I forget people; people I’ve known forever. Just last week I ran into three old friends who I know as well as I do the back of my hand, and yet I could not remember their names.

I ended up addressing them using the familiar Good Buddy, Fella and Old Pal, but I don’t think they were fooled for a minute. I guarantee you, unless your name is Guy or Pal or you are wearing a “Hello, My Name is ...” tag, I will not get your name right.
A couple of years ago, I signed a book contract with Harper Collins and I had it specifically state in the contract that I would NOT do book signings. I made this fatal mistake one time and people I knew kept coming up with a book for me to personalize for them by signing their name and mine.

I couldn’t remember a single name. My sister and mother seemed to be especially offended.

This failure to remember names is embarrassing and is one of the traits I like least about myself. But it’s really not my fault. I recently learned that there is a “disease” called Proso-paganosia in which the victims are unable to put a name to a face.

I know I suffer from this dreaded malady because I can remember the third verse of our national anthem, but I can’t remember the Good Buddy who wrote it. I really should get a Medic Alert bracelet notifying people that I am a Prosopa-ganosiac.

I have been a sufferer of Prosopaganosia all my life. Way back in high school, my ag teacher suggested when I met someone I should associate their name with something. I tried this trick when I met a Mrs. Davenport, whom I pictured sitting on a sofa, and the next time I saw her I called her Mrs. Couch.

When I met the Dean of Ag at Fresno State, I associated his name, Burger, with the sandwich of the same name. Sure enough, I introduced him to a crowd of 600 people as Dean Hamburger.
Now, here’s the weird part: I never forget an animal or its name. To this day, if you told me an ear tag number of a cow I owned 25 years ago, I could tell you what she looked like and her nickname. If we walked into a remuda and you told me their names, I’d remember those horses a week later.

I can remember the name of every horse that ever bucked me off and every dog I’ve owned – even dogs that belong to other people. In fact, that’s how I often refer to people: Rex’s mom, Rover’s owner, et cetera.

I’ve always been able to remember animals. When I got started buying cows, I made the mistake of not buying them at the auction market and I bought a load out in the country. I did business with an old coot I shall refer to as Mr. So-and-So, because his name escapes me.

Mr. So-and-So was as friendly as a coiled rattlesnake with all the charm of a dead cat, but I was naive and thought I could trust anyone in the business. Mr. So-and-So lived a long way from my place so, after looking at some pairs he had for sale, we agreed on a price and I asked him if he’d put them on a truck and send them my direction the next week so I didn’t have to make a return trip to his place.

When the first cow unloaded, I knew I’d been abused worse than a rental car. I remembered every cow I bought – and she definitely wasn’t one of them. Many of the cows had been switched out and replaced with much poorer ones. I specifically remembered a No. 152 cow with a big strapping calf and she was not on the truck.
Also, Mr. So-and-So had promised that the cows were bred back, but 75 percent of them were open.

Years later, a friend and I walked into a cafe and my buddy looked over by the cash register and said, “Hey look – it’s your favorite cow trading buddy, Mr. So-and-So.”

I was still mad and proceeded to walk right over to him and spewed 50 ccs of pure venom at him.

I called him every name in the book for everyone in the joint to hear. Just as I was winding up, I got a nagging feeling that I’d never met the object of my derision before.

Sure enough, I’d just cussed out an innocent bystander just waiting for a to-go sandwich. It turned out Mr. So-and-So was actually the next person in line.