No. 7

Yesterday, Princess Hedy Luella the Third and I attended what will likely be her last canine pageant.  The judges weren’t exactly dripping with unbridled enthusiasm you see, and she is getting on the older side of things, at least in dog years.  Hedy radiates an eternal glow with her au natural, free spirited manner, yet I daresay the judges this year were looking for a dog that had just stormed off a couture Paris runway circa 1983.  One dog there, I swear, was little more than the JonBenet of puppies.  Her owners were a walking atrocity altogether.  Really, they might have just wandered out of some nouveau backwater prison, or so their outfits would suggest.

Myself, I’ve always considered Hedy to be my first born, as close to a biological child as I’ve ever gotten anyways.  I couldn’t love her more if I’d birthed her white furriness myself, so precious and fragile is she.  And the truly marvellous thing about Hedy is that there’s no fear or anticipation that she’ll soon be going through the dreaded teenage years; she’ll never grow up into a deplorable creature that you no longer recognize because, well, she’ll never grow up.  She’ll be cute as a button, now and forever.

Oh, that reminds me, I need to fetch a new stroller for her.  Put that on the ten thousand things to do list.  I swear, even with all my hired help, I’m at least forty percent busier than, well, most anyone.  It’s like I’m living in some third world country, and I have to carry the water back to the house on top of my head, all by myself.