How to Say NO to Canine Cuties

How to Say NO to Canine Cuties

“What kind of dog do you have?” someone will ask. This usually follows my own inquiry into what kind of dog is at the end of a leash or pictured within a frame on a desk. When you have a pack of five dogs like our family, the explanation gets a little complicated.

We used to be a one-dog family. Her name was Winnie. She was absolutely the best dog who ever lived. She came from questionable lineage. Her mother was a full-blooded yellow Labrador, but her dad was a hot-blooded stranger in the night. Shortly before she died, our dog Spottie the orphan appeared on the scene.

Tailless with black-and-white spots, Spottie resembles a cross between a Dalmatian and an Australian cattle dog. For all we know, he could be from a champion bloodline of some rare canine breed. Likely, he’s all mutt. My brother David says he’s a sweet dog, but ugly as a mud fence. We think he’s beautiful. But then, come to think of it, I’m not sure that we have ever seen an ugly dog. And therein lies the story of our four poodles.

If you have never seen a poodle puppy with its voluminous coat of shiny curls, tiny ears and weepy brown eyes, then you have never witnessed the epitome of cute. It is the kind of cute that induces supposedly reasonable adults with a perfectly wonderful dog to lose all good sense and establish a poodle kingdom. It is also the kind of cute that fades in its intensity at 2 a.m. when the insufferable little whiners insist on human contact 24/7.

Honey and Scooter comprised our first pair. We bought Beignet because of his stellar pedigree. We intended to establish a profitable poodle breeding empire built on the cute factor. Only, we found out soon enough that cute is a relative term.

Honey and Scooter gave rise to three pups that survived the birthing process. Beignet simply stood around and looked confused. In spite of round-the-clock feedings and as much maternal nurturing as I could muster every two hours, only the runt, Daisy, made it. Somewhere between the completely disinterested mama dog and my sudden incarnation as a wet nurse, the cute factor disintegrated faster than you can say “pipe dream.” We had all four neutered and spayed and vowed never to contribute to the poodle gene pool again.

My brother-in-law visited over the weekend. He graciously tolerated the poodles, and they returned the favor by announcing his every move.

“Good morning, Mike,” we’d say.
“Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!” the poodles answered.
“Let’s go grab a bite to eat, Mike.”
“Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!”

It didn’t matter that they sat on his lap and he scratched their heads and called them by name. If Mike entered the room, he was re-introduced with a canine chorus every single time.

“He’s going outside!” (yap, yap, yap, yap, yap)
“He’s coming inside!” (yap, yap, yap, yap, yap)
“He’s, he’s, he’s, just sitting there!” (yap, yap, yap, yap, yap)

Sometimes we try to remember what it was that possessed us to lay claim to four poodles. All I can figure is that temporary madness can be blamed for a lot of things. I was looking through some old photos and I remembered all too clearly. Hordes of baby poodle pictures featured the face of a little angel and the hypnotic stare of a miniature master manipulator.

My daughter and I stopped by the pet shop to buy some supplies. Like complete idiots, we visited the puppy cages. There they were, two Pugs intent on stealing our hearts, a Basset Hound imploring us with woeful brown eyes, a trio of Schnauzers schmoozing through the glass and a couple of identical Schipperkes that I would swear mouthed the words “take us home.”

We never left a place faster in our lives.