So I'm walking through a parking lot the other day and I pass this lady…about twenty-five, I'd guess. She had that "Paris Hilton" look; not so much a physical resemblance as an attitude that said, "I'm rich and gorgeous and that's enough in this world." Sadly perhaps, that's not always wrong. To make matters worse, she was walking a purple poodle.
That's right: A purple poodle. She or someone had taken this cute little poodle and dyed its fur purple. And I don't mean a shade of white with a slight lavender tinge. We're talking serious purple. I mean, the dog was this color.
Naturally, I stared…first at the purple poodle, then at the lady, then at the purple poodle again. She said to me, "You're looking at my purple poodle."
I said, "Of course. I'm supposed to. You don't dye your poodle purple unless you want people to look at it.
She said, "She loves being purple."
I said, "No, she doesn't. She may not mind it but your dog did not wake up one morning and think, 'Oh, I wish someone would come along and dye me purple.'"
She said, "She loves the attention." And you would have been proud of me because I thought but did not say, "So do you, lady."
What I did say was, "I assume your purple poodle has a name."
She said, "Yes…Penelope. We call her Princess Penelope the Purple Poodle."
I asked, "Is she any relation to Claude Cooper, the kleptomaniac from Cleveland?" The lady had no idea what I was talking about. (If you don't, watch this.)
Since the conversation was long since over, I said goodbye and walked off. As I did, I heard her say to someone else, "You're looking at my purple poodle."