"If you start to growl, I'm going to start calling you Drrrrrrr. Hennigar," the note says.
Dr. Hennigar, who is not real, hasn't yet joined me in the examination room. I can't wait for him to get in here and see this note.
If Dr. Hennigar does (or does not) offer a verbal acknowledgment of the note, I'll ask him to take a close look—a good look—at the note:
"If you start to growl, I'm going to start calling you Drrrrrrr. Hennigar," the note says. That's all it says.
If Dr. Hennigar says something now—or if he says nothing now—I will ask him to take one more look at the note:
"If you start to growl, I'm going to start calling you Drrrrrrr. Hennigar."
At this point—no matter what—I will say one more thing:
"Toopaf is a word I just made up, just now, Dr. Hennigar. Toopaf."
Toopaf is a word with a secret meaning. (Secret until now, that is. When I tell you the meaning of toopaf—and I'm about to tell you—poof. No more secret.)
A toopaf is any made-up word that is invented first and assigned meaning later.
Here are three examples of toopafs:
"The meaning of [fedsao / gedpadan / estasoot / etc] is a secret."
The meaning of a toopaf is always declared a secret until its inventor—who is always me, historically—has determined its meaning (or meanings) and decided to reveal it (or them).
Like any word, a toopaf might have more than one meaning; and a toopaf always has a finite number of meanings.
If Dr. Hennigar ever starts to growl—and if I'm there to hear it, or even if I just hear about it—I'll have to figure out a good way to pronounce "Drrrrrrr."