VALLEY OF THE DOGS
This is the kind of thing I normally do when my houseboy Panton is having one of his "episodes", where he decides that the princely wage I pay him isn't enough and he threatens to "giddaway from Boss" back to whatever dusty third world rug market he came from in the first place.
(I think $5.00 a day is quite adequate myself, especially considering his housekeeping chores entirely consist of wearing nothing but a pair of gold lame shorts and bending over to dust under the sofa twice a day...but I digress.)
However, given that Panton is currently out of town, attending some sort of religious retreat in the high desert where he and his brethren are worshipping a "taxidermied" moosehead mounted atop a larger than life plaster statue of Mamie Van Doren they found in a local "vintage" junk shop-
I was understandably confused by the make-shift security measures put in place by persons unknown.
The mystery was solved, however, when I discovered a four footed interloper in the back yard, lurking amongst the tikis. It was, in fact, a dog.
Now, I don't have a dog. Haven't had one since my ex-boyfriend of some years ago left unannounced, taking a good chunk of my self-esteem and our weimaraner, Jack Daniels by name. So i was fairly certain that this tail wagging stranger didn't belong here.
But on closer examination, I noticed he was moving very slowly, as if in tremendous pain, and he looked rather dazed, doubtlessly from drinking out of the salt water pool all night. I know how that feels, having done it myself during one rather inebriated afternoon where I was convinced that the martini glass mosaic at the bottom was, in fact, the real thing, and I could relate to the slightly dopey look in this mutt's eyes.
However when he resolutely refused to eat the garnish i offered him from my morning cocktail - it was, sadly, the only solid food in the house - I realized he was in need of serious medical attention. I mean, what ELSE could possibly cause someone to refuse Jensen's finest blue cheese stuffed olives?
And so, one quick trip to the Animal Doctor and a hundred dollars later, I now have an adorable dog roaming around the property, his discomfort somewhat assuaged by the painkillers he's been taking every six hours, wrapped up in some expensive brie and bacon appetizers (well, when one's Houseboy is indisposed, one must make do with WHATEVER is in the fridge you know!).
In Palm Springs, even the dogs are on "dolls".
I assume that somebody must have hit the poor beast with their car and then, figuring it was my dog and fearing the wrath of a man who has a martini glass flag waving over the front gate, they just heaved him over the fence and locked him in. I shan't bore you, dear reader, by sharing with you my distaste for the sort of people who would do this kind of thing, but suffice it to say I am posting a photograph here in the hope that the lovely little fellow's owner will recognize him and get in touch with me here.
Failing that, we shall have to find a name for him.
If I keep shouting "hey, you mongrel!" when Panton returns from Bible Camp, things could get very confusing around here.