"Why Republicans Are Bad For Poodles" by Domino, the mini poodle

Domino Waiting for Storm

My poodle brother, Dash, and I have spent the better part of the last 2 days waiting at home for the tornado to hit the Gulf Coast in Florida.  Fortunately, it’s been relatively mild, so we got lucky- our human family stayed put (just to be sure) but without the usual storm hysteria involving flashlights, cans of tuna and crackers.

This gift of free time for dogs is just like a snow day for children: anything goes.

For us that means: treats for breakfast; long stretches of scratch-our-tummies; lolling about mindlessly with our usually preoccupied human mother; impromptu visits from her peculiar friends- all this makes for a festive and devil may care experience.

The one drawback is that the Republican National Convention was on TV.  It broke the mood to hear our mother call people names while she watched it with us, and once she even threw a shoe at the screen.

It was a soft house slipper, but still. 

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"Dog Days" by Domino the mini poodle

Dog days: the hottest days of summer.

That’s what we’re in right now. It’s so warm and sticky it makes my hair curl tightly. I suppose this would be newsworthy if I were an afghan hound, but I’m a poodle, so we’re just gilding the lily here.

Dog days of summer. This expression derives from the ancient belief that the Dog Star, Sirius, was responsible for hot weather due to its’ proximity to the sun. I like the idea that we dogs can be so influential.

Usually humans box us in and claim that our main purpose is to bring them “unconditional love.” They say this with the implied judgment that they don’t get that from anyone else and it is this that makes dogs so special. 

Well, I’m here to say that they don’t get unconditional love from us either. Frankly, you better believe we’re happy to see them. Our life would be vastly different if we had hands. Then, without any assistance, we could hit the cookie box or turn the door handle to get the hell out of the house whenever we wanted.  

But there’s no benefit to my revealing this, so let’s just keep it to ourselves.

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Domino's Full Of It by Dash, the Toy Poodle

Mother ‘s friend, Nancy, often comes to visit Mother at our home.  They usually sit outside by the pool and spend the entire afternoon doing absolutely nothing with each other, as far as I can tell.  But my poodle brother Domino says they’re talking and he likes listening.  He usually homes in on them for scratches, knowing he’s going to get a good, long stretch of time out of it.  Nice move.

On Nancy's last visit, I complimented Domino on this clever maneuver.  His response was to tell me that I know nothing about “the value of communication.”  But really, how anyone can spend hours in conversation with another is TOTALLY beyond me. What there is to say after the first “how ya’ doin?” I wouldn’t know.  Domino insists that this is the difference between us; he claims I have no manners, curiosity or need for connection with others.

Dash

To all this I can only say: “Excuse me, dear brother. I'd be most grateful for your opinion about something when you have a free moment:  Over all these many years that we’ve lived together I’ve often wondered, HOW on God’s green earth can we possibly be related?  Thank you for sharing your thoughts and feelings with me on this subject."

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Beware the Dentist by Domino the Poodle

                                                                  Domino Recovering

Oh the horror!  I went to the vet to get my teeth cleaned.  Mother took me there after we discovered that those disgusting dental chews I’ve been eating for six years do not actually work. When I arrived there at 11:55, I was put in a cage and left for dead. That is, until I was removed at noon to have the procedure done. But those five minutes, torn from my mother’s side and left to fend for myself in a small crate without a side view, were very dark moments indeed.

And then I was drugged and knocked unconscious. Brutes!  Aggressive medical technicians with hideous instruments came at me, unconcerned with the fear coursing through my unconscious body. Who knows what they did to me while I was under, but I saw, what looked like knives, heading in my direction before I conked out.  

All I know is that it must have been terrible; I’m lucky to be alive.  And those technicians who rubbed my ears and smiled at me when I awoke- phonies, every last one of them with their sharp utensils.  Besides, they looked like cat people.

Afterwards, Mother was waiting for me as soon as I could leave. I wobbled over to her with a slight limp and looked at her with burdened eyes, grateful to be taken out of my private hell.  She said something about sparkling teeth and how glad she was to see me. Who can remember?  I stayed in her lap the whole car ride home, which helped, but not enough to erase the memory of those leering technicians.

But Mother understands me. Even though she had a lot of work to get back to, she still spent the whole afternoon pressing a cold, wet washcloth to my forehead.  Only then could I finally breathe deeply and escape into post-traumatic slumber.

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Dash has Chutzpah by Dash, the Toy Poodle

I know dogs aren’t supposed to enter most establishments,  but I’m only 9 pounds and fit easily into Mother’s handbag.  So off I go. Oh please, I can feel the eye rolls at this annoyingly cute image; but we’re not like that. This is no precious doggie/ fancy lady duo. I just like to widen my turf whenever possible. 

As for Mother, well, I’m not sure what this means, but I over heard her talking to her friend recently about why she wants me with her: “It’s just that Dash has chutzpah,” she said. “And sometimes I’m in short supply of that and smart enough to know it.  So at those moments, I just scratch his head as a reminder and, quick as Ramen noodles, I feel like I can climb Mt. Everest.”

I don’t know what chutzpah means but isn’t Mt. Everest the highest mountain in the entire world?  God, I hope she leaves me behind on that trip.

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One Good Thing about Leona Helmsley by Domino the mini poodle

                                                                      Domino

Mother’s not looking so hot these days.  Fact is, she’s not getting any younger. Who knows what would happen to my brother Dash and me if she kicked the bucket?  This may sound harsh, but I have to be practical.  What fate awaits two orphaned poodles without a trust fund?

I know Mother left money in her will for her beloved dog Daisy, when Daisy was still alive. Let’s hope she’s done the same for us.  Even today there are hints of what the future could hold in store if we’re not protected.  For example, though I’m still on the sunny side of six, I suddenly have shooting pains in my feet that must be the first signs of a crippling form of progressive arthritis.  I could deteriorate quickly.  True, right before this pain began, Mother used tweezers to remove sharp prickles from the pads of my paws that left my feet swollen and tender, but whatever.  Who cares what caused the pain?  Let’s stay on point here.

There’s simply no tasteful way to broach this topic with Mother.  Perhaps as a little nudge, I’ll use Leona Helmsley’s obituary that Mother found so amusing she saved.  I remember her delight (and mine) when she read that Leona left twelve million dollars to Trouble, her adorable maltese dog.  That’s how I first discovered that Daisy had a trust fund.  This would have been the perfect moment to find out about our inheritance, but instead, I had to fight the rising wave of nausea raging through me when I heard Daisy’s name mentioned yet again for the millionth time.

I’m assuming that we’ll get the same amount as Daisy, although didn’t Trouble wind up in her own condo with an ocean view in Florida?  Of course that’s crazy; don’t be ridiculous. Mother doesn’t have that kind of money.  Besides, I’m not that spoiled or picky; garden views are also nice.

I hope this never becomes an issue; I love Mother and want to live happily with her until my final days if that’s possible. But if it’s not, she has to set the rules straight now or we’ll wind up in poodle purgatory. And although I’m sure my brother Dash and I will be expected to split our inheritance equally, it would be nice to avoid those nasty will related sibling “discussions.”  I just know he’ll try to dip into my half and blame it on being bad in math.

If Mother could only clarify this subject now, I wouldn’t have to try to work out all these details by myself.  I can’t rely on help from Dash.  All he wants to do is play ball and hunt for low-lying hors d’oeuvres. That’s a good day for him (doesn’t take much).  

Speaking for myself, I’ve got Trouble on my mind, with a capital ‘T’ and that rhymes with ‘D’ and that stands for Dash (and the mess he'll get us into if I don't take charge).  Playful spoofs of “The Music Man” aside, if I have any say about my future well being, Trouble and I will have a lot more in common than the lyrics from this musical. 

Now if I can only convince Mother that despite Leona being, well, herself, she had enormous foresight when she understood that nobody, but nobody goes looking after Trouble if they don’t have to. 

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Sarasota, the American Paris by Domino the poodle

                                                                 Bonjour, Sarasota!

      Everyone knows that Paris is a dog’s kind of town. But without having to take language immersion classes or suffer the indignities of jet lag, we dogs have all that Paris offers right here in Sarasota, our own City of Love.

      When my poodle brother Dash and I started to be invited along on outings with our human family, we couldn’t quite believe it.  Up north, from where we recently moved, outdoor activities were limited by season.  But it’s a full year bonanza down here in Sarasota: dining al fresco at home or in restaurants, stores that invite us in and provide water bowls, parks where we accompany our exercising family, and our favorite, the weekly Saturday Farmers Market on Main Street.  

     At this event, while our family shops for food and flowers above us, down at their feet we dogs are involved in our own meet and greet.  We had to brush up on our social skills because these Saturday dogs are quite cosmopolitan; they seem to want to chat rather than play.  We newcomers found their tips quite helpful: which restaurants have the most legroom under the tables, which stores hand out the best dog treats, where the townie-dogs hang out; and most importantly, which dogs are hoodlums to be avoided.

     So now that we’ve got the hang of things, we can start helping the new dogs in town.  It’s easy to spot them: they're the ones who act like the lead dogs in an Iditarod Sled Race and drag their families along behind them like so many mushers.

    Once they see how dogs are treated in this town they’ll learn to relax like we did.  Sarasotans love their four legged friends and we’re usually a welcome addition anywhere we go.  We eat well, often wear adorable personal accessories and linger in outdoor cafes where we are privy to philosophical and educated conversations our people have about art, culture and the relative nature of personal happiness.  If things keep up like this, we may never have to visit Paris at all.  

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Toted in Sarasota by Dash the Toy Poodle

   OK, that does it. Mother stuffed me in her oversized handbag again and took me to the movies last night.  We went to the Burns Court Cinema.  They’re the artsy-fartsy film spot around Sarasota, so maybe we didn’t look that eccentric in this kind of crowd.  Since the theater shows a lot of foreign films too, we could always have said that we were French if we got caught. After all, dogs are allowed everywhere in Paris, so how would we know it was different here?

      Still, Mother is really taking my breed name, toy poodle, a little too seriously.  While my petite size encourages her to treat me like a child's favorite stuffed animal, in fact, I have abs of steel.  When she considers me her project or play thing, it disregards the buff physique I've developed playing Fetch in beautiful Urfer Park two blocks away from us on Bee Ridge Road. 

     If word gets out that she drags me around like a baby doll, I’ll be the laughing-stock among the neighborhood dogs.  For now, they think I spend my spare time catching frisbees on the beach or in one of our dog parks.  I tell them how I love to go with my human family on long, demanding treks in Myakka Park or power-walks around Sarasota Bayfront Park by Marina Jacks.

     While admittedly we do all of these things, I still get secretly schlepped along on Mother's “educational” outings. She says they’re good for me. Just recently, I had to sit through “Forever Tango” at the Van Wezel (ok, it was very impressive) and soon she has plans to sneak me into the Rubens print show at the Ringling Museum.

"Dash Has Had Quite Enough"

     I don’t think there’s anything I can do to get Mother to stop her madness. No matter how many times I tell her that for me, nothing beats a good game of ball-toss, she says that if I don’t broaden my interests and start to enjoy the cultural opportunities available in Sarasota, I might as well move to Trenton, New Jersey. 

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King of the Road by Dash, the toy poodle

                                                      King Dash And His Don't-Mess-With-Me-Macho-Face

     My buddies, the chihuahua up the block, the yorkie down the street and the whatever-you-want-to-call-him around the corner, are accustomed to seeing me carry a tennis ball in my mouth during my daily constitutionals. When I get close they step back, a bit awed, and give me space to pass them.  It’s not easy carrying a ball for 20 minutes straight as I accompany Mother on those power walks humans are so fond of, and they know it; especially when the ball is as big as my head.  So now I have a lot of street cred.  I can feel their admiration and I like it.  

My brother, Domino, is jealous of the respect I get from our canine friends. Of course, he doesn’t say he’s jealous, but I know it.  And that’s not cool, brother to brother, know what I mean?  He should have my back.  But he can’t stand that I’m in the spotlight without having to pander. It irks him that I’ve become, and forgive me Roger Miller, King of the Road.  But, and I continually remind him of this, I’ve earned it!  I don't rely on the kindness of strangers or archaic pissing contests to mark my territory.

As a good brother, I tried to help Domino save face in front of the others; even gave him tips: no more delirious high pitched barking when he sees the yorkie (for some reason, yorkie boy has Domino’s number), and no more rabid tongue panting when he gets hot.  I’ve told him: Better to walk slower than look like you’re about to be committed. Or if that doesn’t work, think "cat." I’ve learned a thing or two about their clever come-to-me-first attitude.  People say cats are just like that, but I say they’ve figured out this approach through experience.

Sadly, self-control seems beyond Domino. His excuse is that he’s happy and excited. But I, and unfortunately the neighborhood gang, see his wild antics as weakness. He’ll just have to make his own friends somehow. New people moved in a few houses down from us with a baby cocka-who-knows-what. That puppy is so beside herself.  She almost choked on her collar when it got wrapped around her neck as she bounded over to meet me.  Sloppy. No grace.  Maybe Domino will finally make a friend.

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A Pekingese? Pleeeaase!! by Domino and Dash, mini & toy poodles respectively

The Westminster Dog Show was on television recently. At first, we poodles were disappointed; our breed never made it to the final cut. But just like models and actors know their careers are subject to the whims of an ever changing fan base, we’ve learned that the popularity of a particular dog or breed is also determined by what is currently in fashion .

Now that we know the Pekingese won Best in Show, we feel much better. If that’s what the judges were looking for this year, poodles never had a chance. A Pekingese?  What is that?  We know it sounds like sour grapes but is there really anything under all of that Tina Turner hair? The face has a distinct marsupial quality too.  Our family argued that the winner must have perfect form (although who could see it?)  Don’t deny you too imagined how pathetic that little Peke body must  look during a shampoo.

It’s disappointing to know that poodles are not in style this year, and perhaps even seen as a throwback or a bit foolish. Apparently having curls these days is equated with laziness (with all that product available to relax mop mayhem).

So where does this leave us? Our style of hair was once very popular and even emulated by wig-wearing French nobility. Not surprisingly, poodles were among their favorite accessories (which is really too matchy-matchy for our tastes).  It seems we’ll just have to wait for our return to the spotlight.  Eventually fashion will turn around once again and people will find themselves longing to be surrounded by members of the court of Versailles.

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Living with Ellen DeGeneres by Domino, the mini poodle

    Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live with Ellen DeGeneres.  Everyone knows that she is a major dog lover.  From photos I’ve seen of her, she seems to have an affection for poodles in particular; so that’s one thing in my favor.

    Those TV videos I've seen of her home show many dogs running around inside and outside, willy-nilly, in the most beautiful surroundings.  And much of her furniture appears to be beige and she doesn’t even care!  Things like this prove that she really walks the walk.  If I saw one sign of a slipcover, I’d know there was implied judgment about a dog’s boundaries in her home.  From what my friends and I have experienced, you don’t get to sleep in the bed of people who keep slipcovers on their furniture.

   Dogs rule chez Ellen.  While I feel a bit guilty about having thoughts to leave my own family, how could I resist living with Ellen if given the opportunity?  What dog could? 

   Besides the boundless affection she would lavish upon me, let’s talk amenities: miles of manicured lawn to explore, gourmet meals every day, the camaraderie of other canine pals.  Actually, just having a choice of pals, rather than my daily dose of Dash, my insufferable toy poodle brother, would probably be the best part of my life with Ellen. That in itself would be enough of a reason to move.

    In fact, in this scenario (and since it is my scenario), there IS no Dash. I’d somehow arrange to meet Ellen while Dash was busy at the groomer.  With him out of the way, I certainly wouldn’t voluntarily bring up his existence. Tee-hee!  She'd never know he was alive!  Then Ellen could just invite me to live with her.  Dash could always stay back with our family and comfort them through the trauma of my departure.  (I’m their favorite, you see.)

    That’s it!  I’m going to go for it and live my dream!  Who is it that says you should make a Dream Board and write out all of your goals in order to “live your best life?”  Oh wait, isn’t that Oprah?  And wasn’t she on a recent cover of her magazine reclining with four besotted spaniels in a hammock?  Not to mention, the food and back yard at her place must be pre-tty spectacular, too.

Ellen or Oprah?  Suddenly this decision has become a lot more complicated.

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SuperDog by Domino and Dash,mini & toy poodles respectively

   We dogs feel a lot of pressure to live up to the Superdogs our human families have once known and loved.  In our case, that would be Daisy Mae, the bichon frise, damn her.

    We pass reminders of Daisy in almost every room of the house.  There she sits, center stage on the side table gloating in a silver frame engraved with her initials.  Her old collar dangles meaningfully from a hook in the hallway. And who’s that again in the photo wedged into the corner of the mirror?   By now the photo’s finally fading. (Thank God.)

    It’s very touching that Daisy was so beloved.  But we get it, already. If we must suffer from sibling rivalry,let it at least be with someone who's still alive.  

    We’ve noticed that humans have a penchant for exaggeration, or maybe it’s just our Mother.  So the current story she spins about Daisy, six years after her demise, is that Daisy was trilingual in Latin based languages, with an extensive vocabulary and understanding of sophisticated sentence structure that, Mother says, no other dog known to man, has ever had the capacity to master.

    Apparently Daisy was also telepathic, not only accurately sensing when Mother was sad or worried, but anticipating her divorce years before she even considered having one.

    I’m sure history will continue to be rewritten and soon we’ll hear about how Daisy rescued stranded motorists in a snowstorm, as if she were a modern day Lassie. (Although everybody knows that even Lassie wasn’t Lassie, and in fact had a body double.)

    Well, I suppose we should be happy.  At least our family hasn’t erected some kind of public monument in Daisy’s honor, like other people did in St. Petersburg.  Rumor has it that there's a permanent art glasswork exhibition in that city, at a place called, if we're not mistaken, the Chihuahua Museum.  Is that not excessive?

  Pity the poor poodle or pug that wound up in that family afterwards.

Editor's note: D & D mistakenly refer to St. Petersburg, Florida's Chihuly Collection (featuring Dale Chihuly's glass art ) as the Chihuahua Museum. They are rather single minded.

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Double Standards by Dash, the toy poodle

    Mother visited her friend’s house last night. Since then, all I’ve heard is “Gage did this” and “Gage did that” about the dog that was living over there. What kind of name is Gage for a jack russell terrier?  For that matter, what kind of name is any name except Perro Loco for a jack russell terrier?

     Apparently Gage is adorable with a lovely white triangle of fur on top of his head.  And although he’s 11, he still runs wildly through the house with childlike abandon (clearly ill-mannered, not sporty as Mother calls him). 

     Blinded by some lapse of judgment, Mother thought he was incredibly cute, despite the fact that he had “trouble” meeting new people and got a bit growly.  She felt for him because his former owners had mistreated him.  Oh give me a break!  The dog’s 11; he’s just working it.  Like we all don’t have a sad story to tell? 

      If I make even one unpleasant yip, Mother looks at me as if I jumped on the kitchen counter and stole a bite of the delicious chocolate cake she was saving for dinner, but it smelled too good to resist, so I had to have some, and boy, was it tasty, but then the whole thing fell on the floor and it was all ruined.  Not that I would ever do such a thoughtless thing, I’m just saying if I get yippy, she’d look at me as if I had.

     How can she get so mad at me for an occasional whine yet be all soft and woozy for a growling stranger?  And why does my ball playing bother her so much if she thoroughly enjoyed Gage’s obsession, which was, from what I’ve heard about that night, his ongoing attempt to steal the bacon wrapped figs stuffed with goat cheese from the coffee table?

     I’ve spoken about this with my brother, Domino; but he said that I have to learn to accept that life is filled with disappointment and double standards.  This is why I don’t talk to him.

     Then he seized that moment to go down a list of examples where he had found me as insensitive as our Mother.  What a spotlight shifter!  

    Between my delusional mother and Diva Bro', who do I turn to when I want to be understood?  It's not like I have a lot of options around here.  And then everyone wants to know why I prefer to spend my time with a tennis ball??

Primo Hair, C'est Moi by Domino, the mini poodle

Apparently I have ‘primo’ hair.  I know this because when Mother came to pick me up after my haircut at the dog salon, Karen, the groomer cried out “This perky poodle has primo hair.  He should be in a show ring with that mop. Why ever were we cutting it so short?”  Why ever, indeed.

This oversight really makes me wonder about my family’s priorities.  I know how out of the way both my mother and grandmother go to keep their blonde hair (natural or otherwise) looking its best.  I hear them say that everyone in our family gets equal treatment; but after Karen’s comments, that’s beginning to appear a bit disingenuous, isn’t it?  Facts are facts. It now seems clear that they just had Karen trim me in the most efficient way possible and my curls be damned..

Not to throw my Mother’s own words in her face to make my point, but when confronted with an issue, not in her area of expertise, she always says “What am I an expert in this field? Ask a professional. How should I know?”

Well, if that’s the criteria, then it turns out I do have ‘primo’ hair and, as such, deserve special treatment.  It’s not as if I’m being spoiled asking for this recognition; to be honest, it’s not really even about my hair.  I’d just like to be able to believe in my family one again.

My trust has wavered ever since they told me that poodles were their favorite breed but then I found out that Mother has dog allergies. So perhaps the fact that I have primo hair was valued after all; but who wants to be loved because they don't make people sneeze?

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Christmas Threat by Domino and Dash,mini & toy poodles respectively

Dogs don’t really care about Christmas.  It’s just another day for us, although we try to pretend that it’s special, kind of like the way Jews do.  Not that we don’t enjoy the festivities--who doesn’t want another ham-infused nylabone?  (Would grandmother say, ‘Stop, no more cashmere’?)

But why must Christmas make humans fly their freak flags around dogs?  Otherwise tasteful people suddenly think we pups look better in red and green harlequin collars or sweaters saying Santa knows we’ve been naughty.  And must our every step be announced by the bells you’ve decided are our seasonal accessory?  Please don’t take away the one clear advantage we dogs have over you: we get to run around naked like you know you want to.

Besides the indignities of dress up, the rest of the holiday is quite fun: the mayhem, the markedly improved quality of food scraps, the extra laps to nuzzle in for ongoing scratches.  All good.

So with Christmas just around the corner, may we take this moment to remind our humans that when you are all together this week, try to include us pups, and not just as that one family member with a mock-me target on his back?

Just remember that we’ve seen you steal your sister’s sweater, ‘borrow’ money from your mother’s wallet, and read your friend’s diary after you excavated it from its hiding place in the back of her closet.  We may not be able to tell this to anyone, but if there’s even a sniff of a miniature elf hat around us this year, be prepared to see your secrets every time you look into our big, adorable eyes that are watching, always watching, you.

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Around our Neighborhood by Domino and Dash, mini & toy poodles respectively

Now that we've moved to a neighborhood in Florida from the hills of Connecticut,  we take our walks on leashes, rather than bounding freely through tick infested forests. Of course we liked the freedom, but that apres-romp tweezer deal was something easy to leave behind.

Actually, leashes are quite helpful to us in our current lives.  In Connecticut, we had to drive places to be with other dogs, but this neighborhood is packed full of them, although frankly, some scare us. That's where the leash comes in- for them, not for us.  We have nothing against rottweilers, but when we see one maniacally pulling its human companion in our direction, our mother has the good sense to use the time it takes for crazycakes to reach us on his leash, to get us the heck out of there.

But forget the rottweiler; there are many other dogs we can't wait to see.  One of our favorite friends lives on our block, She is a long haired chihuahua named Chloe d'Amour. Although she tried to bite us the first few times we met, we just figured it was because she, like her human mother, is French. From what we've heard, you have to earn your friendship with the French, and once you do, we agree, it is well worth it.

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Domino is a Blog-Hog; Just Sayin’ by Dash, the toy poodle

I’ve just read the essays below, for the first time, that my poodle brother, Domino, has posted on our blog- emphasis on the OUR, which this blog doesn’t feel like at all!  He’s written every single entry. What a blog-hog!

I see these posts have been up for 2 months now, wreaking havoc with my reputation.  I should have checked this blog when we originally had the idea to write about our human family and ourselves.  But, and I suppose you know the answer here if you’ve read Domino’s posts, I’ve had other things on my mind.

In my defense about my ball obsession, let me say, that we’re heading towards middle age now, and I, for one, do not intend to let my mid-section resemble a sausage.  Clearly, Domino feels differently. This is probably why he has so much time to blog.

Having said that, if I didn’t devise games and tricks to play with my ball, which so clearly annoys him, than I’d be lying around all day flabbing away like he is. 

And what’s this bull about humans finding me irresistible?  I’m well aware that I’m the jock’s dog o’choice (for my catch and fetch abilities), but when was the last time someone tossed me a good one?  We live in an artsy fartsy house where everybody throws like a girl. 

I’m giving Domino fair notice right here in this post.  Don’t push me, buddy.  Remember how jealous you were when mother carried me everywhere she went because I got a spur in my foot and couldn’t walk for weeks?   Well I think that pain’s coming back;  I do believe I feel a sharp twinge.

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Where's the Dignity? by Domino,, the toy poodle

I don't think my brother, Dash, is very smart, even though we poodles have this reputation. He doesn't possess any of that canine intuition dogs are naturally supposed to have, particularly regarding our own human family members.

For example, if our mother lay stabbed and unconscious on the floor in front of Dash, in a large pool of her own blood, he would still throw his beloved tennis ball at her, hoping she'd revive and toss it back to him, over the knife protruding from her chest.

I don't want to boast, but I can tell what mood mother is in before she even gets out of bed. All she has to do is look at me, and... I know. There's a rapport, and understanding; but for Dash, eye contact means nothing. People are just a vehicle for his ball to get from one place to another.

Mother is interchangeable with the mailman for Dash.  I'd even argue that my ingrate brother would find the mailman preferable since he undoubtedly has a better throwing arm. I ask myself: Can a brother of mine be this limited?  He has no emotional range and yet, people love him.

They adore him, in fact. They interpret his overbearing manner as charmingly confident, they inexplicably see his mono-vision as a sign of intelligence, and they sympathetically view his tennis ball as a replacement for the baby he will never father. That dog could no more want a baby to steal his spotlight than someone wants to share their winning lottery ticket.

Should the better behaved, dare I say, more intellectually evolved brother, always get short shrift? Just because I am cooperative, should I be overlooked because of the clownish antics of a manipulative poseur?

I hear them; they think he's a winsome, pint sized performer. Shrieks of laughter ensue each time he thinks of even more clever ways to play fetch. Place the ball precariously on their laps to watch it fall off by itself?  "How adorable," they say.  Drop the ball right in their hands to prod them into action?  "Ingenious!"  Make snorting sounds in consecutive octaves while gesturing for the ball with his snout?  This one kills them.

I get it. But I'm here to argue that substance should prevail over style. This is a plea on behalf of all of us who refuse to pander. Just look at Dash panting happily over there while having his admittedly lustrous hair tousled by a throng of admirers. Where's the dignity, I ask you?  Where?

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YOU Try to Eat After a Funeral by Domino the miniature poodle

There's some magical thinking going on in the minds of my human family when they leave me home alone to go out. They think I’m OK with it. However, I wish to make one thing perfectly clear: while all dogs are very happy when their human families finally return home each day, deep down we are pissed, really pissed, that you left us alone in the first place.  You may not want to accept this, but accompanying every one of your arrivals home, are the hours of deep despair we have suffered at your hands while you chose to be away.

I think I can speak for most dogs in this department. No, we are not sleeping calmly when you are gone, like you might prefer to think.  In fact, we are pacing the house in a state of high anxiety, barking indiscriminately at the neighbors and shredding our nylabones.  No, we are not suddenly at the window after a relaxing nap because we recognize your car motor and so rouse ourselves to greet you. In reality, we've been returning to that window every five minutes, waiting for a glimpse of you the whole damn time.  No, our meals do not remain uneaten because we're just not that hungry. Do we have to remind you that misery trumps kibble? You try to eat after a funeral.

And finally, in my particular case, no, your mother whom you leave me with occasionally, does not actually like me, or for that matter, dogs in general, as she has led you to believe. She only says that for brownie points. But when you're not around, she shows her true colors.  She often leaves me with her erstwhile friend, Susie, who hates dogs even more than your mother. Turns out, your mother is actually a cat person. Who knew? Not you.  How could you?  You left me with her in the first place.  The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, it appears.

Yes, dogs do those stupid dog tricks when their families come home, but not because we're so talented, agreeable or well trained.  Get our leash, you say?  Absolutely. This means we might not have to stay home alone in our private hell.   Sit down and Stay?  You bet; this one is a win-win.  Here it is WE who have your attention rather than the other way around.  It’s amusing to watch you keep checking to see if we're still in the same spot.  The most inane trick of all?  That would be the cloyingly folksy "Gimme five," where we tap our paw on your open palm in the air.  You always laugh at this one.  Laughing is good for us; it's our goal.  Why?  Everyone likes to hang with a joker.

So now you know what we dogs really want.  It's very simple.  There are special purses made to hold smaller breeds like me, which can be worn as a fetching accessory. There's also, a whole line of carrier bags that are airline approved.  For bigger dogs, you'll have to ditch your convertible dreams and make sure you have a four-seater large enough to accommodate the whole family.

You don't want to get me started on what it says about you if you even think about putting us in the plane's baggage section.  Cargo?  Isn't that a fashion choice that went out of style last season?

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Road Trips with Family and Must Dash Come too? by Domino, the mini poodle

I'm not being competitive when I say that everyone likes me better than my older brother, Dash, a thoroughly annoying toy poodle.

In that never ending turf war between brains and beauty, I concede to his reign in the good looks department, although my coat is every bit as shiny as his.  But I would argue, shouldn't a winsome nature, mine, ultimately prevail when choosing a companion for our family's upcoming car trip?

I don't know why he just can't be left behind when my family hits the road later this month. There's a whole business in custodial canine care, last I heard.  Or, if that's not possible, our grandmother knows an entire community of Latinas who call him "munecita" or little doll, if you can stand it.

They would be thrilled for the pleasure of his pea brained company. He has fooled everyone into believing that he's good natured because his face has the expression of someone constantly smiling. In fact, and it's not sour grapes to mention this, that upturned sway of his mouth is merely a genetic abnormality.  I'm not a dentist, but I would swear that his grin is caused by his ugly overbite. It exposes his top teeth and leads to all of this confusion. Smiling, indeed!

That pint sized apple polisher; people don't know that behind their backs, he mocks them. In their presence, he lies on his back for tummy rubs, he nuzzles fetchingly in their laps, he hangs his tongue out in drooling faux worship.

But when he's alone, who is the first to sneak into their purses and tear them apart looking for a sucking candy?  Who's the one who thinks nothing of dragging their clothes on to the dirty floor to make himself a more comfortable bed, because the one granny had made for his highness, is too hard on his back?  He's not smiling during these activities, I can assure you.

And when mother reprimands both of us for these unseemly behaviors, who hides behind me and shudders convulsively, with his eyes wide as saucers, looking like a veritable trauma victim?  Who makes me take the flak while he masters the appearance of one wrongly accused?  Let the answer speak for itself.

None the less, and to my dismay, we are both going on this trip.  I know this because as we watched mother pack her bag, Dash pulled one of his coy moves and jumped into the open suitcase with his favorite chew toy in that freakish snout of his.

Mother lifted him up, that nine pounds of trouble, with a gleeful expression. To reassure him, she showed him that she packed the traveling sweater she knitted for him last year. Basking in the high up embrace of her arms, Dash glowed down at me triumphantly, his oversized tongue falling out of his mouth sideways.

I received a comforting pat on the head from mother. "Good, Domino," she said with a conspiratorial expression, acknowledging that we had to humor Dash. I could just puke.

However, I did notice that the sweater she knitted for me, was neatly folded next to her pajamas. She also packed my special fleece, queen sized blanket, a most cumbersome accessory to fit in her suitcase.  I didn't see Dash's favorite plaid wool blanket anywhere. I think I'll point this out to Dash once we're on the road.

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