Our relationship had reached the point where we either broke up or got a dog. So we went to the pound. OK, right away I know what you're thinking: rocky start, picking up one from the hoosegow, foolishly braving the "rehab" route, all that. But it's not that way, I assure you. Anyone who's ever acquired a pet from the pound knows what I'm talking about. It's not like they did anything wrong, you know.
And we got lucky. First day. First shelter we visited. Pure bred French Poodle. And still a puppy! Of course no pedigree papers, but that's not the point. She was our baby. We agreed to get her fixed and paid for her release.
We drove home and welcomed her into our life. And what a doll; sweetest animal I've ever met. She'd stand on her hind legs and wave her front paws in unison when she wanted a treat. Potty trained within two weeks, thank God. Simply the most tender, cute, loveable creature in the history of the world.
Until.
We came home one day bushed, not ready for anything except vegetation in front of the TV. And before we'd taken off our jackets I saw it: shreds. My slippers. And not just one either. Both of them. All over the front room. She had eaten some too, and puked that up.
(before)
It was ok though. Just an old pair of slippers. Not too much sentimental value. No biggie. And nothing more outlandish from her either... nothing more from... well, that's just it: we still hadn't named her. We tried different names on her for size--Poopsie, Sheba, Mata Hari, even Cornrowlio--but nothing fit. She really needed something Cupie doll, too, like Snowball or Peaches, but who's ever heard of a chocolate brown snowball.
So we called her Here or Pooch or Oh-bee, as in "Oh, be quiet," and went about our busy busy lives, thinking that soon enough something would click, and she'd have a name.
[I have a terrible sidebar here. But something needs to be done. Somebody needs to say something about this most heinous of trends. I'm talking about, of course, the lol-ification of the net. Please, if the best you can do is "lol" then don't type anything a tall. Try something like "Hawk ugg ugg ugg" (think Popeye) or "Hardee har har" or... jeez, I dunno. You can think of something. Say there's a WW2 bombing raid, and you're concerned about the... "Lights Over London," that's ok. Look out Lydia, sure. Liza on Lipitor or Larry on 'ludes?--maybe. Listing off Lithuania... is possible, if you're afloat and rudderless in the Baltic Sea. Perhaps you're... leery of liars?--good for you. Do you... leeringly observe liposuction?--change the channel. But not the other thing. Not the lol thing. Please.)
surgery, with observers
Anyway, back to our puppy. Although by this time we figured she was full grown. And still no name. Oh, and one other problem came to our attention. She had escaped from our fenced back yard. More than once. But we didn't know about it. Of course we didn't know about it or we would have done something about it. Good God, we're civilized.
We first learned about her... jobs?... (No, that doesn't sound quite right. Adventures? I don't know. Is it a job, is it an adventure? Who knows what goes on in a poodle's mind.)
Anyway, we first learned about her "behavior" when the authorities notified us. Turned out our cute little French Poodle had been getting out during the day and killing women and children.
So we named her Semper FiFi.
LOL.
BACK to where you were ("Behind their checkerboard drapes")
BACK to the beginning of this whole Wal~Mart incident
OVER to HerbNation HOMEPAGE