Be careful what you name your dog. It may have far-reaching insight into the future.
Mitzi and Diana lived next door and wandered into our backyard daily. Diana and I played together from age three. When we “dressed up” her dog, Mitzi never bit us, but true to her name, excelled by acting like a lady. She probably was related to Mitzi Gaynor as she danced frequently for us. Danced away from us, in fact, with us running madly after her. She was a movie star for us, often cast as the baby when we played “house.”
A dog’s name reflects its personality, if you trust my theory. I’m a dog person. I’m convinced that dogs understand their roles once they understand their names.
When I was in junior high, I played with Jiggs, another favorite. He spent long hours with me when my parents were at work. He learned to jump over my outstretched leg, played ball endlessly, and cuddled with me on the couch when my parents were not looking. Jiggs belonged to a family across the street. I assume, as a puppy, Jiggs wiggled and jiggled, full of joy.
My parents insisted I ask the owners’ permission for Jiggs to spend time with us. They said, “No problem. He makes it home for dinner.”
Over the past thirty years, I’ve had three more dogs. All their names hold special spots in my heart.
Scruffy was scruffy. Not a whit of elegance about her. No sophistication, unlike some Poodles and Poodle-mixes, although she looked a little “poodle-ish.” When we brought her home, she needed a bath, a haircut, a place to call home. My two young sons and I loved fun-loving Scruffy, who always looked like she needed to see a groomer. A small dog with the ability to find mud puddles when it didn’t snow.
When we lived in Minnesota, the snow could reach six- or seven-inches. We would notice large yellow spots in our front yard; Scruffy never fell through the icy crust on the six inches of snow: she didn’t weigh much. Precious, sweet little thing. We cried crocodile tears when she died.
Next, we rescued Sinder, after we moved to Dallas. When I met him, it felt like a “Sinder” got in my eye and had to come home with us. Sinder’s name fit for a dual reason: he was Sin-full. He was an escape artist, mechanically inclined to open his cage when we left him alone. We often screeched, “He opened the crate, again.” He chewed things, too. Once he “hopped” the crate across the kitchen, pulled a fringed shirt through the bars and destroyed it.
My husband said, “NO MORE DOGS!” After a year of my sad face without a dog, he said, “You may get another dog if it’s short-haired, under five-years-old, potty-trained, and under fifteen pounds.” I tricked him by convincing him to search online. He located six dogs. I loved the little black dog, first on the list, the minute we met. And the first to bond with my husband.
I named him Fargo for his ability to Go-Far. He’s a terrier, who likes to run and hunt, yet is only thirteen pounds. We had to post signs by the door, “Shut the door! Fargo is fast” My bet is he can outrun any Greyhound. I spent many times racing through the neighborhood to find him. At age thirteen he remains in good health. Now I keep him leashed on our daily walks. He tries to climb trees, “play dead,” and roll over to amuse us.
Yes, it’s more fun if the dog’s name is significant. A dog is a long commitment, but as Fargo faces the Rainbow Bridge within the next few years, I’m sure he’ll go far to find his cousins! And they will have stories to tell each other. Please, don’t give your dog a boring name, like Phidough.
Article approved by the office manager, AKA Fargo.
Thanks to Diana Brown Haren of Newark, Ohio for the old photo.