Werefox Vaquero--Poodle-ishish

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Poodle--ishish"
  
   Max slowly sauntered into the dog breeder's mobile home.  Was invited.  Had strawberry chaw under the lip.  Had formed his own pocket, fella.  The dog breeder was your quintessential Bubba Cheese fixture--what you might dub an Uncle Jesse type.  In front of him, was a golden poodle.  Dog breeder said his name (dog breeder's name mind ya) was Country.  
  
MAX
Is that the dog?

COUNTRY
Boy, you can't see, hum?  Damn straight!  Looky here boy--ya got your miniature poodle, your standard poodle; next, your toy poodle.  Canis lupus familiaris, ya here.  Germans say they're from France, and hell--works for me, boy.  Now, you gonna purchase this sum bitch?

MAX
Of course.  The poodle approached Max, sniffed him, rolled over; then, stood up, wagged his tail, and showed an affectionate posture.  Max gave the elegant soul a swift pet--it was loyalty at first sight.  Yeah, I'll take the pooch.  I haven't been greeted like this, well--ever.  Too, this is a metaphorical pleasure to John Steinbeck venturing with Charlie.   
  
   Junkyard knew that was his name.  Wagging his tail as he and Max strutted out, not like dirty disco, but with swift elegance.  Friends can be made, if you don't care who gets the credit.