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The private party for the soft launch of the Poodle Room—a members-only club at the new Fontainebleau resort in Las Vegas—was lavish even by Vegas standards. On the eighty-ninth floor, the very top of the hotel, attendees sat beside long, curved windows overlooking the Strip, the lights of the city spread out below like a sequinned scarf. Servers offered “caviar pillows,” Janelle Monáe d.j.’d from a disco-ball-shaped dais, and hunks of truffles the size of Ping-Pong balls were arrayed in gold bowls. Rumors circulated that Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck would show up, likely in the secret back room. (They did.)
And yet none of this could compete with the presence of a white show poodle named Josephine. As the mascot of the Fontainebleau Las Vegas, Josephine appears on the resort’s Instagram account and occasionally turns up in the flesh (or in the fur?) to greet guests, giving the impression that she lives there, like Eloise at the Plaza. (Plans are in the works for a series of “Josephine at the Fontainebleau” children’s books.) At the grand opening gala, in December, Josephine upstaged Tom Brady, Cher, Lenny Kravitz, Bryan Cranston, Aaron Paul, and more than one Kardashian.
In reality, Josephine has been played by several different poodles. At the Poodle Room début party, the eight-year-old Mochi (named for the Japanese rice dessert) alternated with the two-year-old Patrón (named for the tequila). The hotel has also bought a five-month-old puppy named Fifi—an understudy in the wings, currently in training for the role. At the party, both Josephines wore sparkly collars. No one seemed to notice or care that Patrón is actually a boy dog. His owner, Javier Torres, a former adult dancer, who wore a tux, said that Patrón is often mistaken for a girl because he looks like one: “He is a very poodle-y poodle.”
Partygoers were offered the opportunity to take photographs with Josephine, as though with a mall Santa. Mochi pulled photo duty, staring straight ahead without expression as guest after guest perched on the arm of the blue velvet chair where she sat, while a photographer snapped away. Nearby, two resort employees dressed as poodles, in papier-mâché snouts—one white, one black—stood sentry. “We’re accessories,” one said glumly.
Torres, whose business is called My Pride Poodles, had brought Patrón to the hotel early, for primping. He has bred standard poodles for two decades and owns twenty-two of them. He tried to discourage partygoers from patting Patrón’s head. “It takes me four hours to wash that dog and dry it,” he said.
On the edge of the club’s cavernous main room, Torres fluffed Patrón’s bangs with what looked like a Mason Pearson brush. “How did your dog become the star of the show?” a woman in a black evening gown asked. He explained that Patrón was crowned Winners Dog at the Poodle Club of Las Vegas Specialty—a local dog show—last year, and will compete again at the end of March. The poodle also earns between three hundred and a thousand dollars an hour for an appearance. “You don’t understand how many people know who he is on Facebook,” Torres went on. “They message me, ‘Oh, my God, is he available for stud service? Does he have any puppies?’ ”
Patrón posed for a while on a cream-colored couch, then started yapping. “He’s had enough,” the woman in the black gown said. Torres attached a leash to Patrón’s rhinestone-studded collar. “He has to go potty,” he said. He led the dog through the club’s marble foyer, where a flock of young women—atmosphere models who had been flown in for the occasion “from the night-life scene in L.A. and New York,” their own handler said—were waiting for their signal to enter the party. As Patrón trotted past, the models collectively fluttered like a swarm of starlings.
Upon returning, Patrón spent the rest of the evening at the bar, his front paws resting on its edge, as though waiting for a drink. (The menu featured cocktails named after poodles who have won the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show: Puttencove Promise, Fontclair Festoon, Cappoquin Little Sister.) Women gathered around, petting and cooing. “He’s been to a lot of bars,” Torres said. By around 1 A.M., Patrón was getting fussy, so Torres draped the dog over his shoulders, the way a rancher might carry livestock, and ferried him through the crowd. ♦
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