Labradoodle… Goldendoodle… Cockapoo… Pugapoo… Peekapoo… Maltapoo… Saint Berdoodle…

Okay, where to begin? Normally I’m a tolerant and understanding pooch, but this craziness is driving me mad (“flipping my wig” mad, as it were).

What was so wrong with the original… poodle!?

Why’d everyone have to start monkeying around with us (and believe me, that’s exactly what some of ‘em look like to me: monkeys!). The fancy word nowadays is crossbreed or hybrid. I just call it a mess.

See, most folks are looking for, let’s say, the temperament of a golden retriever and the hypoallergenic coat of a poodle. But guess what… there’s no guarantee! You could end up with the shed-like-crazy, sneeze-inducing coat of a retriever and the temperament of a Real Housewives of New Jersey poodle. And then I’d laugh my heinie off (what, you don’t think dogs can laugh?).

(Uhmmm, and why don’t they try this nonsense with cats?)

Moreover, since I hang out everyday at a branding shop, I’m none too pleased at the turn this is taking in that regard.

Back in the day, a dog stood for something: golden retriever=loyal; labrador retriever=energetic; beagle=food hound; poodle=smart(ass). Now they’re boiling it all down to what might be less than the sum of the parts: take the poodle for this, retriever for that, throw in a little beagle for good measure—and hope for the best.

I understand the desire to have the “perfect dog”, but how about working with us here? We do our best with what God gave us… and we unconditionally love our humans, warts and all. If all the energy, fuss, and expense were directed instead at understanding, appreciating, selecting and nurturing the right breed of dog for you, wouldn’t we all be happy in our own skin?

Are these good branding (let alone genetic!) decisions, or are crossbreeders simply slapping together what people will buy?

Me, I’d rather Dad get us a true mutt… a hybrid by nature.

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).