I have a love/hate relationship with poodles.
On the one hand, they are loyal little pets and their owners love them.
And on the other hand they are rotten little gremlin-like kick-em dogs that need their ass kicked.
As you may have surmised, no I don’ like poodles, and am not the biggest fan.
Except that there are two different types of poodle.
The first kind is what is called the “Toy Poodle”.
And this toy is no fun to play with.
I have deep seated psycho fears from my childhood and being terrorized by a vicious one.
It’s name was Martini and it belonged to my grandmother’s brother.
I hated Martini.
I was bitten twice by this rotten little beast, and held prisoner in the upstairs bathroom several dozen times.
There is nothing more terrifying to a hyper 4 year old, than a poofy ball of fluff with razor sharp teeth and a bad attitude trying to scratch thru the door.
My Uncle Jack was no help.
Anytime I complained, or at least as much as a 4 year old is capable, he would always say the same thing.
“Martini doesn’t like being teased.”
God as my witness, I never teased the little shit.
I wish I had.
I wish I had tortured it with those little handles they sell with the needles on the ends for eating corn on the cob without a mess.
I might be kidding, but I wouldn’t bet on it.
And he was a mean drunk.
The dog, I mean.
Every afternoon, Martini would scamper around Uncle Jack’s legs as he mixed a batch of martinis.
And he would give the dog one.
The dog, by now a serious canine alcoholic, would whimper the whole time he was gulping down the martini.
You would think that all that drinking would kill the dog.
No such luck.
What happened instead was something that my 4 year old mind didn’t have the sophistication to appreciate at the time.
Especially since I was accused of the murder.
One afternoon, after slurping up another martini, Martini somehow got locked in that aforementioned upstairs bathroom.
And, in a frenzy of spinning around in circles and attacking the door, Martini got twisted up in the belt of a bathrobe on the back of the door.
And hung himself.
The accusation, when it came, was that I had locked him in there.
Looking at the facts, entirely plausable.
Except that I didn’t, and you are just going to have to believe me on that one.
Fast forward to today.
I am sitting in a Starbucks in Hermosa beach, sitting inside, 3 feet from a large window to the outside patio.
And there is the toy poodle from hell just on the other side, snarling and trying to eat thru the glass to get at me.
For a second, I wonder if everyone else can see this evil little beast, or just me?
God, I hate that breed.
Oh, and the second kind ot poodle is 5-6 times bigger, has a much better personality, and really is not a poodle at all.
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