He called it Smoot because that was the name on the label. Obviously
it'd once belonged to a person named Smoot, who'd gotten separated from
it one way or another. Perhaps the carryall had been injured or gotten
ill, since these things were usually able to find their way home, like
dogs of old -- you'd see them now and then rolling across the bridge
over the river on their way to their distant masters, a scene which
always aroused compassion in Carson's heart. Or, perhaps Smoot (the
carryall) had been abused by Smoot (the former owner), and was not
interested in going home again.
Heaven only knew how long Smoot had been wandering around the city, and
perhaps, had there been homeless around, as there were no longer, one
of them might've adopted Smoot to haul his paltry belongings or
recyclables or crazy-collected trash objects. Carson could picture
Smoot roaming around, day after day, looking for something to carry,
and, finding nothing, waiting patiently in the sunny corner of an old
annex, content to lap photons and bide his time.