The Drunken Silver Poodle

The Drunken Poodle

When I was a kid, I always wanted to have a dog. My family was not understanding. In those long ago days, dogs were dispensable. We had several dogs over the years but none lasted very long. The family didn’t figure out that you had to train a dog not to do their business in the house, and other social skills to make them compatible members of the family. A cocker spaniel disappeared suddenly, then two dachshunds, George and Gracie, were gone one morning when I went looking for them. Now, I shudder to think how my mother disposed of them, probably at one of those old fashioned kill shelters.

As I managed to get far enough away from my family to have my own dog, I fell madly in love with a silver toy poodle I named “Petit Four.” She was a French poodle and totally delectable in my eyes. Petit Four came into my life sometime around 1958. I don’t remember where she came from, but at that time in Manhattan the only place to get a dog was to buy one in a pet store, or to grab a stray on the street, very few of those between the heavy traffic and dog catchers prowling the city. I suppose I found her in a neighborhood pet store. It’s strange I can’t remember the start of what turned out to be a 20-year adventure. I trained her in manners, housebroken, no begging at table, walk on a leash, sit, stay and down because she went everyplace I went, except college and eventually, law school.

She always went on vacations with me, with one exception. I left her with two bachelor friends when I made a trip to the West Coast for a couple of weeks. When I returned, she had learned a new trick. When asked, “How did Mommy get her mink coat?” She would roll over on her back and put all four paws in the air. It was funny and cute, but not exactly what I had in mind as a party trick.

Some of our journeys were momentous, others not so much. When we went to Florida, she was in my handbag on the plane and I paid something for her to come, but no crate or baggage claim for my best friend. Once we arrived in Florida, I managed to find a cheap room off the strip in Miami Beach. We ran into some friends with a car for trips and exploration, but food was not in the budget after the cost of a hotel. We improvised by sharing McDonald’s burgers and fries and Arby’s sandwiches. It was then I discovered her obsession with French fries, so I had to buy the large size if I expected to get any. She did, however, stick up her nose at catsup. The only way I could keep a few fries for myself was to drown them in the sticky red stuff. The longer we were together, the more we learned about each other. For instance, we both snored. Mainly when on our backs. We spent most nights tapping each other on the shoulder to roll over.

On our return to Manhattan, I made the biggest discovery about my best friend. She was a boozer! It all started one night when we were at a friend’s housewarming party. Their apartment was in the East 60s, newly repainted and furniture ordered from Denmark. Most of the furniture arrived by the time of the party, sofa, loveseat, armchairs, dining table and chairs in the lovely Danish modern light woods with the signature floral pillows from Marimekko, adding color to the soft tan upholstery. But the coffee and end tables hadn’t arrived. With a message of apology, they were due in several more weeks. The party had been planned and couldn’t be delayed, so twenty or so friends were crammed into a one-bedroom apartment with no place to put drinks. Other than the floor. Petit Four had been invited along with a crowd of young executives, wannabe entrepreneurs, a smattering of the Broadway theatre crowd, and some B list actors from the local New York studios.

The host had recently been in Mexico, returning with bottles of tequila and the drink du jour was tequila sunrise. Glasses of which were now resting on the floor. I was sitting with a friend on a love seat opposite the larger sofa, both pieces on the typical slender wooden legs, upholstery only on the seat and back. Plenty of room underneath to stash cocktail glasses.

We were trying to converse with a youngish woman on the sofa across from us who had obviously enjoyed several Sunrises, and I don’t mean the kind at the beach. Petit Four was doing her usual, working the crowd in hopes of ear rubs and fallen canapes, and I wasn’t paying too much attention to her. I knew she would stay close and not leave the apartment.

The Sunrise lady began to scream. Ear piercing! Everything stopped dead. I thought she was being strangled until the man next to her yelled, “It’s okay, she’s not hurt. Just demonstrating her prowess.”

“What do you mean, prowess?” I asked. My hands still shaking from the loud screech.

“She’s an actress in B horror films. They hire her for her screams while she’s being stalked, knifed, bitten, clawed . . . or whatever.” I looked over at her and she was reaching under the sofa for her glass. Petit Four crouched beside it.

The screamer raised the glass to her face, stopped for a moment. Appraised the glass. Mumbled a bit and took a sip. I could just make out the mumbles. Something like she didn’t remember drinking that much, thought it was a new full glass. Shrugged her shoulders and put it back under the couch.

I was chatting with the host when my friend tapped me on the shoulder. “You gotta’ look at this,” he whispered. Petit Four had her snout in the screamer’s glass and was slurping whatever was left.

Hissing at the damn dog to let her know she was doing something wrong, I motioned for her to come sit on my lap. She reluctantly came.

I saw the screamer get up and stumble to the bar for another Sunrise. This time the host helped her back to her seat, probably in fear of sunrise all over his new furniture. As soon as the drink was on the floor, Petit Four was off my lap and under the couch. I read her mind, ‘yummm, a fresh glass of goodies.”

Hissing and signals did nothing. The damn dog’s head was into that glass like one of the old fashioned glass birds dipping their beaks into cocktail glasses. It would have been very awkward to get up and reach under the couch where the screamer was sitting and try to wrestle the dog out from underneath. Leaving her there seemed the best option.

About a half hour later, the scream came again. Nobody paid much attention this time. But she was serious. She was holding her glass up and waving it around. “See, I told you someone was drinking my drinks. Look, it’s half empty, and I’ve only had a sip.”

Turning my head away to chat with my friend it was hard to not laugh, but I wasn’t going to give up my pal. Finally, someone took her glass, and brought it back filled, just to shut her up. It did. She drank about a third of it, put it back under the couch, curled up and promptly went to sleep – or passed out. Hard to tell, but the quiet was nice.

Petit Four now had unhindered access to her very own Sunrise with no fear of interruption. I could almost hear her slurping it down. She wobbled over to sit on my lap. It was time to go. I picked her up and we left.

Back at our apartment, I have no idea how many Sunrises later, I heard loud snoring. Petit Four was sound asleep, hind legs splayed out, half sitting against a door jam, head lolling to one side with tongue out. If she hadn’t been making loud noise I would have thought she was dead. Then I began to worry. She was about a seven-pound toy poodle and I didn’t really know how much alcohol she had consumed. Maybe it was bad for her. At age twenty something with not much sense about anything, let alone a dog’s alcohol consumption, I was afraid to give her an aspirin. I made an Alka-Seltzer and held it front of her nose, figuring if she wanted it she’d drink some. No response. I put a towel next to her in case she fell over it would be softer than the floor, and went to bed. She usually slept with me, but I was glad she didn’t. I imagined an intoxicated dog barfing on the bed in the middle of the night.

The next morning she was on the towel, stretched out on her stomach, legs splayed out behind, with her front paws over her ears as I was banging around the kitchen. That was a lesson learned. Even dogs can have hangovers.

You would think she had learned her lesson, but not a chance. In those days we could bring dogs into bars and restaurants. No problem. Many evenings, all the dog walking neighbors would convene at our usual dog potty time after the eleven o’clock news, and on Friday we’d often end at one of the neighborhood bars. Petit Four became a regular, the bartender would make her a tiny Stinger in a shot glass, I’d put her on her own bar stool with her drink in front of her. She was very neat about it, when she wanted a sip, she’d pat my arm to bring the shot glass to her, take a few licks and then push my arm away. In later years, she also liked beer and wine, but no hard liquor by itself.

Before you judge me for letting my dog drink: Petit lived to be twenty years old, blind, no teeth, deaf, to the end loving a small saucer with a little wine every once in a while.