Managed to sneak in here while that human who comes for walks with me left her kennel oops office in the middle of writing about some disastrously dog-awful things she made. I say "office" though it’s not very different from mine except I’ve got softer cushions, a huge bowl of water - and loads of beautiful biscuits appropriate for a canine of my pulchritudinous pedigree (She’d better not try to paw those things off on me. Not going to be a pawn in her game...)
Which brings me to the reason I’m propped up here, panting, paws at the ready. To set the record straight. About matters far more serious and important than Kim Jong-il’s bouffant hairdo or yesterday's political splashes and dogfights. No, this is to put a stop, once and for all, to the truly scandalously gossipy nonsense put about the top choices for FDOTUS.
Most humans believe these were 1) Portuguese Water Dog and 2) Labradoodle. First a word about these two. The PWD (that they actually chose, ugh!) is, well, soo unkempt. (Not sure even my beautician could do anything with those rat tails. If you don’t believe me, just look at the pic. Ugh!) And as for the Doodle. Well, I mean, how robust is its pedigree, I’d really like to know. I realize I might be a bit old-fashioned here (I come from a long, renowned breed you understand) but the caninocracy is always a bit wary of any Rover-Come-Lately suddenly appearing on the scene.
And now the TRUTH! Which I have at first paw from my good chums from Madrid back here on holiday last week for Semana Santa. In fact, I have it on very good authority from my close friend, Alfredo the Alsation, who has the most impeccable sources in Madrid, that these choices were discussed at the recent G20 summit attended by our leader, Señor Zapatero. And that, contrary to all the shaggy dog stories, the first choice was neither the PWD nor the Doodle but the… Bichon Frise! In other words, ME!
Why didn’t they choose me then, I hear you ask. For two reasons. Firstly, it seems the French upset everyone else at the summit so a French breed was out of the question. Secondly, because (oops, can’t stop yawning!) some boffin thought there might otherwise be a run on BFs, someone might start tinkering with our genes and we’d all end up looking like one of Phil Spectre’s spare wigs. And that would give all of us BFs serious paws for thought...
Anyway, the human here with the wild fair hair (sometimes called Boris; my name, Lola, is soo much more feminine, don’t you think?) wants to enter me for the local dog show. But, I ask you! Called Scruffs, it’s soo infra dig! No, I’ll wait for the next Cruft’s or Westminster - more my scene. (Especially after a few sessions at the beautician’s.You know, girlie stuff - nails, colonic irrigation, bodogtox. That sort of thing.)
In the meantime, I may paw my way back here from time to time to write something SENSIBLE instead of all the illiterate, useless waffle you usually get.
PAWNOTE: That’s me above - now thankfully fully recovered from that frightful caterpillar attack and, more importantly, from all those dog-awful suppositories the vet-human insisted on inserting in places I truly didn’t know existed. (Soo much fabulous fur you see…)