What"s Your Dog"s Name?

It happens any time Hanni and I find ourselves in a closed space with other people. On buses, in line somewhere, on elevators — someone inevitably asks what my dog’s name is. I’m not a gambler (thank God, because I sure do embrace every other vice), but you can bet that if someone asks your dogs name, the next thing they’ll do is talk to your dog. Usually in some saccharine sweetie-pie voice. Not good for a Seeing Eye dog. They’re working. They need to stay focused.

And so, I lie. “Wags!” I say.

“Hi, Wags! The stranger coos. Hanni doesn’t respond. “They sure know how to train those dogs,” the stranger marvels. “Wags didn’t even look up at me!”

When I know I might run into someone again sometime, I do divulge Hanni’s real name. Her name is so unusual, though (by the way, it rhymes with Bonnie, not Fanny) that most people forget what it is. That comes in handy – if people can’t remember what Hanni’s name is, they can’t call out to her and distract her from her work.

An excerpt from my first book, Long Time, No see helps explain how Hanni got her name in the first place. Note: Robert is the guy who trained Hanni, Pandora was my first Seeing Eye dog.

At a private interview on my first night, Robert asked “Is there a certain breed, a certain gender you need to have?” I didn’t know what to say. My real concern was getting a dog with a good name. The puppies in each litter born at the Seeing Eye are given names that start with the same letter of the alphabet. Pandora was from the “P” litter, for example. To avoid repeating names too often, the Seeing Eye sometimes gets a little too creative. I didn’t know what might happen to my self-respect if I were given a dog named Yorba, or Bouquet, or Gremlin. My need for a well-named dog, however, seemed too juvenile to admit. “No,” I finally answered. “I’ll take whatever you think is best.” As Robert stood up to leave, I added one last thing. “I really would like a faster dog this time, though. I’m tired of walking so slow.”
Be careful what you wish for.
My new dog is a one-year-old yellow ball of energy, a cross between a golden retriever and Labrador retriever. It’s amazing to think we’ve only been home together for one month; she is extremely attached to me, and I already feel tremendously confident with her. She loves to work, often nudging my wrist as I sit at the computer, anticipating our next trip outside.

Our walks must look comical —she pulls with such enthusiasm that curbs seem to surprise her. She stops, but often not until the very last millisecond. I imagine us in a Hanna-Barberra cartoon, the sound of my rubber soles squealing on the pavement, sparks shooting from behind my shoeheels at every stop. Her tail stands straight up as she works, and I often find myself laughing with joy at her exuberance as we walk.
The only thing I struggle with about this dog is—surprise—her name. Born in the “h” litter, her brothers in our class had great names: Homer and Herbie. Their sister wasn’t as fortunate.
“Honey, that’s nice!” I said to Robert when he first introduced us. I was already on the floor with my new dog, rubbing her belly. “
Not Honey,” he said. “HAHnee”
“Huh?” I furrowed my eyebrows. “How do you spell it?”
“H-a-n-n-i. Pretend you’re from Alabama and you’re saying ‘honey.’”
I scratched Hanni’s ears, and she sprung up to give me a kiss. Okay, I smiled. I can live with the name.

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