Alright, alright, alright. Fall’s here kids. I’ve been checking items of my list of favorite (completely basic) fall activities to do… apple picking, check yes (and subsequently have baked seven apple pies), fall movies, check yes, pumpkin patch, check hell yes. The apartment is full of appropriately rust-color fall flowers and I have a fat green pumpkin-squash named squishy that looks very droll. And finally, now that the temps are within optimal range, I’m basically living a pumpkin spiced daydream and couldn’t be happier about it.
However, outside the apartment – down on the mean streets of the UWS – it hasn’t been all festive spider webs and candy corn for H and me. Don’t start the dirge yet, the tribulations to which I’m referring are of the superficial variety, but I thought I’d share nonetheless. This is a “diary” after all, so settle in for some life recap and more complaining. Where to start? Ah yes last Friday, the real first day of Autumn.
On Fridays, my wonderful boss allows us to work from home. Not only does this save me the ten-dollar commuting cost and two hours to and from Hoboken, it provides one more day each week I don’t have to worry about the underwear bandit ransacking my laundry. It’s great. Our Friday started like most on record, Hudson going 47927483 miles a minute and me dragging ass several steps behind. Anna was up and we commenced our ritual of Hudson mauling her while she attempted to order our Starbucks. Post mauling, Hudson and I headed out for his morning poop parade that was to culminate with a Starbucks retrieval. Routines light my fire if you haven’t noticed.
As we know (or those of you who read the extremely lengthy post about my commute), I encounter a lot of winners each morning in the neighborhood. I was hopeful on this particular Friday that the odds would be in our favor and the sailing would be smooth, but some things are just out of our control. By the time Hudson had sniffed every pee spot in an eight-block radius of our apartment, pooped three times, and attempted to run home presumably to get back in bed with Anna, it was almost 9:00 am.
Unfortunately, between 8:30 and 10:30 it’s rush hour at my Starbucks – not ideal for dog and coffee tray juggling – but against my better judgement I trudged onward in my quest for caffeine. As Hudson and I approached the storefront, I noticed there were several women sitting out front with their respective doodles jumping around like ‘roided out fleas with fur. It was a sea of doodles. A doodle convention if you will. Each doodle was of a different variety and not a single one appeared to be under control. Naturally, I was terrified (Hudson’s accident was caused by a rogue doodle ambush in Riverside Park in March).
A little aside about doodles. By doodle I mean golden doodles, schnoodles – poodle hybrids that don’t shed. These products of genetic engineering have basically become the state bird of New York. I get it. You want a dog that doesn’t shed but also you want a golden retriever. Or a schnauzer. Or whatever breeds they have been mixing with poodles to create this doodle nation we live in. Thus, instead of living in a dog hair cocoon like I do, you decide you’ll just get a golden retriever with poodle fur. So what if it looks like big bird and Scrooge’s love child and has patchy hair like the top of prince Williams head. Those four hairs on its haunch that don’t protect its pink skin from sun won’t adorn your favorite black trench coat as you leave your home. What’s the catch?
The issue no one seems to understand is that poodles are a breed not unlike German Shepherds and require a dog owner, not just a dog figure head. Labs, for example and excuse the insane overgeneralization, don’t typically require a real dog owner, many I’ve met are happy to buzz off with anyone carrying a tennis ball or cheese stick. Poodles need more than a ceremonial leader to thrive, hopefully one that doesn’t get the party in the front and bald in the back hair cut. What. Is. That. Anyways, the truth is I don’t love poodles all that much. I appreciate the breed, they’re whip smart and trainable – my two favorite traits – but they’re also aggressive and unpredictable. I don’t find them cute or visually pleasing creatures. Although that admission might make me shallow, I’m fine with it. I’m pretty sure karma has already retaliated given I live in a nest of dog toy carcasses and Hudson undercoat.
You get it. Poodles are tough. Here we are mixing them with your favorite breeds and expecting everything to be alright. IT IS NOT ALRIGHT. That sounds dramatic, but truly every major problematic dog interaction Hudson has endured has been with a doodle. They are a problem. Now, speaking with my dad last week he reminded me that often the worst part of a dog fight is the dog owners. I assume it’s a lot like having a child bullied in school. I can imagine as a parent in that circumstance you want to kill the juvenile assailant, revive them and then kill them again. When one’s charge is hurting, often the first reaction isn’t ideal. It’s the same with dogs.
On a more general dog-ownership note, if I had a nickel for every time I told someone their dog was being aggressive and they denied it or said “SPARKY WOULD NEVER!” I’d have a shitload of nickels. Dogs don’t always get along. They bite. They act out. Even the most bullet proof dog is going to have an off day or react to external stimuli beyond an owners’ control. It doesn’t make Buster a bad dog or you a bad dog owner that he tried to murder the Yorkie down the block, but it does mean you’ve got some work to do and need to be aware.
Doodle owners, in particular, seem to have no clue the level of dog they have. Again, forgive the outrageous generalization, if you’re reading and own a doodle I’m sure this doesn’t apply to you and is incredibly offensive. We’ll all live. Adding insult to injury is the fact that many of the doodle owners I’ve encountered are experts at attributing any dog on dog problems to “not my Mickey, he aced his puppy training program! He’s never acted like this before!” Somehow it becomes Hudson’s fault and then my fault. You can imagine how popular I am at the dog park.
So, there we were, walking towards Starbucks doing our best to enter unseen. You know those arcade games where the alligators launch themselves at you and you have to smash them on the head with a mallet? Well our stroll into Starbucks was exactly that, gatordoodles launching themselves in our direction. Sadly, we were up shit’s creek without a mallet.
Alas, we made it inside. I quickly assembled my tray of beverages and said hi to my gals behind the coffee bar. I could feel Hudson keeping a close eye on the mutiny occurring outside the glass store front, and knew we were in for a treat if and when we attempted to depart. With my soy latte and Anna’s Venti black coffee safely nestled in a tray hand and Hudson glued to my right leg we tried to make a run for it. Unfortunately, we were outnumbered. Because these things happen quickly, I’m not quite sure how doodle mom one lost control of her dog, but in an instant it was dog on dog mayhem and the doodlepocolypse had commenced. Head bite, butt bite, 10 seconds of that terrible dog fight snarling noise, a macchiato down and it was over. Kind of.
If you’ve read any of my other posts or know me personally, you can probably guess what happened next. Cue the onslaught of expletives bookended by equally horrible statements from yours truly. I know doodle mom one threw her coffee as a last-ditch effort to get Sparky’s attention, but the end result was a macchiato shower for Brynn. Despite the lovely aroma, the coffee lob tactic made the event seem even more dramatic, and as you can imagine, intensified my fury just a smidgen.
Enter the police. Doodle mom one was now crying and getting a back rub from her power walking doodle comrade. Reliving the event on paper makes it seem almost humorous, but at the time I was in shock. Mostly shocked that I had a drink thrown at me in a public forum that wasn’t a bar, but also floored no one apologized. No semblance of responsibility to be taken by anyone. Doodle mom one actually gave me attitude while giving an award-winning victim performance.
So, I’ll end my rant here. Apologies all around if you have a golden doodle. Or floodle. Or twoodle. I’m sure he/she is lovely. Next week on the Real Doodle Moms of the Upper West Side… woof.
The Dog Hair Diaries 