Oodles of Fun

It’s been a whole year since Misha the Groodle bounced into my life – twelve months of playing (her) and laughing (me). She’s stayed loyal to her first love, mud, but has expanded her repertoire to include rolling in seaweed, sand, and anything dead enough to make her both dirty and stinky. Lucky for me, she tolerates the hose. Lucky for her, I’m not the type to dress her up in a cutesy bandana.

I can’t help noticing how much the local dog scene has changed. Years ago, when I had my dog Chomsky – and before him, Fidel – black Labrador crosses like them were everywhere: largish dogs with big, lolling tongues, always chasing a ball. Now, at the dog park, it’s a sea of Oodles: Labradoodles, Cavoodles, Spoodles, Groodles … all looking suspiciously alike. Even dogs that aren’t remotely poodle-related, like my sister-in-law’s Lagotto Romagnolo, seem to be doing their best Oodle impersonation.

Misha, of course, doesn’t care about any of this. She’ll play with any dog, Oodle or otherwise – or, if none are around, she’ll make her own fun. A duster becomes a treasure, a pile of dirt a celebration. One year on, she’s taught me this: enthusiasm is contagious, and the best way to catch it is to follow a dog who’s charging head-first into life… and sometimes into the mud.