What Your Pet Names Say About You

by Barbara Wallraff

Yes, love is a many-splendored thing but sometimes a person, in her down-to-earth moments, may feel as if a relationship is a series of problems to be solved. A few of those problems have to do with language.What terms should a new couple use to refer to each other? Are they “boyfriend-and-girlfriend”? “Partners”? “Significant others”? “Sigs,” a still rare but up-and-coming descriptor? Or the retro and highly specific “POSSLQs” (persons of opposite sexes sharing living quarters, pronounced poss-ul-kew)? Some think of their relationship as so exceptional that it demands an exceptional word. A literary fellow I know introduced his new girlfriend to me as his “inamorata,” and I had to stop my lip from assuming a snide curl. Relationships are only that special from the inside. If I’d overheard him whispering “inamorata” in her ear, that would have impressed me. Said to anyone other than the inamorata herself, though, a word like that turns both members of the couple into characters in an opéra bouffe.

A related problem for new couples is how to describe what they’re doing together. Are they “dating,” “seeing each other,” “having a fling,” “going out,” “an item,” or what? “We’re just friends” has a particular, nonromantic meaning. “We’re friends with privileges” is racier, if downright anti-romantic. I happen to like the word “courting,” even if some people will feel that it comes from the same Gilbert and Sullivan show as “inamorata.” Let’s try it out: “So, are you two together?” “Well, we’re courting.” End of conversation, while a little dignified mystery remains, eh? Only someone really nosy and awful will persist: “What’s that supposed to mean?” Whereupon it’s possible to remain polite and give that someone the answer he or she deserves: “Oh, I don’t know. Nothing very interesting. What a lovely day, don’t you think?”

Fortunately, by the time these initial language problems become good and boring, a solution stands ready: the couple can choose to become “fiancé” and “fiancée.” Or, to be quaint, “betrothed.” With only a little paperwork and clergy or a justice of the peace, they can start referring to each other as “husband,” “wife,” and “married.” And then they can tackle the problem of what to call each other privately.

Most longtime couples have private names for each other. Sometimes these names slip out in the presence of others, in times of stress, exhilaration, or PR spin, or after everybody”s had a few drinks. My friends Anita and Jim call each other Frank. George W. and Laura, as their daughters announced to the world during the Republican National Convention, call each other Bushie. A dog-loving couple who will be nameless here because I need to remain on speaking terms with them call each other Wooda (that’s a phonetic rendering) and Wooba, short for “Wonder Dog” and “Wonder Bitch.” My friend Robin calls her husband, whose name is Richard, Lord Voldemort, a.k.a. “He Who Must Not Be Named.” That’s when she’s not calling him Wally (this is a good story, but a long one).

And my husband and me? Since you asked, we call each other “my pet” or Pet. “Pet, would you turn the music down?” “Yes, Pet.” As a, um, pet name, it’s minimalist (our aesthetic), it’s egalitarian, and it’s entertaining–to us, at any rate. Partly for fun and partly to keep straight which of us we’re talking about, we have variant names as well. For instance, if we are visiting California or drinking Sonoma Valley wine, Julian (that’s his real name) is Petaluma.