What’s in a Name?
Over the weekend, a friend of mine was asking why I decided on the name Wolsey. Readers will know that Wolsey was a real dog and not just a character in a series of adventure stories. Some readers will also have noted that A Holiday in France is dedicated to Henry, a second dog I had at the same time as Wolsey (they were three years apart in age). History buffs will, of course, appreciate the pairing of those two names, but the decision to call my two miniature poodles after one of England’s most notorious cardinals and his king was, like many naming stories, something that evolved over time and through several iterations.
When my partner at the time and I brought a wee, scruffy black miniature poodle puppy home from a remote Suffolk farm on a cold, dreary Sunday in December 1996, we had, like many new dog parents, several names in mind. I can’t remember any of them, to be honest (it was a long time ago, after all). But I do remember originally calling him “Woolsey”, reflecting his thick woolly coat. That name stuck for a couple of weeks, but we had friends who started calling him “Wolsey” instead. The two names aren’t that far apart in pronunciation or spelling, but it wouldn’t have been fair on the little chap to call him by more than one name. So we settled on Wolsey, which seemed appropriate given Cardinal Wolsey’s connection with Suffolk.
Three years later, when we started thinking about a second dog as a companion to Wolsey – another miniature poodle – I wanted a name that complemented Wolsey’s namesake. That summer, I was reading The Six Wives of Henry VIII by Antonia Fraser, from which I was determined to find a suitable name for the apricot-coloured dog we chose from a farm in Kent. FitzRoy seemed appropriate at the time because it flowed so well with Wolsey. However, I was concerned that naming a dog after the illegitimate son of one of the best-known Tudor monarchs in British history would raise eyebrows among historians. I should point out that I didn’t actually know any historians at the time, but that was a popular book in the 1990s, so it stood to reason that someone would make the connection.
Incidentally, Henry FitzRoy was openly acknowledged by Henry VIII as his illegitimate son. In fact, the surname “FitzRoy” literally means “son of the king”, from the Norman French fils du roi. This made him quite unusual for the time because many royal bastards were either ignored or kept discreet. Henry VIII instead gave FitzRoy high status and titles, including Duke of Richmond and Somerset. At one point, because Henry had no legitimate male heir yet, there was even speculation that FitzRoy might somehow be legitimised and considered in the succession. But I digress…
I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of yelling for Wolsey and FitzRoy in the park. I was overthinking, of course, but overthinking was a key feature of my younger years. Wolsey and Henry sounded much cleaner and potentially less questionable among students of Tudor history. Of course, it never occurred to me at the time that naming Wolsey after Henry VIII’s ill-fated Cardinal would also send a historically complex message – but as I explained, his name evolved. Henry’s naming was more deliberate.
My current dogs, Frankie and Islay, followed a completely different naming route, their names evolving from Scotch whisky regions and islands to a popular Netflix series, and everything in between. The names we choose for our animals often reflect personality (theirs and ours), as well as breed, memory, humour, personal interests, and even fashion. Looking back now, it seems the stories behind those names can become just as much a part of family history as the animals themselves.
