Wumpita-what?

Early this morning Great Grandpa Wumpitathumpa and I went outside to our lakeside garden, or rather we sped there.  Great Grandma Wumpitathumpa had made a particularly reekful batch of gravy for breakfast.  Perhaps we could have stood to remain in the house a bit longer if the gravy had been limited to a ladleful on a biscuit.  But no; we found that so great was her enthusiasm over this latest lot of glob that she replaced our normal orange juice with glasses of gravy, bafely brown and running over the brim and down the sides and onto the table wheresat  slices of gravycakes, with maplegravy syrup.  Of course, she could not have considered this complete without a great big bowl of corn flakes drowning in gravy.  And who could miss the wonderful large grapefruit rinds beblopped a dollop of the wretched goo.  Needless to say, as soon as Great Grandma Wumpitathumpa turned around to douse the small fire issuing forth from a small drop of gravy that had, by some mischance, dribbled its way down the tablecloth and down to the floor, Great Grandpa Wumpitathumpa and I were gone.

As we were scouring the plants for unfrozen Dwizzleberries and grubbing in the ground for some fresh Mufta roots, Great Grandpa Wumpitathumpa started talking about rusty old pickups.  No doubt he was anxious, as was I, to retrieve our new rusty old pick.  It was due to have repairs completed at the shop today;  one of the doors wasn’t rusty enough so we are getting one of those newfangled ultrarustification treatments to make it look more like the rest of the vehicle.  Alas, it was put off two more days, but that is another story.  Anyway, Great Grandpa Wumpitathumpa got to talking about his fondest memory of rusty old pickup trucks, back in the old country.  He said his old friends the GrumpitaJumpitta family owned a wonderful rusty old pickup that could actually fly, on Thursday afternoons, when it was raining, but only indoors and only when driven by a porcupine having the hiccoughs.  Great Grandpa Wumpitathumpa was starting to wax nostalgic (and a bit boring if I might be so bold as to say so). 

So, in order to snap him out of nostalgia-mode, where he can stick for days on end, I asked him a question of meticulous logic that had been bothering me almost from the beginning of his story.  I said, “Why, Great Grandpa Wumpitathumpa, were your friends named GrumpitaJumpitta.

“Ah!” he said, “You noticed the similarity.”

“I noticed rather the difference.” I said, “The names sound familiar but their name has an ‘itta’ at the end of it, but yours doesn’t.”

At this point, Great Grandpa Wumpitathumpa had a look I would almost describe as embracement. “Yes,” he admitted.  You have uncovered the great skeleton in our family closet, and yours too.”

“What do you mean?” I queried.

“You see, back when my grandfather came to this fair land from the old country, Itadavittaland,  our family name was Wumpitathumpitta.  However, in order to assimilate with the culture of this new and fair realm, my grandfather chose to shorten his last name to Wumpitathumpa, thus making it blend in and sound more suitable and be more amenable to the apprehension of the great American dream.  Ever since that time our family has had to live with the shame of forsaking the history of our great ancestors for the fame and fortune of a celebrital name: Wumpitathumpa.  There is nothing we can do now.  What’s done is done.”

I was shocked and quite nonplussed.  But he hadn’t told me the worst part yet.  It seems that even my fair canine family was not immune to the draw of fame and a mellifluous name.  Great Grandpa Wumpitathumpa told me at great pains that the same thing was done by a certain dog when he came here from the old country.  Yes, that dog was my grandfather, Great Great Great Grandpa Dogitta.