I feel it’s a big responsibility to name a pet, let alone a kid. I guess that’s why we didn’t settle on the name for our daughter until we were in the hospital, baby in arms. I have to say, though, naming our pets isn’t much easier.
There is a lot of consternation. Is it a name that rolls off the tongue? Can I yell it across my yard? Is there humor or irony? You know, important questions.
When we went to get Rocky from the rescue organization, I had a bunch of fabulous names picked out, chief among them (and fabulous to me) were Hugo and Murray. Then we met him. Hmmm.
Fortunately our good friend Margie was with us on the fateful pick up day, if for no other reason than for levity. I think Margie would readily agree that this dog was no Hugo. Nor was he a Fernando, Roscoe, Igor or Knute (as in Rockne, not Newt Gingrich).
This was a scrappy little street dog. A stray. He was tough, but all heart. On the drive home, Margie, Scott and I tried on every sports, literary and pop culture name we could think of. Nothing stuck. Margie pushed for Chopper (to this day, his nickname is Chop). Then someone, I don’t think it was me, but can’t promise, said “Rocky” and the dog perked up.
Really? ROCKY? Sigh… My clever naming ambitions were dashed.
But, he was a fighter, from the streets. How could I argue.
9 years later, our scrappy little stray named Rocky is going strong, permanently ingrained in our daily routines, and, more importantly, on our hearts. I think Scott might have even forgiven me for foisting the idea of getting a dog onto him. Maybe.