of pub hopping. Finally we agreed that it might be more entertaining quicker if we just decided on which name we hated the most and a nanosecond later it was a fait accompli.

I am Kautar.

In the quest for the least beautiful Muslim woman's name, Kautar serves 2 purposes: each & every 'Kautar' I have taught has been a conniving weasel and secondly, the name itself is resonant of bovine excrement (ergo, bad name & bad mental association). I briefly considered Rim (which just made all of us giggle) but all of my Rims have been lovely and I was reluctant to sully those memories. So Kautar it is.

Of course, every Kautar needs a mate, so we decided that Mr. CinR needed to be muslimed christened with an appropriately dissonant name and after several helpful suggestions from Mr. N., we dubbed him Bilal. In the quest for the least beautiful Muslim man's name, Bilal serves 2 purposes: each & every 'Bilal' I have taught has been a complete ignoramus and secondly, the name itself is resonant of the act of regurgitation (ergo, bad name & bad auditory association).

So there you have it: Kautar & Bilal. A union a shit names; the stuff of true love stories.

Now I understand that, strictly speaking, I didn't convert to Islam yesterday afternoon because my oaths & adjurations bore little resemblance to the act of witnessing to the supremacy of Allah (and his messenger) which, I believe, Islam normally requires of its proselytes. This flight of fancy was probably just a whim of the weather, of where your mind meanders when your ass is sticking to the polyurethane seats of a stinking hot and equally stinking humid café, producing farting noises whenever you try to reposition yourself.

*from Brady’s Clavis Calendarium