"What's in a name?"

"That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet"

Well said, Juliet, a girl after my own heart.  I am however in a minority.  Turkey has always seemed obsessed with expensive brand names, probably because sky high import duties have made brands such as Porche, Chanel, Givenchy, Armani, Moet Chandon, etc twice the usual price and therefore doubly desirable.  The Turkish market is flooded with cheap reproductions of the more easily copiable kind; Lacoste, Mulberry, Tod, Calvin Klein and co. but I've yet to meet a Turk who is happy to buy them. This market seems directed purely at the tourists.  Turks want the real thing, with a bone fide brand name. Where is this leading? To my dog. Regulars will know that Jake is a rescue dog, abandoned on the streets of Didim last August.   His family tree will always remain a mystery and his final dimensions will be a surprise.  The small bundle of fur we picked up 8 months ago is now a large hairy beast with a black nose that wouldn't look out of place on a polar bear.  This winter, I've  walked him at least twice a day through the streets of Bodrum and every day, without fail I get stopped several times and asked the same question; "What breed is your dog?" At the beginning my answer was "Sokak", street dog or stray,  but this reply was met with dismay and the questioner's embarrassment at confusing a pedigree dog with a mongrel was evident. It is not done to mix up a "brand" and a "brand-less".  My answer is now "terrier" as this covers a multitude of breeds and only the persistent inquirer will ask what kind.  If pushed, I can say "Wheaten terrier" as he does look a bit like one and my inquisitor will go on his way very happy in the knowledge that he can recognise a pedigree when he sees one. 

Today the tables were turned.  A gentleman approached me with the word "Commodore".  He repeated it several times and I wondered if he was looking for the Yacht club.  I eventually understood that he was telling me that my dog was a Komondor, and a Belgian one at that. I thanked him and googled this unknown breed when we got home.  It turns out that the Komondor is the Bob Marley of the dog world, by the age of two they are a mass of dreadlocks, which could explain why it takes me an hour each evening to detangle Jake's fur. The chances of a Komondor turning up on the streets in Turkey are reassuringly low, so I will stick to "terrier'" until proven otherwise or Jake breaks into a spontaneous  rendition of "No woman, no cry."