In a previous part of my life, I was lucky enough to have two adorable little Bichon Frise dogs. We only had one at first but quickly got him a companion from the same parents next litter - this is the two of them:
After almost losing him in a dense part of the forest, I got it into my head that we needed to get a dog licence (they were 'on the way out at that point' and weren't compulsory, but I was adamant).
So, I'm pretty sure it was in Brockenhurst, I hopped into the local village store cum Post Office and went to the counter. One elderly post master was on duty and he had to rummage round to find the little A6 sized form. With pen poised he said 'Name'?
And I replied brightly, and even helpfully 'Well, his full Kennel Club name is Benjamin Silverelves Gypsy - but we call him Benjie or even Widdle for short (he's proving difficult to fully house train) if that's easier to fit on the form'.
With a stern stare over his glasses, said Post Master then almost barked 'Your name, madam'.
Tell you what, I paid my thirty seven and a half pence (or something similar) and was out of there as fast as my feet would carry me!