The Funny Meaningful Ritual of Naming a New Pet

We decided on the name Copper before we had even met him. My husband and I were sitting at the kitchen table and rifling through our baby name book for ideas, circling the ones we both liked and vetoing the ones that were too silly, too human, too whatever. We landed on Copper because it felt warm, and sturdy, and was something you could call out across the yard and not feel ridiculous. The dog came to us three days later, a squirmy little rust colored puppy who had no idea he was a Copper yet.

I remember holding him, thinking he would respond to me and I said his name over and over. I thought he had been practicing in secret or something. But no. He just chewed on my sleeve and fell asleep in my lap. It was weeks before Copper even bothered to turn his head at me when I called him. By that stage, the name had already stuck to him like a second coat.

Juniper was different because we fostered her first, so she came with a name we didn’t pick. I hated the shelter name Muffin so much I could say it out loud once maybe twice at a max. It didn’t suit her. She was sleek and serious, mouse gray and white fur with eyes that looked like she was always deciding whether or not you were worth her time. Muffin was the name of a cat who wore bows and sat in baskets. This was not that cat.

After deciding to keep her, we changed her name. It felt like a little ceremony and we were making it official. We spent a lot of time deciding. My husband liked Sage. I liked Clover. We tried both for a day and it felt wrong. Like we were putting on clothes that didn’t fit. Then, I said Juniper, and we fell quiet. It was the right name. She didn’t care of course. She ignored us anyway. It was important to us.

I’ve wondered why we spent so much time naming an animal that will never know the difference. Copper doesn’t know that his name means a reddish metal and that we picked it due to his fur. Juniper doesn’t care that her name comes from a tree with silver bark. They respond to the sound of their name, not the meaning. And still, we spend hours over it like it’s the most important decision we’ll make.

I think it has to do with the fact that naming is the first thing we do that claims something as ours. It is not legally yours, or even emotionally yet, but in some small declarative way, it is yours. It becomes a show of ownership. When you name something, you are making a statement. ”I see you. You’re not just any dog, you’re not just any cat. You’re this one, and I choose to know you.” It is also a first promise. The name becomes the thing you call when you are looking for them, when you are happy to see them, when you need them to come back. It is the word that will follow them their whole life. You say it hundreds of times. Thousands even. It becomes so automatic that you forget you even chose it. I thought of this last week when a friend sent me a photo of a tiny black kitten she just adopted. ”Help me name her” she said. I replied with a list of suggestions, none of which she took. Two days later, she sent me a photo of the kitten sleeping in a sunbeam with the caption, ”She’s definitely an Olive.” I didn’t think to ask how she knew. I understood completely the name didn’t change who they are. Copper would still be gentle and patient if we called him something else. Juniper would still be selective and particular. However, the name does change how we see them. It gives them a shape in our minds before we really know them. Over time, they fill that shape.