Me and Danny and my twin sister Sonia had a text thread called Send Poods that was strictly dedicated to sneaky pictures of poodles with good haircuts: a shaved snoot, pom-pom or bell bottom ankles, and a wasp waist. The best poodles in the world are in the Upper East Side of Manhattan, still, by the way. None of us wanted/want to own a poodle, to be clear (way too much work, with our high standards) or a dog at all, but they have come to represent perfection for us, the tensions between wild curls and refined silhouettes, an archaic upper class aspiration and in-the-moment, fun-loving behavior. Danny called me his poodle, and sometimes when I see one now I cry a little to myself.