all mixed up
I’ve been a terrible blogger lately. Mainly this is because I have once more uprooted myself and finally moved back to Santa Monica. In addition to this move I’ve taken on something a little grander … a little dog name Oliver.
Oliver is a Christmas present from my boyfriend, and probably the single most adorable thing on this planet.
In acquiring such a beautiful rescued dog, I’ve become a bit addicted in learning what mix my new guy is. His papers claim the “P”word (poodle) but I refuse to believe it. It makes me feel like feel like a racist that just found out my best friend is a quarter black. And there enters the tinge of guilt.
“Why do you care what he is?” I get asked over and over by the big guy who gave me this little guy.
I don’t know. I just feel like I should learn his origin, guess what his parents were like, try to predict his temperament is based off of stereotyping and thousands of years of dog breeding. I mean, that’s the whole idea behind domestication, right? And why’s that ok with dogs and not with humans?
Why can’t I just look at someone and say “Oh, I think he’s got some German in him. Be ready to get a little bored from time to time. They’re bred to be that way.” ?
Oh wait, I already do.
I’m a pedigree you might say. An Iranian born from two Iranians, and the lineage goes back more in that direction as far as I can tell. I’ve always thought that mixed race and all beings from such backgrounds held some sort of beauty within them. Something that both allowed the best of all genetics and characteristics to come out from both races, but also , socially somehow unified and exemplified a more progressive way of life.
But then again, this must be what the neo-Nazis and KKK were hopefully eliminating, right? With such pure blood lines as those from the Anglo-Saxons and such. Wait, what’s that hyphen for?
