Albert

I was in utter humiliation. Sitting in a salon chair, I was being frouffed up by some strange lady with green square glasses and insanely wide eyes. I heard my master saying, “I want my schmookey poop to be as gorgeous as he can be. Right, poopsie?”

Right.

My name is Albert, and when dog breeds were handed out, I got the wrong one. Being a poodle, a male poodle especially, is the worst possible dog breed—unless, of course, being dyed pink and getting an afro appeals to you. Any beagles or terriers out there who aspire to be a poodle? Be my guest! I will gladly switch with you!

My owner is a rich woman with an unhealthy amount of time on her hands. Most of this time is devoted to me. No, not fetch, not walks, but frouffing me up so I look, as my owner calls it, “gorgey.”

I despise my life here in froufrou land. But I have been planning. Most people do not realize how smart poodles are, which in my case is to my benefit. I am secretly planning to run away in a spaceship I designed on one of my owners’ 10 computers. I also have been secretly dragging metal from the recycling plant and welding it in their industrial-sized garage. My only task left is to get enough gasoline from out of the cars to allow me to take off. It’s not that hard to build a spaceship. Really! But I guess you humans wouldn’t understand.

When I’m gone, I want that hot Labrador that I saw at the park to have all my milk bones (they’re pink) and my toys to go to my best buddy, Buddy (I hope you like pink, Buddy). Enjoy, while I’m off dozing in another solar system . . . far, far away from anything pink.