I was five years old when Dad told me he'd found a puppy for me. A guy out on the ranch had a dog with a new litter, and there was one female in the whole bunch. Dad said she was meant for me. She was still too young to bring home, he said, but in the meantime, I should decide what to name her.

I'd never named anyone or anything before, and it seemed an awesome responsibility. The only guideline I was given was that the name ought to start with an "S." My cousins, Matthew and Christopher, would also be getting puppies, and they'd name them Smokey and Shiner. Dad thought it'd be fun to keep it all "in the family." Other than that, I was a free agent. I remember riding around town with Dad, in his dusty old ranch truck, brainstorming possibilities. Not knowing where to start, I was eager for Dad's suggestions. He started throwing ideas around, 

"Sally, Sandy, Suzie..."

"Dad! That's Aunt Suzie's name, silly!"

"Yeah well it might be funny just to see what she'd do..." 

Dad has always loved pranking his little sister.

"Dad, no. Keep thinking."

"Ok, well, Silly, Shirley, Swirly, Soonie..."

"That's it!"

"What's it?"

"That. Soonie!"

"Soonie? Really? That's what you want to name your puppy? Soonie?"

"Yeah!"

"...Ok. Well, I look forward to bringing Soonie home to you."

And just like that, a dog was named, and a man learned the consequences of giving his five-year-old daughter carte blanche in the decision-making process.

Soonie was an unusual name, sure, but it turned out to be just right for my funny-looking pup. A mix of Australian Shepherd and Queensland Heeler--or so my dad guessed--she was scrappy and rough around the edges, but unusually smart and fiercely loyal.

She also had a mind of her own. Dad was able to teach her the basics ("sit," "shake," "roll-over") within a few hours, but as for the rest, Soonie followed her own rules. Dad still loves to tell about how she would refuse to travel in the back of his truck, out on the ranch. Despite her matted fur and almost always muddy paws, she really carried herself like a darned queen, and demanded she ride shotgun. He said the only way he could lure her out of the cab was by calling out "taco time," tricking her into thinking there'd be tacos waiting for her when she jumped out.

I think my mom may have wished Soonie was a little prettier, and a little more playful. But Dad and I always got a kick out of her hardheaded, quirky ways. And we loved knowing that our dog looked different from any dog anyone in town had ever seen. 

Occasionally one of the neighborhood kids would try to poke fun about her shaggy tail or farm-dusted fur, and I'd defend her ferociously. 

Looking back, I realize there was more at stake for me to defend than my funny-looking dog. I knew she wasn't beautiful, but as a mud-loving, scratchy-voiced tomboy, myself, I was starting to learn that my right to be "different" might need to be protected.

In the same way, I think my dad understood that it was more important, sitting in that heavy old truck with his little girl, to show her he trusted her to make up her own mind about things, and let her name her puppy Soonie, as silly as it may have seemed.

Anyway, Soonie turned out to be just right.