My daughters and I have been pleading for a dog for years. I’ve reminded my husband for the last 17 years that he promised we’d get a dog when I left mine behind before our move to France.
In November, I came across an ad scotch-taped to the counter of the local Newspaper shop and gave the person a call, just to see. A woman living in the same town was selling a golden retriever/lab for only 50 euros. Having scanned the occasional ad, I thought there was a zero missing, but there wasn’t. I guess because the dog is a mutt, he was a discount dog, like Marley. But there’s not much mutt involved in crossing a lab with a golden retriever. They’re pretty much in the same category in my book. This dog is, however, a cross between a golden retriever and a black lab. Half the puppies were black and half were cream colored.
Anyway, the woman had one male left and he would be ready to be taken in December, just in time for Christmas. Rather than trying to hide a puppy in a box for a week, I decided to approach my daughters first. “If you were getting a dog,” I asked them, “would you prefer it be a surprise or would you like to choose it yourselves?”
The “If” in my question was pretty ridiculous and they saw right through it and were instantly obsessed by the possibility of finally having a pet. Now all they had to do was convince Philippe.
What followed was pure politics. My daughters hung banners around the house. “Dog We Need, Yes we can!” Hey, if it worked for Obama (who calls himself a mutt as well) …
I guess my husband was still basking in the lovely aftermath of Obama-mania.
Donuts would have been called Obama if it hadn’t been for the tradition in this country of naming dogs. Like hurricanes, dogs get new letters each year. 2008 was a “D” year. I wanted to call him “Disco,” but the girls had become fans of Dunkin’ Donuts on our last trip to New York.
Disco might have been more suitable as he has this way of wagging his entire bottom end when he gets excited and he loves to dance, but Donuts has grown on me, maybe because I'm dieting and can't eat any.
He’s now 7 months old and about 25 kilos heavier than he was at Christmas time. We should have considered the possibility of having a dog when we chose to put in a pool and chose cream colored tiling for the deck. It is no longer solid but more often embellished with a kind of exotic pattern of beige paw prints. It kind of fits in with the fashion trend for exotic prints, right? We’re also out one door mat, four flip-flops, seven tomato plants (freshly planted), two dresses (mine), three sweatshirts (the girls’) and the neighbor’s cat (who more or less lives with us) is looking pretty mangy from having his entire head stuck inside Donut’s mouth. He’s also nibbled on a shutter. Our garden has been fenced in since to avoid further damage to summer vegetables. He has nipped at my Guess handbag and I keep reminding him that if he does damage to that or any of my shoes which aren’t made out of plastic, I may not be able be as quick to forgive him.
But he’s an excellent watch dog. He barks rather viciously at airplanes which have blinking lights at night, the lawnmower, vacuum cleaner, hair dryer and my cell phone which rings to the song “I’ve got a pocket full of sunshine” (cranked up to the highest volume possible so that I hear it soon enough to find it in the bottom of my Guess handbag which may explain his fetish for it).
As I write this, he is napping underneath the desk, using my feet as a pillow. He wakes up occasionally to give me a full foot bath. Okay, I can live without a few dresses, but I do hope he leaves my bag alone!
In November, I came across an ad scotch-taped to the counter of the local Newspaper shop and gave the person a call, just to see. A woman living in the same town was selling a golden retriever/lab for only 50 euros. Having scanned the occasional ad, I thought there was a zero missing, but there wasn’t. I guess because the dog is a mutt, he was a discount dog, like Marley. But there’s not much mutt involved in crossing a lab with a golden retriever. They’re pretty much in the same category in my book. This dog is, however, a cross between a golden retriever and a black lab. Half the puppies were black and half were cream colored.
Anyway, the woman had one male left and he would be ready to be taken in December, just in time for Christmas. Rather than trying to hide a puppy in a box for a week, I decided to approach my daughters first. “If you were getting a dog,” I asked them, “would you prefer it be a surprise or would you like to choose it yourselves?”
The “If” in my question was pretty ridiculous and they saw right through it and were instantly obsessed by the possibility of finally having a pet. Now all they had to do was convince Philippe.
What followed was pure politics. My daughters hung banners around the house. “Dog We Need, Yes we can!” Hey, if it worked for Obama (who calls himself a mutt as well) …
I guess my husband was still basking in the lovely aftermath of Obama-mania.
Donuts would have been called Obama if it hadn’t been for the tradition in this country of naming dogs. Like hurricanes, dogs get new letters each year. 2008 was a “D” year. I wanted to call him “Disco,” but the girls had become fans of Dunkin’ Donuts on our last trip to New York.
Disco might have been more suitable as he has this way of wagging his entire bottom end when he gets excited and he loves to dance, but Donuts has grown on me, maybe because I'm dieting and can't eat any.
He’s now 7 months old and about 25 kilos heavier than he was at Christmas time. We should have considered the possibility of having a dog when we chose to put in a pool and chose cream colored tiling for the deck. It is no longer solid but more often embellished with a kind of exotic pattern of beige paw prints. It kind of fits in with the fashion trend for exotic prints, right? We’re also out one door mat, four flip-flops, seven tomato plants (freshly planted), two dresses (mine), three sweatshirts (the girls’) and the neighbor’s cat (who more or less lives with us) is looking pretty mangy from having his entire head stuck inside Donut’s mouth. He’s also nibbled on a shutter. Our garden has been fenced in since to avoid further damage to summer vegetables. He has nipped at my Guess handbag and I keep reminding him that if he does damage to that or any of my shoes which aren’t made out of plastic, I may not be able be as quick to forgive him.
But he’s an excellent watch dog. He barks rather viciously at airplanes which have blinking lights at night, the lawnmower, vacuum cleaner, hair dryer and my cell phone which rings to the song “I’ve got a pocket full of sunshine” (cranked up to the highest volume possible so that I hear it soon enough to find it in the bottom of my Guess handbag which may explain his fetish for it).
As I write this, he is napping underneath the desk, using my feet as a pillow. He wakes up occasionally to give me a full foot bath. Okay, I can live without a few dresses, but I do hope he leaves my bag alone!
