Remember Poodle with a Mohawk? Linda Barry? Never call him Fifi again? Hah. Poodles. It’s all about fashion for them. Westies take action. And Jacques has gone rogue.
It’s his new dog door. Reignoux finished buttoning up my house. It’s all bulletproof now, assuming I remember to lock it up. As part of their work, they designed a dog door, custom-made for Jacques. We drove out to their shop, where they measured him as carefully as would a Saville Row tailor. Chest height, shoulder height, head height, body width, they got it all. Then they designed a door to fit Jacques, of course, but also to suit the look of the door. It’s hard to see, but the knob on the left goes to a sliding metal panel. The vertical reflection on the right, halfway down, is a latch. When the panel covers the dog door, the latch pins the panel in place. Hey presto, nobody is getting in. And no nasty white plastic.
This is the thanks I get. Here the little delinquent is, on his grooming table in the utility room. He loves his door. I can’t keep him in. He runs out and barks, randomly, just for fun. Then he runs back in, probably hoping the neighbors will complain, so I can say “Jacques? Barking? no, see, he’s right here.” Yesterday he brought in a dead pigeon — dead for a while, so at least he’s not killing pigeons, yet. I guess he wanted to give it a decent burial, maybe in the sofa cushions. Fortunately he changed his mind and took it back out again. I have no clue where that pigeon is now. And today, look. Did he really need to roll in the mud? Is being clean all that painful?
I basically triage-cleaned him. Of his various dry shampoos, it turns out the mousse is better than the sprays. He’s sort of tan, now, which I hope won’t rub off on the furniture. I put some antiseptic and skin soother on that ear, so it’s a normal light pink. A little work on the nails and job done, he’s back in action. Not clean, exactly, but better. For now.
This birthday was a big one. I hesitate to tell you I turned 65. I want to hide behind all those old lady caveats — “but that doesn’t really describe me,” “but I don’t feel a day over 24, 35, whatever,” but all that just makes me sound, you know, old. Nothing to do about it, really. It is what it is.The best thing I can say is that I celebrated in France. Friends got this old lady out to a nice restaurant or two. Other friends celebrated at home. Much champagne was consumed, enough to help a person forget most anything. And Mr. France, in a stroke of absolute genius, booked us into a week of thalassotherapy.
Francofoolery 