When your dog is a natural, that makes my job so much easier!
Idefix in Dallas
Being addicted to America’s Next Top Model and inclined to procrastination, I represent a danger to those living with me: that would be my two ferocious Jack Russell Terriers: Virus the Schnookie Pookie and Peyote the Alligator.
On yesterday’s show, I learned about the three Cs of fashion: Commercial, Catalog and Couture. Well, today, The Schnookie got victimized at my hands. I was working on a new pet photography brochure (“agonizing” would be a decisively more appropriate term), and da dog came beggin’. Needing a little breaky-break, I made him work for his cookie.
To those of you who might hint that I should get a life subito presto, I concur somewhat with your position, but you have to admit that it is a formidable quality to be amused by so little.
“As a Valentine’s gift for my husband, I would like you to photograph my seven week old baby girl.”
“Sure,” I said, “that poses no problem.”
“With my dogs.”
“Ah… Little dogs?”
“No, not so little.”
“Ah.” I reply, hating myself for sounding so inarticulate, but momentarily incapable of finding the appropriate words to describe the panic which now clearly overcomes me. Vivid images are streaming in front of my eyes. Ayer’s Rock. Meryl Streep. “The dingo’s got my baby!”
Turns out Nick the canine giant seemed much more interested in tasting the nanny. Thank goodness for small favors!
Slowly emerging from jet lag induced stupor, I get a call from Mrs. T. to book a photo session for her aging Boston Terrier, Tansy. She underlines the urgency of the matter describing her dog’s life expectancy “in terms of weeks rather than months.” I imagine a pitiful feeble animal wrapped in a little blanket and hurriedly schedule the shoot for the next morning.
Indeed I am surprised to see a robust distinguished terrier show up on my doorstep. Tansy seems more in need of a valium than geriatric care. Does this creature even remotely look like an ailing pooch to you?
I suffer from the same sense of dread when I think of my own two 14 year old dogs. I feel their expiry date is coming any day now, yet, last month, they sacrificed a huge opossum on my nice costly Italian leather couch (re-baptized “the Altar of Death” a long time ago.) I figured that if they made me haul off bodies in the middle of the night, the least they could do is wear ridiculous Santa hats and scarves for my Christmas cards. They are Jack Russell Terriers. Deep down I know they will outlive me… out of spite.