The Shame of Owning a Doodle
“I opened a Pandora box and released a Frankenstein monster.” -Wally Conron, creator of the labradoodle
There’s nothing you can say to me that I haven’t already heard, no admonition that hasn’t already been delivered like a flaming bag of poop on the stoop. Alone I sit in a sea of shame, just me and my labradoodle. That’s right, I said it. I own a labradoodle- an Australian labradoodle, the fanciest of the lot. Worse, I am a veterinarian who is supposed to know better. Nonetheless, although I am reluctant to admit this in today’s anti-doodle world, he’s kinda great.
Like many of you, I was aghast at the idea of a doodle. I’ve seen a few of them in practice, big floppy bundles of neuroticism who have learned over the course of many vet visits for their ear infections that I am not to be trusted. I do weird things like stick bits of plastic in their ears. I am to be avoided at all costs. Active resistance if possible, passive resistance if necessary: much like bumbles bounce, doodles noodle.
Despite all this, my husband, who has gamely endured the parade of needy, infirm, and/or abandoned dogs I’ve collected over my years in practice, had his heart set on a doodle after meeting what he claimed to be a lovely example at a friend’s house. I was dubious. He was not to be dissuaded, feeling it was well within my capabilities to handle any puppy, especially one who didn’t shed. With the gauntlet thrown, I felt it obligatory to my relationship to give it a go, so we (subtly, in the underground doodle circles) began to ask around as to where we might find one. My only rule: I have to meet the breeder and the dam in person. Wading into the seedy online doodlenet? I still have lines I won’t cross.
On the recommendation of a neighbor whose doodle appeared relatively civilized, we found ourselves at the home of one Kramer (not his real name). He sat us in a living room stripped to bare concrete and one beat-up couch, covered in 13 floppy Muppets. Only one was actively being bred. Kramer, unable to bear being separated from his dogs once their breeding time was up, was running an Old Doodles Retirement home for the other dozen or so, a true aficionado. They ran the house. Kramer’s guest bathroom had no running water- a fact he attributed, without explanation, to the dogs.
Despite the sawdust, abundant kibble dust, and subtle smell of dog slobber, not a speck of fur was to be seen on the floor. My husband was sold. I did a covert exam of the mother doodle, still a week or so from delivering, and thought to myself, “Well, I guess.” Then Kramer brought out the ace.
“Oh! This one just got returned,” he said, procuring a fluffy round ball hiding amidst the sea of gangly doodlegs. “Want him?” He was 14 weeks old and quite accomplished: it had taken him only a day and a half to convince the elderly couple who brought him home that actually, they wanted to take a round the country RV trip, starting immediately, and could not, in fact, keep him. The sudden onset wanderlust was, we were assured, through no fault of the dog’s.
“I have 13 doodles with me right now. My wife left a while back. It was the right decision.” -Kramer, doodle lover
This dog checked all the boxes: Low-shedding (check), puppy (check), and to my preferences as a softie, already rejected by a cruel world (check.) Home he came. Earlier in life, I had brought home a sad sack black lab solely based on her Dickensian backstory on a rescue homepage. Halfway through the long drive home, I found a hidden letter from the previous owner detailing her horrific separation anxiety, squirreled away behind the medical records so I wouldn’t find it until we were well past the county line. I made that dog work for us. This was surely child’s play.
I kept Dakota’s existence on the DL for as long as I could. As a doodle owner and a veterinarian, I stand in the face of betraying just about everyone I know. My breeder friends tell me I have a frankendog, an aberration, an insult to good breeding. My rescue friends tell me I have abandoned my obligation to only take home pets from shelters or rescues. My veterinarian friends just shake their heads. No one smiled. Once, after a few glasses of wine, I mentioned I had a doodle to the host of a party, the director of a large humane organization. She froze. She was kind, but I haven’t been invited back.
I once had a breeder admonish me for contributing to the ills of the dog-world by encouraging irresponsible breeding. She was a be-ribboned, responsible breeder of French bulldogs, a breed known for Instagram, herniated discs, and a lifetime of gasping for air. Like I said, responsible. No fewer than fifteen people have forwarded me the New York Times interview with the originator of the labradoodle, bemoaning what has become of them and wishing he had never opened the door to the doodle revolution. People: we get it. No one likes them, except the thousands of people who do.
I found myself introducing Dakota with qualifiers. “This is ‘Dakota, The Doodle My Husband Wanted,” I would say, much like others introduce their “Shelter Pug Sheldon.” Sometimes I would also add “The Doodle My Husband Wanted and the Kids Named.” I got him enrolled in pet insurance. Before he began group classes, I began private training at the house to ensure that he would be well adjusted and well socialized. Everyone reminded me to manage my expectations. I had already given up any chance of being a good dog owner by virtue of selecting a doodle to begin with, so don’t try too hard.
My husband could not understand my shame. He works in the tech industry, unencumbered of such judgment from his co-workers. They, too, all have doodles. They view them as the engineers of the dog world: super smart, skittish, and fastidious. One afternoon he took Dakota to the dog park, and despite me assuring him NO ONE goes to the dog park mid-afternoon, he just happened to stumbled upon a monthly doodle meetup. In this cosmic kismet of confirmation bias, he reported 55 doodle owners, all happy, no fights. They were joyous, in fact. Some of the dogs boated on the weekends. Three were local Instagram celebrities.
“All dogs are crazy.” -Ann Murphy, President of the Australian Labradoodle Club of America
It was around this time that it finally dawned on me: actually, doodle owners don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks. Their minds are as impervious to your judgment as a Teflon Thundershirt. This is why, despite every hand-wringing newspaper piece and admonitory column in your favorite veterinary magazine (do you have a favorite veterinary magazine?), you see them everywhere you go. Perhaps, just maybe, people genuinely like them despite everything that is supposedly wrong with them.
I’m no stranger to dogs with things wrong with them. My first dog was a misanthropic old lady in a Lhasa Apso’s body. My second dog belonged to the veterinary school radiation department for ten years. His name was Nuke. Most of my vet school classmates own some combination of tripods, cancer survivors, endurers of trauma, or flat out behavior cases. I mean, what’s a doodle to any of that?
Sorry everyone, crazy doodles aren’t going away, any more than your cancer-carrying Goldens, your slowly suffocating Bulldogs, or your low-rider German Shepherds (yes, all worthy of love, just like doodles, mutts, and every other living being.) I’ve donated time, money, and advocacy to animal welfare causes and will continue to do so, with my rescue cat Penelope on my lap purring and the doodle running around with a sock. I’m sure in time doodle rescues will pop up, and then people can comfortably indulge in their breed- sorry, designer mutt- preference by prefacing their dog’s name with “Rescue Doodle” and all will be well. Words are wind.
So can we allow ourselves to believe that maybe, just maybe, people know exactly what dice they’re rolling and do it anyway and will love their doodle and enjoy all the insanity they bring into their lives? You can continue to infer I have no taste if you want. I grew up listening to Winger. I am incapable of feeling embarrassed.
Let’s get back to REAL important dog topics, like insisting everyone feed their dog (insert your brand or recipe), ensuring all dogs follow the exact same recommendation for spay and neuter (do, or do not)….ok, we’re going to fight over all of that too. Puppy mills? Yes, they still suck. Did you know some of them are masquerading online as rescues now? Sleep tight. Parvo? How about parvo? Yes, vaccinate your puppy for parvo. I’m never gonna stop judging you for that choice if you don’t.
Dr. Jessica Vogelsang is a veterinarian and author from San Diego, California. She is a prolific writer, veterinary hospice advocate, and yes, doodle owner. Her debut memoir All Dogs Go to Kevin was published in 2015.
