The labradoodle craze isn't the real crisis.
In which Jill noodles the doodles.
In the waning days of the pandemic, I joined a group of volunteers in the play yard of a high-kill animal shelter. We watched as a young German Shepherd happily darted around the yard, dutifully chasing a tennis ball and jumping in and out of the kiddie pool. From time to time, he’d stop and greet one of us, then he’d bound away again, thrilled to have agency and attention.
It was a strange time. Empty shelter kennels, formerly replete with dogs adopted by people working from home, were filling up again. Volunteers and rescues were hopeful that increasing shelter populations were just a blip, and that an enlightened public would surely keep their dogs, even with looming return-to-office mandates.
The shepherd eventually tired and rolled around in the grass. A shelter visitor, noticing the dog, stopped and watched him through the fence. I’d put her in her 40s. She wore pricey activewear, and I’d bet money that she had a daily yoga practice. “Gorgeous dog,” she said. “How old?”
“He’s 2 and he’s a sweetie,” chirped a volunteer. “Come on in and meet him!”
The woman looked surprised. “Oh no, he’s too much dog for me,” she said, backing away from the fence. “Do you have any labradoodles?”
There are five sentences that make us all feel like quitting.
There are five sentences in rescue that make passionate and persistent animal rescuers recoil:
“Do you have any puppies?”
“I ‘rescued’ the dog from a guy selling them in the parking lot at Walmart.”
“I want her to have a litter before I spay her.”
“I don’t want the dog anymore. It [peed on the ottoman / didn’t like being carried around like a baby / cried all night / ate a sock].”
“I always wanted a [fill in the breed].”
The shelter had no labradoodles. The woman walked away. The volunteers all looked at one another, defeated. The German Shepherd would spend another four months in the shelter before a couple saw him spinning in his kennel and adopted him.
Then there were labradoodles.
A few months later, we received a shelter alert that two 8-week-old poodles were scheduled for euthanasia at 4pm. The image of these two puppies, clearly ill and clinging to each other, was upsetting. Rumor was their breeder had dumped them after learning they had Parvo.
We hightailed it to the shelter and got the puppies straight to the vet. I was able to take Buzz out of the car and walk carry him into the ICU. But poor Wiley could not even lift his head. Both puppies were quarantined and treated. Three weeks later, they were declared Parvo-free.
When I visited them, they were both still wearing their cones, and Wiley’s leg was wrapped. He had developed an infection called vasculitis, and it wasn’t responding to treatment. The vet recommended amputating the leg. When the leg was finally unwrapped so that I could see the damage, it looked like meat was hanging from his elbow.
By then, it had become clear that these two puppies were not poodles. They grew tall and their curly coats took on a silkiness. Their personalities started to emerge, and they were goofy and fun. I was almost embarrassed at how much I loved these dogs, and when Buzz was adopted by a lovely woman with a big backyard, we were all thrilled.
The investment was worth it.
But Wiley wasn’t well. I decided to do whatever I could to help this underdog keep his leg, and we came up with a plan.
So began our journey through daily hyperbaric oxygen treatments—5 days a week, for 3 months. Trust me, you get to know a dog when he’s in your backseat for 3 hours a day, and Wiley and I became road warriors in the effort to save his leg.
He did not complain once. Every day he hobbled into the vet’s waiting room and ritually greeted the staff. We got photos of him inside the chamber—each session was an hour long, but he just lounged inside the tube as if it were a tanning bed.
Friends took turns driving Wiley to and from his treatments. Everyone remarked on how sociable and easy he was. Friend and volunteer Mika fostered Wiley, and her pack of misfit pups accepted him happily. Three months and fifteen thousand dollars later, Wiley’s leg was healed. He could walk on all fours!
I never questioned the investment of time and money into this little Parvo puppy who’d grown to be a handsome black labradoodle. But I could not bring myself to let him go to a stranger—and there were plenty of strangers lining up to take him. A month before his therapy ended, past Outta the Cage adopters, Stacy and Mark, took over his care and Wiley now lives with them and his canine sister, Poppy. It’s all we want for every dog we save.
When we dropped Wiley off at Stacy and Mark’s, I looked in my rearview mirror. My backseat was empty for the first time since Wiley had started treatment. Now in my rearview mirror there was Wiley, sitting with his new family, watching me drive away.
I might have ugly-cried.
It’s not them, it’s us.
Labradoodles are a “designer breed” recognized for their outgoing and affectionate natures. They develop strong bonds with humans and are eager to please. They are a big draw as family pets and can excel as therapy or service dogs.
We never planned to save and rehabilitate two labradoodles, let alone grow to love them. A few months later, my buddy Page called and asked for help rehoming a friend’s goldendoodle (remove the Labrador and add the Golden). I protested, insisting he’d be easy to place. Besides, there were other dogs in more desperate need.
The doodle in question was a 1-year-old who lacked confidence, had separation anxiety, jumped on people, and was reportedly terrified of other dogs. His owners rightly wanted to avoid handing him over to an unknown private party.
We visited and saw firsthand the twitchiness, clinginess, and lack of confidence that can also be characteristic of a doodle. We named him Woody.
Within 30 minutes of posting Woody online, we had six applications. People wanted him and wanted him NOW. Truth is, they didn’t even know Woody; they just liked the idea of him. A woman offered us $1100 promising to “get in the car right now.”
Instead, we put Woody into training to teach him basic skills and build his confidence.
In the end, we gave Woody to a kind and dog-savvy adopter, Tiffany. She brought him home and immediately started practicing place work and leash manners. Tiffany had never owned a doodle, but she does now—and trust me, it’s a happy ending.
So, should we make more of them?
Am I critical of your mini-doodle, your Aussie-doodle, or your Berner-doodle? After all, they’re just variations of the labradoodle fusion. A soupcon of genetic engineering has regulated size, modulated energy, and has supposedly made the dog hypoallergenic—which, it turns out, is a myth.
Wally Conron, the “creator” of the Labradoodle, has publicly expressed deep regret about his role popularizing doodle breeds. Conron acknowledges the resulting explosion of designer dogs, admitting that unscrupulous breeders have compromised the dogs’ health and temperament. “Why people are breeding them today,” Conron says, “I haven’t got a clue.”
But the dogs aren’t to blame.
Like most problems in animal rescue, it’s the people—those dreaming up novel dog breeds as perfectly friendly and healthy dogs are killed daily in our shelters. While some backyard breeder—Conron calls them “charlatans,”—posts his latest litter on Craigslist, perfectly nice dogs with indeterminant breed mixes are taken to back rooms at shelters and killed on cold metal tables. These dogs deserve first dibs on families.
That doesn’t mean that everyone should adopt a mastiff instead of a doodle. But humans created the mess that is shelter overpopulation, and humans should help fix it. This means visiting your local shelter with the intent of bringing home a dog who might be sad in his kennel, have a minor medical issue, or has simply been in the shelter for too long. More dogs are coming in through the front door every day. Tragically, more are leaving through the back door, too.
Every dog, whether purebred or mixed, designer or overlooked, has the potential to change a life—and when we open our hearts to those waiting in shelters, we become part of a story bigger than ourselves: one of resilience, second chances, and the quiet joy that comes from giving hope to those who need it most.
“Humans created the mess … and humans should help fix it.” Yes, that.
Well told. We need to make people aware.