I like being retired, and so far, Ken and I have managed to find ways to stay entertained.

Most mornings, we ask each other if there are any plans for the day. For the most part the answer is no. Of course, recycle day and garbage day get acknowledged. We look forward to the days we get massages or when Patti comes to clean the house. (we live quite well.) But, for the most part — we make few plans, and somehow the days fly by.

Saturdays, we usually go to yards sales, and the Saturday Market.

As we were leaving the market yesterday, we saw a super cute, curly, and white doodle-y puppy. Ken and I are those people now — we fawn over dogs. We will stop to get our hands sniffed and if okay, we pet ears.

“Who’s this sweetie? She’s a real cutie — what kind of doodle is this one?”

We find, a lot of dogs we meet are a mix of poodle and __________ (fill in the blank.)

Sure enough, this one was a mountain Bernese mixed with a poodle.

We got gooey over the puppy, but I don’t think the owners appreciated us, saying something about breeders being able to charge more money on a dog called something other than mutt these days, and everyone went on their way.

It used to be, when a dog jumped the fence, and messed with the neighbours dog, kids would be in front of the grocery store with a box full of puppies, trying their best to give the mutts away.

Today, “breed” with a poodle and your new puppy is automatically priced at over a grand!

Then… I’m not sure if it was me, or Ken, but one of us mentioned that the poor poodle dog, will fuck anyone.

We agreed, the poodle —  a sweet, and noble, beautiful dog; a dog that doesn’t shed, is super smart, is now the literal bitch of the canine community.

Golden doodle, snicker doodle, labra doodle, berma doodle, schnauzer doodle, and on we go. I even met a King Charles-doodle. (it was really cute.)

As we got in the car, we continued … If a poodle and Portuguese water dog (our favourite type of pup) did the deed… would you then get a porta poodle or a porta potty or… yeah… we kept going.

Thirty-six years of marriage — Ken and I are still able to crack each other up! We laughed the entire way home.

Aren’t you glad I started posting on this bloggy thing again?