...Pomeranians speak only to Poodles and Poodles speak only to God.
I have two poodles - I'm a poodle person.
I don't remember any blue poodles.
I don't like politics, hypocrites, folks with poodles.
Love is the infinite placed within the reach of poodles. I have my dignity!
Conservation is for guilty people on Park Avenue with poodles and Pekingeses.
I wonder if other dogs think poodles are members of a weird religious cult.
Because I am about to be devoured by poodles," I quip. "Remember me always, my love.
[Italian men] are like show poodles. Sometimes they look so good I want to applaud.
I gave you three proofs of witchcraft. A cat that drinks blood! A horse that talks! And a man who propagates POODLES!
The Park Avenue of poodles and polished brass; it is cab country, tip-town, glassville, a window-washer's paradise.
This is my own little rock theory: In my mind, Nirvana slayed the hair bands. They shot the top off the poodles.
O, girls! set your affections on cats, poodles, parrots or lap-dogs; but let matrimony alone. It's the hardest way on earth to getting a living.
It is neither Art for Art, nor Art against Art. I am for Art, but for Art that has nothing to do with Art. Art has everything to do with life, but it has nothing to do with Art.
I used to breed poodles. I liked them because they were fluffy and so cute - and honestly, they make a lot of money when you sell them!