When I first got my Australian Labradoodle puppy, I tried telling people it was a “labrador-poodle mix.” A mutt, basically. I wanted canine street cred. I was a dog-loving humanitarian, for crying out loud, not some Paris Hilton wannabe with a ball of fluff shoved in a Coach carrying case.
But eventually I surrendered, and I can now admit that I am one of the many Americans who owns a Designer Dog.
And I love him. To death.
His name is Uncle Jesse.
Uncle Jesse is the 11-month-old love child of my allergy-ridden husband and me, and every spare smile and giggle is given to him. He doesn’t shed a single hair, but instead showers us with licks and sassy sidelong glances. It took many months to potty train him and he still responds with snooty indifference when we set down a bowl of organic lamb and rice kibble. He prefers raw beef and expensive, top of the line yogurt. Chunky peanut butter and chicken marinated in fresh ginger seem acceptable, too.
To add to the atrocity of this ultimate guilty pleasure, I’ve found that I like putting him in t-shirts. A lot. And I’ve convinced myself that he likes it, too.
Aside from your pedestrian basics, his first trick was “Watch the hair, huh!” (An homage to his namesake.) He mastered this before he turned 10 weeks old. The downside to an intelligent dog is that you really have to make it worth their while. “This filet is a bit overdone, sir.” Having said this, he’s a complete and total wimp and the only time he’s truly happy is when his family is together. That or he’s got his head stuck out of the car window.
Uncle Jesse is the cat’s meow and if you think you can convince me otherwise, you’re barking up the wrong tree.