A lot of the dogs I've owned in my life were cross-breed, otherwise known as Heinz 57 dogs because of all the breeds one dog can represent. They were perfectly wonderful pets, but my interest in specific breeds began on a visit to Oregon to see friends who owned a giant poodle, Maxi. Later I learned almost all poodles are named Maxi. I wrote about her, noting she would've made a stereotypical hippie if only she'd had a prairie dress and a bong. She was an adorable reprobate. As someone who particularly loves obedient dogs, I was surprised by how delightful I found her. She had a stuffed bear, and she couldn't and wouldn't go to bed at night until it was lodged between her front paws. She roamed the considerable acreage my friends owned with no intention of heeding any calls except to dinner. And she adored everyone who came through their door, including me. I had to have my own giant poodle, I thought, albeit better behaved. I had no intention of harboring a permanent sore throat from fruitlessly screaming for my poodle to come.

In my book, My Life in Dog Years: A Poodle Named Henry & Other Melodramas, I reveal the mess I got myself into when I went to a local shelter and adopted a very large poodle, namely, Henry. His recall was fabulous. He would down in a split second when asked to. I'd say, "Who's a good dog?" Henry would come over with a huge grin, and I'd add, "Show me!" He'd plop his rear end on the floor, stick out his impressive chest, and look up at me as if to say, "Aren't I just the grandest dog you ever had?" He also played a joke on me, often. But I'll save that for the book.