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Don’t call me FiFi
Let’s get this out of the way: I’m a poodle, and damn proud of it.
To be specific, a standard poodle, the size from which all other poodles (miniature, toy, and teacup)… well, uhmmm, shrank. They were the Johnny-come-latelies, but I’m one of the originals.
My Dad and I get a lot of guff (“why’d you get a poodle instead of a real dog?”)—and we’ve learned to let it just roll off our backs like saltwater in the surf. And that brings up a good point: poodles were originally water retrievers (fetching birds instead of the ratty tennis balls I chase today). We worked for a living!
And we’re not French, by the way: we’re originally “pudels” from Germany (those French fries are the ones who started dolling us up). And the goofy looking haircut was designed by hunters way back to help us swim, while the big balls of hair were to protect organs and joints in the cold water. You try chasing after a damn wing-tipped green head duck in freezing water and patches of ice!
Now, Dad didn’t name me Moxie for no good reason (though I am originally from Maine, the land that spawned that crazy/nasty drink of the same name). He took one look at me rough-housing with some other “pudels” and the name just seemed to fit.
My other four-legged buddies here in the office are good guys and gals, and sometimes we think maybe things would be better if we ran the place and our owners stayed behind gates and in kennels.
So, please come visit and say hi. Callie, Dylan, Knightley, Bella, and I will welcome you with open paws (especially if you have something good to eat in your hands).
And, remember, I’m not the foofy one (I’ll keep it a secret who really is until you come give me a pat).
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very nice post FiFi. I feel your pain. I consider myself a manly dog with my muscular build and Rottweiler like resemblance. Yet I get called a wussy dog by many of my peers. Yes, I might get a little scared when a garbage truck goes by (or a loud Honda Civic with a 50 Cent song rattling the hell out of the trunk) but I will stand loud and proud on that soap box with you and tell the world the truth. No more stereotypes! End these false doggy assumptions! (let’s just make sure it’s not garbage day when we put that soapbox out…)
As a proud owner of a basset hound, Sheldon Brian Sallee, age 13.5, is ridiculed on a daily basis. Sheldon takes it all in stride, which is very short (get it -short stride) but some days it just plain hurts. One neighborhood dog owner called out as he was crossing the street one day, “Hey Sheldon, why don’t you paint yourself yellow and become a speed bump.” Cruel!! This was from a person that names their beagle Hershey!