The tradition in our family is to allow the animals that join the gang to tell us their names. Two decades ago our first cat told us her name on the drive home after we bought her. She was "Silky."
The first dog came by his name of "Beemer" because my wife wanted a BMW, and a dog was cheaper than a German import.
The newest cat, rescued from the jaws of death as manifested by a miniature Daschund, moved in two days ago, but she has yet to present her ID.
One member said she looks like a "Stormy."
Too prosaic, I thought.
Another person offered "Peaches."
I thought her name might be "Pinky," but she only answered to that because I had a jar lid full of canned mackerel in my hand.