We received the call one sunny morning in September, 2000. All the kids were at school except Baby Boy #4. As kindergarten schedules go, it was his day off. The voice on the other end of the line said with boldness, "We've gotten in a small dog and I see here you are looking for one." "What kind?" I asked. "An Apricot Poodle." came the reply. "I don't want a Poodle, but I'll come and look at him." I said as I thought to myself, what kind of answer is that? If you don't want him, why are you going to look at him? Ugh, I thought, but the confidence in her voice made me unable to say no, as usual. "Coward." I said to myself.
My knowledge of Poodles was limited but my experiences had been of snappy, snarly, yapping, lap dogs, with drainage stained fur around the mouth and eyes. Wheezy, gurgling, panting breath coming in fits of protective rage. All bark with a lot of bite.
As Baby Boy #4 and I headed to the animal shelter I wisely instructed him that he would sit in the waiting room while I looked at this dog and if I thought it was safe, I would come and get him so he could see the dog as well. As is par for my life, I make plans forgetting I'm not the director.
Upon our arrival I seated #4 and headed down the long corridor with the animal control officer. Turning left, then right, then left again, we passed through three different doorways until we finally arrived at the dog pens. I began to question whether it was so wise to have left five year old #4 out there all by himself. We stopped at a cage and I looked down in shock at what I saw. If this was a Poodle, it was unlike any I had ever seen, and didn't they say he was apricot? I searched for his eyes hoping to get a feel for his personality but they were no where to be seen under his filthy, matted, brown dreadlocks. His fur was encrusted with dirt and grime, twigs and leaves, woven in and twisted together as if some sort of Reggae Art. Wind, rain, snow and dirt had taken their toll on his unkempt six to eight inch long locks until they had curled and spiraled into an official dreadlock hairdo. "Rasta", I thought to myself.
Before I had a chance to speak, the officer unlocked the pen and little Rasta shot out of there like a bolt of lightning. Turning right, then left, then right again he ran down the hall like a dog after a tenderloin with me right on his heels. "My baby!", I thought to myself, panic stricken that he would get to #4 before I could. All things horrific I can imagine in my mind such as "Child Mauled by Poodle" being tomorrow's headlines. This special gift must only be given to mothers as my husband never seems to experience this phenomenon.
What I saw as I rounded the last corner was something far beyond my imagination. Rasta Poodle dove for #4, landed in his lap and proceeded to lick him all over the face causing giggle fits to erupt from my little darling. I turned to the officer and said, "I guess we've got a Poodle.
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