1111. This week, we look at the phrase "near miss" and why this seemingly illogical term actually makes sense. Then, in honor of National Dog Day, we look at how 16 different dog breeds got their names, including why a dachshund is a "badger dog," a poodle is a "puddle dog," and a mastiff is a "tame dog."
1111. This week, we look at the phrase "near miss" and why this seemingly illogical term actually makes sense. Then, in honor of National Dog Day, we look at how 16 different dog breeds got their names, including why a dachshund is a "badger dog," a poodle is a "puddle dog," and a mastiff is a "tame dog."
The "near miss" segment was by Natalie Schilling, a professor emerita of linguistics at Georgetown University in Washington, DC, and who runs a forensic linguistics consulting firm. You can find her on LinkedIn.
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Grammar Girl here. I’m Mignon Fogarty, your friendly guide to the English language. Today, we're going to talk about collisions and near misses, and then we'll talk about how a bunch of dog breeds got their names.
by Natalie Schilling
A lot of people are bothered by linguistic usages that defy the rules of logic. Why don’t double negatives cancel each other out in sentences like “He didn’t do nothing”? Why is “literally” used so often to mean “figuratively”? And don’t even get me started on the inconsistencies of the English spelling system: How do you spell the “oo” sound: with one O, like in “to” (t-o); two O’s, like in “boot”; EW, as in “new”; UE, as in “sue”; or ough; like in “through”? And don’t forget that “ough” stands for different sounds in words like “tough” and “trough.”
But sometimes, seemingly illogical words and phrases actually do make sense deep down, and the phrase “near miss” is one of them. The logician in you may bristle at the frequent use of “near miss” to mean “near collision” – that is, a miss. Surely if something is described as a “near miss,” then it must be something that is nearly or almost a miss and so not a near collision but an actual hit or collision. So why do we use the phrase to mean the opposite – an actual miss? To get to the bottom of it, let’s start by unpacking the word “near.”
Merriam-Webster gives several definitions for “near” in its adjective use – when it’s modifying a noun. Two of these seem to contradict each other: “near” can mean “almost happening, narrowly missed or avoided,” as in “a near win” or “a near collision.” Confusingly, it can also mean “nearly not happening,” as in “a near escape.” The meaning of “near escape” parallels the common use of “near miss”: a near escape is narrow escape, an escape that almost didn’t happen but actually did; a near miss, then, applying the same logic, is a miss that almost didn’t happen but actually did. In other words, it’s a miss that was almost a collision but turned out to be a miss, a disaster averted.
Of course, one could argue that there’s illogic baked into the definition of “near” – how can it be used to mean both almost happening and almost not happening? But if we go by that logic, then we’re going to have to dispense with all the English words and phrases that we all freely use to mean their opposites without batting an eye. For example, there’s “dust,” which means both to remove dust from and to sprinkle with dust or dustlike fine powder (as in “dust the top of the cake with confectioners’ sugar”). There’s also “bolt,” which means both to fasten together and to flee, to “split the scene.” And there’s “original,” which can refer either to the beginning of something or original source and to something that is new and innovative, with no earlier, “original” sources. These types of words are so common, there’s even a word for them, “contronyms.”
So why frown on “near miss” if we’re okay with dusting and bolting and are so fond of “original” that we often try to settle questions of language use by looking for “original” meanings and uses?
And speaking of the origins of “near miss” to mean “near collision,” this meaning comes from its use by the military in World War II to refer to explosives like bombs and grenades that miss their intended targets but still hit nearby enough to cause damage – a near miss. Clearly, there’s an important distinction between misses that fall wide of the mark and misses that still help achieve military ends – or score points in other ways. As baseball great Frank Robinson once said, “Close don’t count in baseball. Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.” You get points for coming close to your target in wartime, but no points for a swing and a miss in baseball.
Like so many other words and phrases that made their way from the military into general use during and after the war, for example, “snafu,” “debrief,” and “head honcho,” “near miss” also spread from the military theater, possibly through the movie theater, to civilian use.
In a way, using “near miss” instead of “near collision” is easier. It’s a shorter phrase, and it avoids any worry about the intricacies of the word “collide.” The verb “collide” started out as a transitive verb meaning “to strike against,” as in “The hockey player collided his shoulder against his opponent,” a usage which is now all but obsolete. Nowadays, “collide” is defined as an intransitive verb meaning “to come together with a solid or direct impact,” as in “The two cars collided.” This definition implies that in order for a collision to take place, two objects must be moving. But it’s not uncommon to say or write things like “The car collided with a wall” or “The bird collided against the window.”
So is it wrong to use “collide” when only one of two objects coming into impact is in motion? For much of the 20th century, grammarians and style guides dictated that, yes, that’s bad grammar, and “collide” should only be used with two objects in motion. But nowadays, usage guides are easing up on the rule and allowing moving objects to collide with stationary ones. So it’s now okay to say, “The car collided with the tree” or “The bomb nearly collided with the enemy bunker.” But if you don’t want to risk potential damage to your writerly reputation, you might want to stick with “near miss.”
That segment was written by Natalie Schilling, a professor emerita of linguistics at Georgetown University in Washington, DC, and who runs a forensic linguistics consulting firm. You can find her on LinkedIn.
by Mignon Fogarty
August 26 is National Dog Day in the United States, so today, we'll look at some of the more interesting origins of dog breed names, many of which will likely make you nod in recognition (or at least smile) because many of them are descriptive in that they reflect how people used the dogs before they became the pets that some of us let up on the couch when we shouldn’t today.
Poodles come from Germany where they were called “Pudelhund,” which meant something like “puddle, water, or splashing dog” because poodles were used to hunt water birds, so you can think of “poodle” as meaning “puddle.”
Since we just had the Pudlehund, I bet you won’t be surprised to hear that the dachshund, with that same “hund” meaning “dog” at the end, also comes from Germany. The “dachs” part means “badger” in German, and these dogs likely got their name because they were used to hunt badgers — digging them out of their burrows.
Terriers also like to get dirty and get their name from an Old French word for “earth,” as in “dirt,” because when they are hunting, they’ll also go after their prey into burrows. In modern French, “le terrier” actually means “burrow.”
Schnauzers are a type of terrier (this breed was first introduced in 1923), and their name means “growler” in German.
Pit-bulls are also terriers. The pit-bull terrier may get the “pit” part of its name from the idea of putting dogs into a pit to fight.
The name Bichon Frisé is descriptive in French, being a slight modification of the words for "curly-haird lapdog." And they have an interesting history. Before the French Revolution, they were popular in royal courts, but when their owners were dethroned (and worse), the breed fell on hard times — and like other cute and trainable rascals, they ended up largely becoming circus performers.
Apparently, when circuses then fell on hard times because of World War II, Bichon Frisés again found themselves on the streets. The American Kennel Club says that this time they were rescued by fanciers in France and Belgium although the circus still lives in their heart since they supposedly still "enjoy performing for their loved ones."
And as an aside, I can't talk about the Bichon Frisé with mentioning the fun Oz 9 podcast, which has a character named Le Bichon Frisé who is an assassin aboard the spaceship, and they have an ongoing joke about not knowing how to pronounce the name.
Next, Siberian huskies were first bred to be sled dogs by the indigenous Chukchi people of Russia and were brought to Alaska by a Russian fur trader during the Nome Gold Rush of the early 1900s. Since they became the sled dogs of the Inuit, the dogs get their English name in a roundabout way from the word “Eskimo,” which was what outsiders called the Inuit. Earlier versions of the word included “Ehuskemay,” “Huskemaw,” and “Uskemaw.” If you focus on the sounds, you can imagine how “Ehuskemay dog” or “Huskemaw” dog would become “husky dog.”
And as you may remember from the “words for snow” episode, most of the native peoples of North America prefer not to be called Eskimos. For Canadians, the better term is Inuit.
Our next dog is the corgi, of which there are two types: the Pembroke Welsh Corgi and the Cardigan Welsh Corgi. These are very old breeds, and there are a variety of origin stories, but in one common tale, the Pembrokes were brought to the western part of Wales by Flemish weavers in the year 1107, and the Cardigans were brought by Norse settlers.
There’s no doubt however, about the word “corgi.” It’s Welsh for “dwarf dog.” Cute little dwarves! To me, corgi's always look like they’re smiling, which makes them almost the opposite of our next, more intimidating dog: the Dobermann pinscher.
The Doberman pinscher (and that’s “pinscher” spelled with an S-C-H) gets the “Doberman” part of its name from a German dog catcher, night watchman, and tax collector named Louis Dobermann. Collecting money from the unwilling could be a dangerous job in the late 19th century (as it probably still is today), and Dobermann bred the dog to have a protector as he did his rounds.
According to the American Kennel Club, Dobermann "surveyed the dogs in his pound [for] … the strongest, steeliest, and most intelligent," and particularly looked for dog with an "unflappable" temperament. They speculate that these original breeding dogs may have included German Shepherds, Rottweilers, German Pinschers, and Weimaraners.
As for the “pinscher” part, some people think it could come from the word "pinch," but the Oxford English Dictionary says the origin is ultimately unknown.
And finally, some quick hits:
8. Beagles probably get their name from a French word that means “noisy person.”
9. Bulldogs were originally used for baiting bulls.
10. Rottweilers come from a town called Rottweil in southern Germany.
11. Boxers get their name because they are pugnacious like boxers in a fighting ring.
12. Spaniels were thought to originate from Spain.
13. Shih tzus were bred in China and come from the Chinese words for “lion dog” because they resemble lions.
14. Mastiff comes from the Latin word for “tame” or “mild.”
15. Next, Labrador retrievers, strangely, don't come from Labrador. They actually originated in Newfoundland. They were bred there from the St. John's Water Dog that was favored by Canadian fishermen, and nobody seems sure why the name got mixed up.
16. But finally, the fluffy and massive Newfoundlands do come from Newfoundland, where they were also prized by Canadian fishermen for their ability to execute dramatic water rescues.
And that's all. Happy National Dog Day!
RELATED ARTICLE: When to capitalize breed names.
Before we get to the familect, I have a question from a long-time listener:
Grammar Girl. This is Andrew calling from Los Angeles. I've called several times before. This is a reaction to two podcasts I listened to recently. One, a very recent one about computers and blogs changing the way we speak and your interview. And the other, just randomly listening to the one about "ah" and what those mean. My comment is that I don't know whether you listen to yourself, but when you present a regular podcast, by which I mean one in which it's you or you reading something, your language flows absolutely without interrupters. But when you interview people, you tend, as often they do, to throw in the word "like." Now I don't know whether "like" is an identifiable symbol. I've always thought it's a placeholder for people whose mind is racing ahead. But it is fascinating to me that you do not use it normally when you're presenting a podcast, you do when you interview people. I don't know what it means, like I don't know at all.
Hi, Andrew! Thanks for calling. It's definitely something I notice, and there's a reason. The original podcast, where I cover topics myself, like this one, is scripted. When I first started the podcast many years ago, I knew people would expect my language to be nearly perfect — since it's a language podcast — and nobody speaks perfectly off the cuff. Also, I want it to be as accurate as possible, and it's easier to get things wrong when you're speaking extemporaneously. So I write and read a script.
But when I started doing the interview shows on Thursdays, those obviously can't be scripted; so when you hear me there, you're hearing my more natural way of speaking. I try to write the scripts as much like I talk as possible, but I don't put in "like"s and "you know"s, and things like that.
And when the shows are written by guest writers, they are also usually more different from the way I might say something even though I try to address some of that in the editing. For example, Valerie Fridland favors the phrase "for instance" whereas I always use the phrase "for example." In fact, a little peek behind the scenes is that it always takes me longer to record shows by guest writers because I stumble over the phrasings more often precisely because they aren't always written the way I would say things! Thanks for the question!
Finally, I have a familect story — about a dog!
Hi, Mignon. This is Michelle from Paxton, Massachusetts, and I have a familect story for you. My husband and I have a border collie who is a retired sheep herder. These dogs are so smart and are amazing to watch. We saw a video in which a handler who was training a dog to herd sheep would say, "Stupid dog, Jackie," when she misinterpreted his signals. At first it sounded unkind until we came to understand that the dog didn't take it as an insult. To her it just meant, "You did the wrong thing" or "Go the other way." Our dog is usually well behaved, but when she misbehaves, we comment to each other that she was a "stupid dog Jackie." Eventually, we generalized this term to apply to any misjudgement or undesirable behavior and have been known to apply it to ourselves, commenting, "I forgot my phone or sunglasses or keys. Stupid dog Jackie!" or to others: "You never called me back. Stupid dog Jackie." Thank you for your podcast.
Thanks, Michelle. I was delighted to have this story for the National Dog Day episode! And since I didn't do "border collie" in the main episode, I'll add it as a bonus story here:
"Collie" an old Scottish name for a shepherd's dog, but nobody seems to know where it comes from. Some sources say it might come from the word "coaly," which meant something that was black, like the color of coal, but nobody commits to it, instead calling it conjecture or a possibility.
But the reason they are called border collies is that they come from the border region between England and Scotland, where they've been used as sheepdogs for about 300 years, according to the Encyclopedia Britannica.
Thanks so much for the call!
If you want to share the story of your familect, a word or phrase that you only use with your friends or family, leave a message on the voicemail line at 83-321-4-GIRL or leave a voice message on WhatsApp. Be sure to call from a nice, quiet place, and if you want that number or link later, you can always find them in the show notes.
Grammar Girl is a Quick and Dirty Tips podcast. Thanks to Dan Feierabend in audio; Morgan Christianson in advertising; Holly Hutchings, director of podcasts; and Nat Hoopes in Marketing, whose dad is an archaeologist who specializes in Central America. Cool!
And I'm Mignon Fogarty, better known as Grammar Girl and author of the tip a day book, "The Grammar Daily." That's all. Thanks for listening.