rue-madame's Diaryland Diary

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screwed pooch

I don�t know what�s worse: people who babytalk their children, or people who babytalk their dogs. There�s someone outside my apartment saying �goo� boy!� over and over again in the most idiotic baby voice EVER.

I love dogs, but until they can be trained to use a toilet, I�m not getting one. Or at least, I�m 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 don�t have to pick up poop.

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

One of Terence�s 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? I�m sure if Terence were here, he would agree with me.

I�ve 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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