Wednesday, 5 August 2009


I am not a dog lover. I think I am, but any real affection actually got killed off when I was a little girl and my mother's dogs shat all over the place, driving me "Miss Howard Hughes" crazy. I used to skid my way to the bath each morning, swearing aged six that I was going to move out. So I have dreams of liking them, but confused ones. Last year, I bought some Italian Greyhounds in Los Angeles. The idea was to keep the image up - of Beverly Hills, and owning a petite, pocket pooch. However, two months and three thousand dollars in training fees later, I was near to screaming point. These two supposedly delightful creatures chewed up everything in sight and pood everywhere. It was my six year old nightmare come back to haunt me. Luckily, the Pool Man offered to have them when I was away, and now I have visiting rights which is much more attractive than daily rights. When I say visiting rights I mean they come to me not me to them. So now they arrive, lift their legs, tear up the cushions and then leave.

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