Tales from the Dog Bed

Oh, hello there. You’re back! You’re just in time; both humans are out today and the she-human left the computer out. If I hurry, I have time to write another chapter —

As long as my little sister Maggie stays out of my hair. She is such a little troublemaker. Some days I wish I were an only dog, but then I remember —

That time I was an only dog

When they brought me [to this] home on a cold, grey day in November 2010, I had no idea what to expect. Would I be an only dog? That worried me; the last time I was an only, it did not end well.

Back in 1955, I was a three-year-old pedigreed white Standard Poodle bitch named Pup Studios Lucille Ball of Trouble — call name Lucy.

Oh, stop clutching your pearls over the b-word! Although most people call us all dogs no matter what gender we identify with, girls are bitches and boys are dogs if we’re being precise. Truth be told, I consider the word bitch a compliment if you mean a strong, beautiful, sexy female canine, although I do agree with humans that it’s vulgar to use the b-word when referring to a human female. It’s just as wrong as calling human female a sow, a cow, an old mare… you get the idea. Don’t do it.

Calling human females the b-word is also offensive to us girl dogs. So, don’t you ever call a human a bitch, or I will bite you with my five remaining teeth. Yes, I know. I probably would still have all my teeth if I’d chewed Greenies or Dentastix or even Milk Bones as a pup, but here we are. I grew up with Beggs, who never shared anything. All the toys, food, beds, treats--everything--belonged to her.

I like my food soft anyway.

Anyway, back in those days, I was a princess. As long as I was winning dog shows, my people spoiled me silly. For my fourth birthday, I got a collar with real diamonds, not rhinestones like I wear these days. I also had the most amazing collection of hand-knit lambswool, mohair, and cashmere sweaters; I can still feel the softness of my favorite pale pink mohair pullover against my ears.

Don’t judge me. I do respect that some sweet little lamb or goat gave up her fleece for my sweaters and that she probably spent the rest of the winter shivering. But, hey, I never wore my sweaters at home in Palm Springs where it was warm, just when we traveled north. I’m not a monster.

I even had a pink poodle skirt. Yes, I do see the irony.

To this day, pink is my favorite color.

Palm Springs in the 1950s and 60s was the place to be for movie stars, star-gazers, and architecture geeks. Mid-century modern every where you looked, and so. many. stars. And not just in the clear, unpolluted desert sky. Bob Hope. The Rat Pack. Lucille Ball and Dezi Arnaz.

It was magnificent.

And I was magnificent. I was the Marilyn Monroe of the dog world, arguably the most beautiful and winningest standard poodle of my time. Until they retired me from the show ring and the stud dogs started coming over.

Not cool, people. Not cool.

It would have been okay if the dogs had been gentlemen. They were not. These dogs weren’t just gigolos; they were total jerks who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Worse yet, the humans wouldn’t let me keep my pups; they were sold as soon as they were weaned. My people bragged that buyers paid a lot of money for one of my champion-born babies — as if that could ever make up for taking them from me.

Worst of all, the love of my life was a sweet Rottie named Johnny from around the corner, but all our people ever let us do was wag tails from opposite sides of the street. We couldn’t even get close enough for a good sniff. Except that one time we ran away together and…

One night of bliss, then the unforgivable happened: an arranged marriage for Johnny with Gertrude, a two year-old Rottweiler bitch (yes, this time I mean it in that way) that they flew in from Germany.

*Sniff*. Excuse me. I’ll be right back.

In mid-century Palm Springs, it was great to be me until it wasn’t. I vowed I’d never be a show dog or an only dog again.

Dog is love

We’ll talk more about my sisters Beggs, Zena, and Red some other time. Today, I want to talk about Maggie, my newest sister and my protegee. The story starts four weeks before the humans brought her home in April 2020.

Oh, my. These past 18 months have been a rollercoaster ride — ups and downs, spins and spirals. Bet you felt it too, didn’t you?

On Friday, March 13, 2020, the female human drove Red to the vet. I knew Red wasn’t coming back; she’d said goodbye to me that morning. She told me she’d find me someday and that helped, but it still hurt to see her go. After they took her to the car, I curled up in Red’s favorite bed that smelled like her, and cried myself to sleep. I felt even sadder than when I lost my puppies, sadder than when I lost Joey. Red wasn’t just my sister; she was my best friend.

All four of us — the two humans, Zena, and I — cried a lot over the next few weeks. I’m glad they kept Red’s bed, as it was a great comfort to both Zena and me to be able to lie in it and think about her. From time to time, I’d even catch one of the humans in it. This bed was much less fancy than the many others Red had enjoyed; they got it for her when she got old because it was low to the ground and flat so she could climb in and out easily.

Exactly four weeks after we lost Red, the humans sat down with Zena and me and told us we were getting a new sister. They admitted that no one could ever replace Red, but since our home is big enough for three dogs, it was time to not be selfish and to give another shelter dog a forever home. I agreed.

I’ve lived with these two humans long enough to know that they understand the concept of love, which Dog invented. “Dog is love” is even written in one of those books that humans like to read, the one that starts with a “b”. Of course, they always get it wrong when they say it — maybe they’re dyslexic — but there’s your proof.

We dogs have always known that love has no limits, and some humans know it, too.

Maggie

I was ready for a new sister, but I wasn’t ready for Maggie. I was expecting someone like Red — kind, generous, beautiful, and, best of all, quiet. Instead, we got Maggie. Maggie is nothing like Red. Or anyone else. She is one strange dog. I mean, just look at her.

Although, as much as it pains me to say it, she does remind me of myself at her age. Like Maggie, I arrived here with a scruffy, wiry coat full of cowlicks and rocking a mohawk, and challenged the alpha the whole first year. For me, it was Beggs; for Maggie, it was me.

And we both still would do anything for our humans. See: Dog is love.

We like to give each other the silent treatment. For days if necessary.

And we both jockey for the best sun spot, even if that means ganging up on Zena. Zena weighs more than Maggie and me combined, but she hates to make a scene — a fact we exploit daily.

Unlike Maggie, I do not wolf my food. So uncivilized. A lady takes small bites — I learned that when I was a show dog. I also don’t pop up like a little meerkat. So undignified; a real dog rolls over for her tummy rubs.

I recognize that with my great power as the alpha comes great responsibility, and I’m in charge of succession planning, like Beggs was in her day. Maggie may be a clownish brat (the humans call her “Monkey”), but she has attitude.

She has what it takes to run this place when it’s my turn to take that one-way trip to the vet.