Copyright (c) 2000 by Michael Finley

As is our family custom, I let Rachel do all the work, making all the inquiries with local kennels and breeders. Diligent as always, she called a half dozen places and interviewed them all, trying to get a feel for who was in it just for the money, and who really cared about the dogs. She quickly winnowed the field to a single candidate, Brigitte Leahy a 60-ish Czech woman who lived way out in some place called Dellwood.

Brigitte's main concern was Rachel's and Jonathan's allergies. "I placed a dog with an allergic family once and it was the only time I ever had to take an animal back," she said. "Most allergic people can be with poodles. This woman was allergic even to poodles. The children were heartbroken. Never again."

To forestall that happening again, Brigitte required that Rachel call a Seminole natural healer that she knew in Minneapolis named Tismal. Tismal practiced herbal healing techniques on both humans and animals. To please Brigitte, and to appear to be a better candidate than the other allergic woman, Rachel called him. But Tismal was a good egg. After he heard the names of the medicines, he conceded there was nothing in herbal lore that worked better than antihistamines.

Rachel's impression of Brigitte was that she was ethical and knowledgeable, very devoted to the health and happiness of her dogs, and very picky about whom she would sell to. This lifted her high above other breeders Rachel called, several of whom seemed completely unaware of health predilections like hip dysplasia, and when a bitch should have her first litter.

Brigitte told Rachel horror stories about people adopting dogs from other breeders, keeping them for a month or two, and then selling them back, or worse, dropping them off at the pound.

She would not sell a dog to an owner until she had interviewed them and they passed muster. One buyer tried to buy a poodle as a surprise gift to his two kids, and Brigitte sent him home empty-handed and pissed off, because he refused to let her meet his family. With Brigitte it was her way or the highway.

Rachel wanted to impress upon Brigitte that the dog we wanted had to have certain characteristics. She wanted a calm dog, one that would not drive me crazy wanting to go out all the time, interrupting my work routine. And it had to be an intelligent dog but a serenely intelligent one -- not one that became bored easily, and resorted to chewing family heirlooms for entertainment.

Because we were new to the business, we did not ask the single most important question about a puppy: “Does he come from ultra-dominant stock? Will he grow up and want to be crowned lord of the canine universe?”

And because we didn’t, Brigitte said, "I have just the puppy for you."

I was not privy to these interviews, so when we paid Brigitte our first visit, I pictured her as the consummate breeder. In my mind's eye I imagined a humble, semi-rustic setting, happy pom-tailed poodle dogs scampering everywhere, and a warm-hearted, jeans-wearing, white-haired animal lover waving at us from the porch.

It turns out that Dellwood is the richest community in the state of Minnesota. Located on White Bear Lake, it is a reclusive community of yacht clubs, golf courses, and acre-sized lots. Brigitte's house was not overbearing, but it was very nice, and as I rang the doorbell in my jeans and sweatshirt I felt underdressed.

Brigitte's husband Sid let us in. Sid, we found out, was a retired corporate executive. Brigitte, who was blonde and not white-haired, and was wearing pearls, not jeans, invited us in.

"Come this way," she said, in a Czech accent of medium thickness. She seemed a tiny bit suspicious of us, but otherwise was very hospitable.

Her house was not at all what you’d expect of a house of dogs. First, there was no barking anywhere, not a peep, although something was ruling in another room. As a decorator she not did shun light colors. Everything was immaculate and bright. In one corner of her huge living room, in a mesh pen on a white carpet, between two white sofas, were two baby poodles only seven weeks into their lives.

They stared around the room with goofy, solemn expressions. Like all puppies, these young poodles gave only a glimmer of what they will grow to be. Their coats were straight, not curly, and their noses had not yet begun the long journey of elongation that is the breed's trademark. Both little dogs stared out into an empty spot in the middle of the room, with an expression of both moroseness -- the waking state of most dogs -- and acceptance. It's the look the little waif girl Cosette wears in the Les Miserables logo.

The dogs were neither alarmed nor excited to see us. But the black one ambled toward us, pressing his nose against the pen, his tail wagging ever so slightly. The young male appeared to be a grafting of a lamb onto a crocodile -- long white teeth and snout and ravenous eyes, all wrapped in spun black fleece. Neither he nor his sister yipped or cried. He allowed me to lift him from his pen and sat with me on the couch for several long minutes.

The kids and I took turns holding the black one on our laps on the immaculate couch, while Brigitte filled us in on what to expect. We knew nothing about poodles, except that they were classy-looking and didn’t make us sneeze. Unfortunately, this was the not the meeting where Brigitte would tell us the negative points of the breed. This was the meeting where she would judge if we deserved to adopt the poodle puppy.

I patted the little dog who rested in Sphinx position across my lap, and praised him to Brigitte. "He's wonderful," I said, and he was. He was the gentlest, sweetest-dispositioned puppy I'd ever seen.

Brigitte smiled a tight little smile. "And he will be just like his father. Sid, fetch Razz."

Sid went into the adjoining room, opened a kennel door, and brought out a two-year old poodle, black like the one in my lap, but otherwise bearing no resemblance. Where the puppy was soft and lambent and life-affirming, Razz was clipped ferociously, had a military bearing, and eyed us with enormous suspicion. Razz was a breeder. His testicles, clipped to the nubbin, jangled between his legs like industrial ball bearings.

“This is what he will grow into,” Brigitte said.

My family took one look at Razz and we all had the same thought -- we hoped to high hell the little dog didn't turn out like this.