I’ve known it for a very long time. Maybe not since birth, but shortly after. I have accepted who I am, with the loving support from my adopted family. Being born a French poodle is basically like falling out of the closet at birth.
There was no hope of becoming something butch like those Rottweiler or German shepherd types. The white fluff and my perky brown nose also didn’t do me any favours. Look at me? Cuteness personified, destined to become the greatest male bitch the world has ever seen.
I remember the day my family adopted me. The male patriarch of the family were grumping like a real godfather at the prospect of getting a pet. Fortunately two elated young humans were enthusiastically picking up my brethren, whom I’ve not seen since that day. I told the idiots to keep calm and chive on, but there was no way in hell they were going to listen to me. So while they were sucking up, I just kept my cool and stayed low in my corner. I was actually shit scared but was definitely not going to say anything.
Then they picked me. Wow? I heard humans dream about the lotto, so that must be what if feels like. So there was my first life lesson, don’t suck up. No need to kiss ass and lapdance your way into the hearts of a human male. Those pissing and barking brothers of mine were still stuck in the cage when I was lifted high and carried to a monstrosity with wheels. I didn’t feel sad.
Then I got my name. Pippa. I can imagine the humiliation this name might evoke if it was given to a Pit bull terrier, but I loved it. Embraced my true nature. ( I did come as a shock to find out I was named after a female television character from a popular South African show.) But like all names I lived up to my reputation. I am not only the definition, I am THE Drama Queen.
The only low point in my life was when I took up dancing. Well, technically it wasn’t dancing, but that was what the little girl called it. I was just getting to that stage where I got an itch, and the only thing that helped, was dry humping everything and anything. Legs, soft toys, pillows or anything that I could wrap my paws around and stood motionless long enough.
So for intelligent humans it must seem odd that they would call it dancing, right? Well this one time the little girl and I was alone in the lounge. (Yes, I know not my best moment) She was playing with blocks and shit. I took my chance and stealthily made my move. And she was loving it, giggling, smiling even laughing, whilst I was giving it my best. A glitter of hope shone through that I might still be normal, but that was puffed out like a candle very quickly. Carli went and called her parents. “Mom, dad come look. Pippa is dancing with me, Pippa is dancing with me.”
I was still gunning it when they walked into the room. Something about the mood of the room changed. While doing what dogs do best I turned my head slightly expecting praise. I only saw the godfather burst out laughing turning his back trying to stuffle the sound, whilst the mom of the house had the reddest face I have ever seen on any human. My humping partner was promptly lifted and there was a brief exchange, something like “Pippa no, bad dog.” I was too exhausted to hear properly. If I only knew…
Now I don’t know what the exchange was between mom and dad that evening but the next day I was loaded in the same monstrosity I arrived in. (Which by the way has a excellent entertainment tool, an open window. Try it.) I was taken to the vet. Got my nuts cut. So here I was the only male dog ever to exist, never to lose my virginity. I tried to be brave but I cried a little, and I knew my master understood because he kept covering his own crown jewels. He also stroked me a lot. No not there you perverts, he is respectable! I woke up later knowing two things.
1. The place where my nuts used to be hurts like hell, and 2. I lost my urge to dry hump air.
I am turning 8 this year, so I have long last forgave them for turning me into a eunuch. I have taken up other fetishes, staying true to my drag queen status. I love soft toys, and convinced my owners to buy me a new one every month. The godfather always try and get some “manly” toys like a rhino or an elephant, but I prefer the fluffy pink teddy’s or those adorable floppy-eared bunnies. I just looovvvve them. Then I am also addicted to hiding and burying socks and underwear. Don’t know why, just replaced my desire for humping. I am a bit of a freak that way.
I also have a blue collar (guess who chose that!) around my neck with a jingly name tag. So I love parading up and down showing of my bling to anyone who is half interested in seeing it. Darling, it is so amazing, it’s like my very own bitch alarm.
I have since accepted that I am the canine RuPaul of our neighbourhood. With my monthly trim and wash, and the fact that I only live indoors. Once every so often I will act like a dog and chase some birds who dare put themselves down on my turf, or sniff outside when Carli acts out a scene from Wizards of Waverley in the yard.
Everyone loves me, rather adores me, my owners and even the moderate amount of other humans who frequently visit my master’s house. (I call them master, but I am no fool, I know who really owns this place.)
The one thing I don’t get about humans is why they don’t just sniff each other’s asses. Don’t they care where these other humans have been? Don’t they know how easy it is? It would totally eliminate obvious questions like: How are you? Are you feeling better? and the obvious Where have you been? Just let them turn around and sniff, for goodness sake. Well whatever.
I do show my appreciation by giving them a trinkle of my precious urine, sprayed against the wheels of their monstrosities. It is a gesture of goodwill and extremely insulting when the gratification and appreciation is not returned. F*ck you too.
So I am living the high life. And I am super proud to be this cute, nutless, white fluffed, brown nosed, weekly trimmed very gay French poodle. The real and first confessed homosexual canine. And a very camp one at that, my darlings.