Doodle
The person who contrived the "-doodle" naming convention for mixed breed dogs committed an egregious crime against the casual sentence.
Weekly Three
HEAR: “Starlight” by Muse
READ: “The Great Organic-Food Fraud” by Ian Parker recounts a story of greed at its worst. Spoiler: All ends badly for the chief bad actor.
VIEW: Rumi Ando’s Tokyo Nude photo series depicts Tokyo stripped of windows, advertisements, and electric poles. Also, see a 1900s fireworks catalogue from the Hirayama Fireworks company.
No. 51: Doodle
I had no desire to get a dog when I moved to Oakland last spring. It seemed like a lot of responsibility, and responsibility comes in short supply for me. At least I can admit it.
A dog? A living thing requiring love, care, and attention? I had dirty dishes in the sink, dust on the shelves, laundry uncleaned, a bed unmade. Add to this the to-do’s of dog ownership? It’s going to be a no from me, dawg. You’re telling me I have to feed myself and a dog? Don’t they have an app for that?
Then, my girlfriend moved in.
“We should get a dog.”
No.
“It would be so fun to take a dog on walks around the lake.”
It would, but no.
When a morsel of food was dropped onto the kitchen floor, “See, this is why we need a dog.”
Kind of true, but no.
Then, getting strategic, she hit me with a point that resonated.
“When you’re gone, on trips or riding your bike or traveling or writing or whatever, a dog could keep me company.”
She’d be a bright star in some sales department.
Soon I was being bombarded with images and videos of puppies from petfinder.com. My texts, my email, my Instagram, my personal bubble, all of these were infiltrated with puppies doing tilted-head poses above names like “Sprocket,” “Dash,” “Mario,” “Luisa.”
No!
For one, what would the dog do when we were both out of the apartment? For two, dogs aren’t even allowed in our building. For three, I don’t want a shedding dog. For four, what if the dog was a vicious asshole? For five, I still have a dog, Nellie, back at my parents’ house. For six, expensive. For seven, if we were to get a dog, it would need to be able to go on hikes. For eight, and be off-leash. For nine, that one is pretty cute, should we fill out an application, just to see? For ten, where would we put a cage . . . unless right over there in that completely open and unused corner of the apartment?
I realized that all my concerns boiled down to one thing.
Fear.
And that simply couldn’t fly.
After all, what is getting a dog if not an another adventure, filled with unknowns and challenges and high-stakes demands requiring you to rise to the occasion? There was no way to anticipate every contingency — no way to ever really be “ready”. I just had to do it, come what would. God knows, in truth, I badly wanted my very own pup.
On Saturday morning, I drove to Fresno where I found two black balls of fluff bouncing around on a lawn like they had springs in their legs.
I chose the one that cowered away when I reached out to pet his head, the calmer of the two, I guessed, and the smarter, being unwilling to immediately cuddle up to some random guy that smelled of Hot Cheetos.
On the car ride home, I couldn’t resist taking him out of his crate. He pooped on my lap while I was driving. A bond was forged. We named him Archer.
You can guess how the rest of the story goes. I love the little guy to death. Sometimes, when I look at him sitting obediently in the elevator as he patiently waits to get the street where he can do the deed that linked us together not so long ago, I feel a love so strong it hurts. He is everything I wanted in a dog. He's active and energetic. He’s cute, smart, and focused. He’s vocal, sometimes barking and sometimes making strange, yawn-like groans. He's soft and sweet, but showing early signs of boldness. He doesn’t shed. He’s well-behaved. He’s mine. He’s ours.
I take him on hikes in the Oakland hills multiple times a week. It’s his favorite activity, far as I can tell. But there’s one thing I dread about these outings.
“How cute! What kind of dog?”
“Uh. Ehm. He’s an, uh, Aussiedoodle.”
Pain. I simply can’t say the word “Aussiedoodle” seriously. I don’t think it’s possible. It's too goofy to use in casual conversation with a stranger. There’s no cool way to say, Oh, my dog? He’s an Aussiedoodle. And? then speed off in a Ferrari. You can’t walk down the street and, responding to some stylish dude and his friends that are curious about your dog, say, Sup man, yeah, haha, it’s an Aussiedoodle. Peace out!
This [blank]-doodle stuff needs to stop. Whoever contrived this naming convention should consider the damage they’ve done to the everyday language of people like me. It’s a landmine situated right in the middle of the well-paved path of a standard sentence.
“My girlfriend and I have a five-month-old AuSsIeDoOdLe back at home.”
Until the creator of this name is persecuted for their crimes — alongside whoever came up with Shih Tzu — and the Committee for Naming Dog Breeds issues a more honorable name, I’ll continue to rely on a few alternatives to (awkwardly) avoid it.
“Oh, this little guy? He’s an Australian Shepard and Poodle Mix.”
“Sorry, what?”
“Oh, he’s half-Aussie, half-Poodle.”
“Half what?”
“He’s an Aussiedoodle, okay?”
I had many concerns about getting a dog. I didn’t anticipate this one. But I guess I’ll keep him. ♦
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