The Tale of Typhoon Bill

By Jim Hagarty
2014

One of the great advantages for me in owning a dog is the humour he brings into my life and the fun I bring into his.

About the size of a Thanksgiving supper fart, my little poodle Toby has a least a hundred names that I (and other family members) have bestowed upon him over the years and he answers to all of them.

For example, just looking at him today while he sat on the couch hoping I’d give him some of my breakfast, I yelled out, “Hey, Typhoon Bill, here’s a cornflake for ya.” He responded to the new name as though he’d thought of it himself.

And every time he gets a new name, it make me feel good to know that there is no chance that there is another dog in the world with that name. If anyone ever comes across another poodle (or any dog) called Typhoon Bill, please let me know.

Toby’s official name, of course, is Chubbly S. Winterborne III (the S. stands for Socrates). Now, that might sound a bit creative but you can’t really consider yourself a serious nicknamer unless you have nicknames for their nicknames. Chubbly S. Winterborne III, is a little too wordy, obviously, so he is called Chubbles and sometimes Chubby, for short. But not for long as there are 99 other names to use on him, such as Tito Burrito, or (nickname for a nickname) My Little Burreet.

Don’t even get me started on our cats, Archie and Stretchy McFlinnihan (The McFlinnihan Brothers). They are also known as Shredrick F. Wigglebottom III and Squirmford F. Wigglebottom III.

The F. stands for Fartingham, and why wouldn’t it?

Author: Jim Hagarty

I am a 65-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don’t deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather’s blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.

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