There's no particular reason for this name, but it would make me delighted, personally, if you would name her Cheyenne.
Why? Because, when we had our first Doberman litter, we had a very funny story. We had taken the bitch to the vet for x-rays, to find out how many puppies to expect, and they said 10, and maybe 11. So when she began to whelp, we counted puppies . . . we had 9 healthy black and tans, and one stillborn, not completely formed puppy, and then, after a hiatus, an 11th black and tan puppy. So we figured that was our "10, maybe 11", and we told our stepdaughter we were going to ride our horses, and to keep an eye on the bitch to make sure she didn't roll over on the puppies or anything untoward.
When we got home, Victoria met us on the porch and said, "You need to come see -- Justice had another puppy, and I think it's sick." I leapt out of the car and began running up the stairs, when the thought struck me . . . how would Victoria know if there was something wrong with a puppy? So I asked, "What makes you think it's sick?" And she solemnly told me, "It's the WRONG COLOR!" She, of course, had never seen a red dobe, and had no idea they came in that color.
The puppy wasn't sick, but we ended up keeping her. I think she probably did have a little hypoxic brain damage from being the 12th born, after more than 8 hours of labor, because she wasn't very smart, but she was one of the sweetest dogs you can imagine living with. Although she couldn't learn very well, she desperately wanted to, and she would try and try and try to get things right. It took six months to teach her to sit, where her father had learned in four repetitions in a single session.
At any rate, she was deeply and thoroughly loved, and we cherished all of her 8 years.
I would love the name to live on with someone else's beloved Doberman.
