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rue-madame's Diaryland Diary

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screwed pooch

I donít know whatís worse: people who babytalk their children, or people who babytalk their dogs. Thereís someone outside my apartment saying ďgooí boy!Ē over and over again in the most idiotic baby voice EVER.

I love dogs, but until they can be trained to use a toilet, Iím not getting one. Or at least, Iím not getting one until I:

a) eliminate my allergies

b) have a giant apartment with ample outdoor space so the dog can be mostly outside, or

c) move to France so I donít have to pick up poop.

Say what you will about the obstacle-course sidewalks of Paris, at least there arenít folks walking around with plastic bags of crap. Itís just so undignified, no matter how you slice it. And anyway, thatís why the French invented those crazy poop-cleaning, sidewalk-scrubbing motorcycle contraptions: so that civilized citizens wouldnít have to touch their petsí excrement! Genius!

One of Terenceís favorite stories about Paris is how one night he watched an older gentleman walk a dog down rue Madame. It was cold out, and the man had on a heavy wool coat and gloves. In one hand, he held the leash, in the other, a giant cigar. Terence, to this day, thinks there are fewer things finer in life that being able to take a walk with your dog after dinner, all the while smoking a fat stogie. The entire picture would have lost a LOT of allure if the gentleman had had to stoop every few feet to clean up after his pooch, non? Iím sure if Terence were here, he would agree with me.

Iíve got nothing else to report. My life is still being sucked dry by this insane project, but the end is so close, I can practically taste it...

4:42 p.m. - 2004-02-04

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