To the casual observer I appear to be a dog, but I am much more than that. I am a poodle. To be honest, my lineage is questionable and Mom doesn’t think I’m it’s worth $75 for a DNA test, but I believe poodle is my dominant gene because I have outsmarted everybody here at my new home.
Aren’t my eyes adorable? They remind everyone of E.T. the extraterrestrial. I just look at Mom, cock my head, and know that she will lay half of her frozen dinner entrée at my feet. After blowing on it to ensure it’s not too hot.
I don’t come alive until lunch-time because there’s no need to. Unless I respond to her suggestion that I go for a walk. But walking is so…dog-like. And don’t forget, I am more than a dog. I must conserve my energy to remind Mom to feed me lunch in case 12:15 arrives and my two pieces of cheese (one Havarti, one Gouda) have not yet been served. I’m flexible, though; sometimes I let it go till 12:30. If I’m asleep.
Hark! The mailman cometh! Purveyor of past due notices, jury summonses, and traffic citations, he must be deterred. I growl at him, displaying my ferocious under bite, and he retaliates with orange spray repellent. I wear it proudly—the badge of a patriot defending the sanctity of her home from government intervention.
Whoever thinks that poodles are not a working breed clearly does not understand how much effort this takes.