I know it must be hard to be a dog in France. Riding the escalator at the Bon Marché, being cooed at and groped by the staff of my bank, having me carry you through the grocery store, like some wise and knowing koala bear deity.
But you’re so good at not letting it go to your head, I think. Sitting quietly on the cafe floor while I give my English conversation lessons, riding the bus like a big boy. Let’s try an experiment: Will you mind if I leave you alone for a couple of hours? Yes, I can see that you want to come, but you understand that sometimes in life, you don’t always get to do what you’d like to do. Hey! This is so not a dog issue! I am not trying to bring you down! How can you say that? Look! It's Mr. Potato! *throws toy, slams door*
When I returned to my apartment last night, the place looked like it had been ransacked by a herd of Oompaloompas. Everything at waist level was on the floor. And, what was that smell?
Yes, in retrospect, I can see that you were offended when I left you alone for a couple of hours, because the harsh truth about dogs is: you cannot open the door to roam the streets and sniff cigarette butts freely. I thought you would bear your cross of not being able to open doors while sleeping in my bed and playing with your furry potato toy, but I was wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.
Isn't it always the pretty ones that pee all over your life, then kiss you and look adorable while you scrub the mattress?