Name
If picking a name for my three-month-old puppy was any indication of what’s to come when my first child is born, I’m deeply concerned about my fitness to accomplish that monumental task a second time.
Weekly Three
HEAR: I went to a new wave DJ show in San Jose last week and got to fulfill my 1980s dream of dancing to "Blue Monday" by New Order on a fog-machined dance floor. Who needs to think when your feet just go?
READ: "Bartleby, the Scrivener" is a story written in 1853 by Herman Melville about a character who answers every request with "I would prefer not to." How to deal with someone like that?
VIEW: Here's a picture of our new puppy.
No. 39: Name
If picking a name for my three-month-old puppy was any indication of what’s to come when my first child is born, I’m deeply concerned about my fitness to accomplish that monumental task a second time.
The pressure of choosing a name for a dog, to say nothing of a human being, was immense. Yes, there was a right answer. The trouble was finding it. Needle, haystack. Hundreds of names were dug up then thrown in the discard pile, but in the process I discovered some influencing factors.
A name must be strong, but friendly, unique, but familiar, modern, but timeless. It must weather life’s stages, not too rigid and not too malleable, leaving just enough room for play like the gap between tip and toe in a well-sized leather boot. Also, the namer, or namers, must steer clear of any distasteful associations acquired in life. For example “Emily” is forever banned in any circumstance, according to my girlfriend Grace, because “Emily” was the name of my ex-girlfriend.
But isn’t Emily a pleasant name? Em-mil-lee. Can’t a name be just that — a name?
The answer is no.
I found this to be true when I convened with a group of naming experts (my girlfriend and our friends) at a brewery near my apartment, and names like “Zorro” were proposed for my new pet, which was far too cinematic. “Theodore,” too 19th-century academic. “Franco,” Spanish dictator. “Olaf,” the snowman in Frozen. “Hayes,” it’s a dog not a film noir detective. “Hudson,” too noble. “Ziggy,” too stoner. “Enzo,” very Assassins Creed. “Starsky,” character from a dated TV series. “Hutch,” sidekick of a character from a dated TV series.
When every name seemed to have something inherently flawed about it, vivid imagination was required. The dog is a puppy, but soon he will be older, bigger, stronger. His name must account for his maturity. This eliminated all pasta-based names, but I’m confident that one day “Gnocci” will find its home on the name tag of a teacup Chihuahua.
Situational considerations were also useful. Say I’m hiking with my young, athletic dog. He’s off-leash, trotting by my side, when he sees a white rabbit and sprints into the bush, leaving a cloud of dust and leaves flying in his trail. How do I call him back? Do I shout “Lugnut!” with all my might? I do not.
It was enlightening to remember the dog’s origins, too. An Australian Shepard and Poodle mix, the poodle genes made a strong impression on the dog’s face and should likewise, I thought, make a strong impression on our choice of name. I repeated to the group, “Remember, he’s a poodle,” and found the results pleasantly surprising. The group’s top three: “Archie,” “Ziggy,” or “Clyde.”
However, the committees suggestions were quickly becoming too Anglo for comfort. In my perfect world the dog would be named “Tenoch” or “Carlito” or “Zeta,” “Cato” or “Villa” or “Cotol,” but Remember, he’s a poodle.
The committee disbanded unresolved. My dog followed behind a “little guy,” a “buddy,” a whatever-you-wanted-to-call-him so long as it wasn’t a name proper.
Then, as we walked to our cars, a member of the committee had a moment of inspiration and shouted, “Argo!”
Argo. Quite beautiful, not Anglo, and befitting a handsome, elegant, and authentic poodle mix. Argo. Reminiscent of the Argonauts, and the name of a constellation. There was that Ben Affleck movie. But Argo. It felt cosmic. It felt good.
The members of the committee blessed my dog on the spot with a group hug. Argo it was.
Hours later, in the middle of the night, I was nudged from my sleep. Half-awake, I heard a whisper.
“Hey,” Grace said. “Do you really like Argo?”
“Can we talk about this in the morning?”
“I just— I don’t know. I can’t stop saying Archie. I’m saying it in my dreams.”
“I don’t like Archie,” I said.
“I don’t think I like Argo,” she said.
The ceiling was a bluish-grey. The sun would come up soon.
“What if we call him Archer?” I said. “You can call him Archie if you want.”
“If I get to call him Archie then okay.”
So the matter was settled. The dog would get not one, but two names. Welcome to the family, Archer/Archie. ♦
Mailbox
Your recent newsletter, Dog, was a joy to read. My first dog, Riot, passed away the other day. He died peacefully! And luckily, my brother Tuck was in town to say goodbye (they had a special bond).
My immediate family is outspread; grandmother and aunt live in Canada, another grandma lives in Florida, and my brothers live in Arizona. Somehow, Riot was that magic link that kept us all together despite the distance. The minutiae memories of his life will never be forgotten, but there is nothing comparable to the death of a dog. They spend their whole lives with you, selflessly and wholesomely.
With all this said, his life has had no negative impact on our lives (with exception to expenses … but so worth it.) I say, get the dog! Adopt a lil dude if you are ready financially. There is no down side.
– Jen
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