He was frolicking in our lobby, playing within the limits of his leash held by a guy who I figured was his walker. They, like I, were waiting for the elevator.
Both dog and walker were obviously having a good time, both smiling, dog dancing on all legs, then on two legs. Fun to watch.
Personally, I was feeling kind of proud that, for once, I did not feel it necessary to ask the dog’s breed. Breed was obvious: he was large, slender and dressed in curly amber fur. Goldendoodle.
We got onto the elevator. I remarked how happy the dog seemed to be. “He’s happy,” said his handler, “because we went on a long trek and he loves that.”
If I were not going to ask the breed, I was going to ask the dog’s name.
“Hubble,” said his handler. Gee. So I asked whether either of Hubble’s human parents were physicists. That was a question too far. The handler didn’t know, and they left the elevator at a lowish floor.
Hubble. While I loved the honor given to a scientific genius, I wasn’t sure the name suited any dog. In my apartment I said, “Hubble?” as if I were calling the dog. “Here, Hubble!” Dog would hear “Hub–” but “ble?” Don’t know.
And was there a plausible nickname for Hubble? Eddie? Winnie?
After a couple of seconds wondering, my mind shifted to another, related question: why can’t dogs choose their own names?
Maybe there could be an internet app which would give dogs such a choice. With a paw-touch screen.