Once upon a time, there was a town in Pennsylvania called Porkelin. It was inhabited by a number of wonderful, adorable, obedient dogs, but it was also inhabited by several cats with the disgusting habit of sitting down in the middle of the road to lick their butts.
The mayor hated these cats, so he put up signs that said: “Whosoever can rid this town of cats with annoying sanitary habits shall henceforth earn an ample reward.”
Soon an Irish wolfhound came to town hall, claiming to the mayor, “I think I can rid your town of cats with annoying sanitary habits.”
“Grrrreat!” said the mayor. “I’ll give you two weeks, and if you’ve done your work then, we’ll pay you a reward of 5,000 guineas.”
<>“No deal,” said the discerning wolfhound. “Nobody accepts guineas here in Pennsylvania.”“Nope—I’m a vegetarian.”
“Rats,” muttered the mayor. His intent had been to trick the wolfhound into working for him so that he wouldn’t lose any money in the process. Such is the way of mayors. But he had to do it: “Okay, okay, 5,000 dollars. But you have to do a good job,” he growled.
“Right,” said the wolfhound, and she set
out to rid
the town of cats with annoying sanitary habits. She
went to the road where the cats liked to lick their butts,
and she pooped right in the middle of it.
Then she did it again. And
again, and again, and again. You see,
she had understood the mayor’s instructions to mean that she should use
annoying sanitary habits to rid the town of cats.
Well, it worked. By the end of the week there were no cats left in Porkelin. But there were no dogs either. Even they couldn’t stand all those poops around. Except the mayor. When the wolfhound went to collect her reward, she couldn’t find the mayor anywhere. But she did find a pie that someone had left behind, which she had a rather good time eating.
That’s how she got the first part of her name.
Then she went to live in Hamelin, Pennsylvania, which is how she got the third part of her name.
I think it’s pretty clear how she got the middle part of her name.
