People just love giving names to everything and everyone. Let’s face it, we humans have an odd habit of anthropomorphising whatever we hold dear.
Don’t believe me? Fine. Name one dog, cat, tortoise, or horse owner who hasn’t saddled their beloved pet with an utterly ridiculous name. Go ahead. I’ll wait…
Didn’t think so.
It doesn’t stop with animals either. Cars, motorcycles, planes, boats, lawn mowers, even humble pencil sharpeners—name it, and its chances of receiving regular TLC (tender loving care, not the band) improve dramatically once it’s christened. It’s like our brains can’t help but attach emotional value to inanimate objects once we slap a name on them.
I’m fairly certain this is a uniquely human trait. Maybe our close relatives, the chimpanzees, would name things too if they owned machinery or pets. Then again, judging by some of the drivers on the road, they already are operating cars.
But I digress.
When it comes to vehicles, naming them is serious business. The chosen moniker often reflects the owner’s character—or at least the character they wish they had. That’s why you’ll hear bad-ass names like The Beast, The Punisher, The Fire Starter, The Bomb Squad, or The Destroyer. It’s all about inspiring awe, intimidation, and perhaps compensating for something unspoken.
You don’t often meet men who’ve proudly dubbed their cars Daisy, Buttercup, or Flower Pot. At least, not in public. Privately? Who knows.
But here’s where it gets even better: there’s a subtle, almost comical correlation between how we name our vehicles (and pets, for that matter) and the message we intend to broadcast to the world. Sophisticated names, for example, are carefully chosen to project sharp wit and good breeding—whether or not the owner actually possesses either.
Take England, for instance, where hysterically terrible names like Gorgeous George, Bomber Harris, Churchill, or J.B. are paraded with straight faces. If nothing else, you have to admire the commitment.
If, however, you happen to be a less sophisticated, somewhat dim-witted lame-brain, fear not—there’s still an impressive selection of moronic names to showcase your rather pitiful current mental state. How about Sherlock Bones, Chewbarka, Bark Twain, or perhaps the festive Santa Paws to illustrate my point?
But wait, it gets better.
In the tragic event that you’ve been entirely deprived of a functioning frontal lobe, all hope is not lost. You can still express yourself with gloriously brainless monikers like T-Rex, Rambo, Jabba… or—brace yourself—
Drum roll, please… DOGZILLA!
When I first heard this name, I genuinely thought I’d rupture a lung from laughter. I believe I spent the better part of three weeks rolling on the floor in uncontrollable hysterics. Then again, I do have a somewhat peculiar sense of humour, so your mileage may vary.
But here’s the thing: as Western-world Homo sapiens, we have an odd psychological oddity. For us to emotionally connect with an object—be it living, inanimate, or somewhere in between—we must create some sort of bond. And how do we do this? By baptising it.
We need to give it a name, one that resonates with us, makes us smile, or validates our existence in some small, ridiculous way. Without that name, whatever it is—be it a pet, a car, or a coffee mug—remains blank, void, mute, and utterly invisible.
In short, if we don’t name it, we simply don’t care.
Don’t believe me? Here’s proof:
Do you remember that Bengal baby tiger in India that met a slow, agonising death by poisoning, only to kick off a promising second career as a stuffed specimen in a hunter’s hotel lobby? No? Or what about the adorable kitty from around the corner that ended up as dish number 29—Szechuan Style Sweet & Sour—on the menu of your favourite exotic restaurant? Ringing any bells?
Of course not. Did either of them have a name? No, they didn’t. And so, you don’t remember.
This, my friends, is basic human psychology—nothing to be ashamed of. We’re all wired this way. The moment we name something, we care. The moment it remains nameless, it’s just background noise. Forgettable. Disposable.
But here’s the kicker: there’s great potential to rake in piles of money if you know how to leverage this psychological quirk to your advantage. It’s all well and good when we’re talking about pets, but in my opinion, wild beasts should never be named by humans. Period.
Here is what bothers me:
Where exactly do people derive the right to claim ownership—intentional or not—of untamed animals by giving them names? The moment we slap a name on a lion, an elephant, or a cheetah, we’re no longer observing; we’re possessing. And that’s a problem.
Now, I understand there are reasons why people do what they do. Take big game orphanages, for example. They all operate using the same proven modus operandi: bypass the rational, inquisitive mind of philanthropists and head straight for the soft, squishy centre—your heart. And how do they get there? You guessed it: names.
The logic is simple. You’re far more likely to open your wallet for “Benny the orphaned baby rhino” than for “one nameless member of the critically endangered rhinoceros population.” One tugs at your heartstrings; the other sounds like a PowerPoint slide at a boring wildlife conference.
See? Names again.
Take the highly competitive East African big mammal orphanages, for instance. To sustain their ever-expanding fleets of cars, airplanes, and helicopters—alongside fancy lodges, second homes, and first-class air travel—they remain laser-focused on securing eternally paying patrons.
The first item on the “If-You-Happen-to-Run-Into-a-Stray-Baby-Elephant-To-Do List”?
Give the little bugger a cuddlesome name. Preferably one so sweet and lovable it could rot teeth.
The name, of course, must strike the perfect balance to resonate with both the indigenous citizens and tourists alike. Revenue, after all, hinges on the details. Naming your vagrant baby elephant something like “King Charles III,” “Henry VIII,” or heaven forbid “Jack the Ripper” while operating in a former British colony? Terrible move. You might as well staple a sign to its forehead that says, “We still own your country.” No one would dish out a dime to support your oh-so-noble cause.
No, for your charitable enterprise to truly thrive, you must be clever—subtle even. Opt for something universally endearing yet exotically palatable, like Toto, Simba, Zimbo, or, if you’re feeling particularly sentimental, Kwa-Hiri (Swahili for “goodbye”).
After all, names sell. And a baby elephant named “Kwa-Hiri” will tug at purse strings far more effectively than one named after a monarch with questionable marital habits.
Maasai Mara, Kenya, January 2013
This leads me rather unceremoniously to our own two years of on-site, illusion-shattering exploits in the “Save the African Elephants” universe—featuring a little teenage elephant, fittingly named Toto (meaning “the child” or “the young one” in Swahili).
Toto was already in an alarming stage of pain when we—Annette, a former friend of mine, and I—first stumbled upon him. It was pure coincidence we even noticed him at all.
For a young bull elephant, his behaviour was bizarre. He barely moved as we approached, which is distinctly odd for an animal of his age. Stranger still, he was completely alone. Typically, teenage bull elephants form loose, ragtag groups—bachelor herds, as they’re known—and roam the savanna together.
Now, in elephant vernacular, Toto was still a snot-nosed kid, but a 3-ton teenager doesn’t exactly have predators queuing up to take him on. Yet even for these giants, there’s strength in numbers. Elephants are deeply social creatures; they thrive on interaction, banter (if you will), and the company of their own kind.
It wasn’t until I pulled out my camera gear, complete with its mighty lens—because, you know, everything seems more dramatic when seen through three kilograms of optics—that we discovered the source of Toto’s strange demeanour. His left front leg was swollen to twice its size, maybe more, rendering every step agonising and every move heartbreaking to watch.
How this little bull’s story unfolded—and how it tragically ended—is another tale for another time.
One of the first debates that erupted—once word got out about this suffering adolescent elephant in Kenya’s famous Maasai Mara—was, of course, the lack of an appropriate name.
At the time we stumbled upon him, Annette, my copilot in the Land Rover and a devoted elephant worshipper, was the first to point out that this little (toto) elephant was acting peculiar. Annette, being Annette, would soon cry her heart out once we discovered what was wrong. Then again, she always did. Even the sight of fresh elephant dung could send her into a blubbering fit.
And so, entirely without intention, the name Toto somehow stuck.
This development proved highly irritating to the stupendous number of self-proclaimed elephant “experts” lurking in the East African vicinity, all of whom felt deeply betrayed. How dare we name an elephant without first grovelling before their sage wisdom and seeking their approval? The audacity! How dared we!
Unfortunately for them, the damage was done. By the time the peanut gallery had gathered to voice their outrage, we had already shared Toto’s unfolding drama on social media, and followers quickly bonded with the name. Any attempt to alter the accidentally bestowed nickname was met with unanimous failure—though not for lack of trying. The experts huffed, puffed, and stomped about, but Toto remained Toto.
And here’s the rub: this whole episode reignited a personal annoyance of mine—the arrogant, almost imperialist habit people have of claiming the right to name a wild animal. It used to drive me mad. The hubris! The gall!
That is, until I realised the hidden agenda behind it all.
Believe it or not, there were—and, in all likelihood, still are—databases and websites maintained by master scientists who, for the low price of a generous donation, will gladly let you “suggest” a name for any undocumented elephant. Buy a name, save the world—or something like that.
But wait, it gets better. Equally aggrieved over the missed opportunity to claim this juvenile elephant’s identity was one of the aforementioned animal orphanages. They relentlessly tried to snatch ownership of Toto at every possible turn. Whether it was by carefully neglecting to acknowledge our participation in his rescue or ghosting every single one of our attempts to communicate, they made it crystal clear: Toto was theirs.
Annette and I, however, couldn’t have cared less. We were too busy trying to help Toto as much as we could, even as it became painfully obvious that the poor little guy had no real chance of surviving.
Still, I did learn something important the other day—an epiphany, if you will:
If I ever run into an elephant again...
…I will name him DOGZILLA, and he will be mine!
Marcel Romdane
"TOTO". Annette. Toto, in obvious agony. DOGZILLA!!
