Shortly after deciding to keep my first-ever “foster failure” (a dog who was meant to be a foster only, but who found his forever home with me), I asked my husband to take some care with his name; he’s the namer in our family. I’m terrible at naming animals; he’s terrific and funny. But given that this was going to be a dog that we’d have for a long time, not a foster dog just passing through, I had some criteria I wanted him to take into consideration.
Although I would technically have veto power if he came up with a name I hated, he can be quite persistent in calling a dog something he has decided on, despite what the dog’s subsequent owners later decided to name the dog. For example, a couple of years ago, I fostered a short, middle-aged Border Collie-mix who had recently had puppies, and had a rumpled, pudgy appearance. She was surrendered to the shelter where I volunteer as “Mary,” but Brian decided she looked more like a “Brenda,” I have no idea why, and he still calls her Brenda when he sees her, when my friend who adopted her comes to visit. So I really didn’t want him to get attached to a name I didn’t like.