Dawg gonnit

Rumours have been floating all over this side of the Internet - you know, the Gabriel Byrne side of the Internet - about The Man having somehow landed himself a job as a professional dog-walker for someone. I mean, it HAD to be that he was doing it for someone else, right? Because no self-respecting man with presumed hormone levels like his (see a future post about this truly fascinating subject) to be walking around Manhattan with a ...

Small White Poodle. I say again. Small. White. Poodle.

But sure enough, a blog post alerted me to the fact that he does indeed have a dog and whilst we still don't know for sure if it belongs to a/the woman in his life, they do seem to be attached.

Which got me to thinking - you know, Dr. Paul Weston could really have done with a canine companion. No, seriously. Dogs can save your life, as I well know. I'd have been happy to be Paul Weston's lap dog. Oh yes, you better believe it.

I would trot along at his heels.

I would push my head up underneath his fingers, demanding attention at any given moment of the day. I would sit in his lap and behave nicely when out and about, or in the back of a limousine.

I'd bark protectively if any other woman under the age of 55 went near him.

I could tell him to bloody well quit dying his hair, and accept that he is a Handsome Older Man.

I'd lick his cheek to wake him at some ungodly hour of the morning.

I'd pine dreadfully if he went away.

Then I could wag my ass madly when he got back, and try repeatedly to jump up into his arms.

Later, I could snuggle up in that bit between his shoulder and his breastbone, especially if the evening were cold.

I promise I'd not fart, or shed hair, or hump his leg.

Well, not much.

And certainly not in public!