Doodle dependent

OK, get ready paparazzi and TMZ. Give me your best shot, New Times. I’m about to spill something publicly about a love affair I’m having and it isn’t with my wife.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I love animals. All animals. Well, all warm-blooded animals, anyway; snakes and crocodiles wouldn’t be my closest pals.

I am a complete sucker for all those creature features on the Internet: Baby elephants taking a mud bath; grown lions lovingly greeting people they haven’t seen for years.

But mostly, I love dogs. Yes, I love cats, too, but it’s more like the love you had for the homecoming queen that ignored you.

My first dog was a beagle. Then there was a dachshund named Ziegfried. My kids grew up with Jerome, a Basset Hound, but the last few years have been golden … doodle that is. A 60-pound ball of chalk-white fur that still considers herself a lap dog.

Now, understand: I never got those people who treated their pets like children with pictures on their desks and doggie birthday parties and puppy sweaters, but I’ve now become one.

Hey, does anyone have any thoughts on treating golden doodle allergies? I think Bijou may be developing a rash.

I’m Pat McMahon.

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