WHAT’S IN A NAME?

About a year ago I was re-financing my home and the lender sent out a Notary to witness my signing of the documents. She arrived at our home in a sleek silver Mercedes as Kebu, our large grey and black Akita, announced her welcome with ferocious barking. I opened the door and greeted a chic, middle aged Oriental woman, with graying hair and stylish glasses. Her business card told me she was of Japanese descent and her accent, when she introduced herself, told me she was not born in the USA. I asked her where she was from and she told me Tokyo.
In a very business-like manner we established ourselves at the dining room table and I set about signing the forms. As we went about our work we chatted about this and that, inconsequential small talk as we got through the tedious business of signing multiple copies of legal real estate forms. Kebu sat beside me, watching it all. After a short time, our visitor noted the dog and so, big show off that I am, I put Kebu through all her tricks. The woman nodded with approval.
“Your dog is an Akita,” she said.
“Yes. There must be many Akitas in Japan.”
“Ah, yes, but not so well trained,” she said. “Sign here.”
I scribbled my signature.
“In Japan the dogs are headstrong. Akitas are not very easy to train.” She looked at Kebu suspiciously, as if my dog might at any moment revert to true Akita form and begin acting up. “Sign here,” she told me.
I obediently signed where indicated.
“Well, I trained Kebu from the moment I got her,” I said. “I knew I had to tame her at a young age, or, as you say, with an Akita it would be hopeless.”
She paused as she leaned over the documents, a puzzled look on her face. “Sorry, what did you say your dog’s name was?”
“Kebu,” I said helpfully. “It means hope in Japanese.
“Sign here,” she said. “And here.” She gave a faint shake of her head as if to knock some nonsense out. She had a cryptic smile on her lips.
I signed, once, twice, with a flourish. I was getting pretty handy at this signing business.
“In Japanese,” my guest said, “the word for hope is Kebo, not Kebu.”
She sounded faintly like a school teacher when she said this. And since I am an immature adult who has authority issues I got my umbrage up.
“You’re kidding,” I told her, though she didn’t look like the type to kid.
“No, so sorry. But Kebo is hope in Japanese.” And she stressed the last syllable. Again a faint smile crossed her face. “Sign here.”
I signed. For some reason I didn’t like where this conversation was heading.
“But my wife got the name Kebu from a Japanese/English dictionary.”
“So sorry, but your wife is wrong,” the woman informed me and she ducked her head in embarrassment. “Kebo is hope, not Kebu.”
I looked over at my dog, who was giving me a flinty stare, her ears pointed forward and the hackles on her back flexing upward.
“Sign here.”
I signed.
“Then what does Kebu mean in Japanese.” I asked, thereby breaking one of the cardinal rules of life; never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to.
The woman paused in her work, straightening up from where she was bent over the table. She looked at the dog, she looked at me. “Kebu means nothing. No word.”
When she said this her eyes did not meet mine; her gaze wandered out the front window to her shining car.
I didn’t believe her for a minute.
“Sign here,” she said.
I put down the pen. “What does Kebu mean?”
“It is unimportant,” she said.
I settled back in my chair and crossed my arms. I was on signing hiatus.
She read my posture and so said, “Kebu means, like a wind. I am not sure how you say in American.”
“Wind? Like a gale or hurricane. I thought that was Kamikaze?”
“Sorry, wrong word.” For a very classy, put-together, professional woman, she suddenly seemed uncomfortable. “Breaking wind,” she said at last.
“What?” This was getting worse and worse.
“Sorry. Stinky bottom wind,” she said. And then, just to cement the image, she held her nose with one hand while waving her other hand back and forth behind her fanny.
I sat bolt upright. “You mean I’ve been going around calling my dog Fart?”
This was simply appalling.
“Yes, very unfortunate name. Japanese would never call a dog by this name. Kebu is stinky bottom wind.” Her cheeks slightly reddened with embarrassment,
Obviously deeply apologetic at having to inform me of this unfortunate circumstance, she looked at me with a glum expression.
I looked back at her, I am sure, with a look that said I wish I had never brought this up.
And then we both looked at the poor dog. “Very well behaved dog,” she said in way of some mollification. “Best behaved Akita I’ve ever seen.”
Apparently this was the consolation prize for naming my dog Stinky Bottom Wind. Yahoo.
My guest regained her crisp demeanor and, leaning back over the table, handed me the pen and the documents.
“Sign here,” she told me, and I did. Again and again.
When finally we had finished, we exchanged farewells and I saw her out. Returning to the dining room I found the dog leveling a flat gaze at me.
“It wasn’t my fault,” I told Kebu. “Your mom picked out the name. I wanted to name you Mariko.”
“Are you the pack leader?”
“Well, yeah, I guess.” At the moment I didn't sound too pack-leaderish, I had to admit.
I sat down and tried to scratch her ears, but she wasn’t having any of it.
“The pack leader,” she said, “is responsible for everything that goes on in the pack.”
“I would never have knowingly named you Stinky Bottom Wind.”
“Please don’t say that name again.” A visible shudder ran up and down her thick hide.
“We must never speak of this again,” she informed me.
I was only too happy to agree. “It never happened. Your name is Kebu, and it means hope.”
We sat silently, considering this for some time.
“You know what would take this bitter taste right out of our mouths.”
“Let me guess.”
“That most recent batch of biscotti you made has just the right crunchiness, don’t you think?”
“I wondered when you’d get to this.”
“Why don’t you get us a piece?”
I went into the kitchen and took a piece of biscotti out of the cookie jar. Kebu had followed me and was watching my every move with an intensity that would have scared the bejeezzus out of anyone but a seasoned pack leader like me.
I bit off a small piece and fed it to her. She crushed it between her powerful jaws, the thick muscles moving beneath her black fur defining her skull.
I took a bite of and savored the anise flavor. Kebu was right; it had just the right crunchiness.