I'm so sorry I didn't finish the tale of my Adventure, but that man from the foundation almost talked my shell pink ear off! He has some RIDICULOUS idea that the fashions have to be “practical.” HA. When was fashion ever practical? Did Dior think practical when he designed the New Look? Were the British being practical when they introduced the mini skirt? Have the Japanese been practical when they design anything? If the proletariat want practical, I say, give them blue jeans, not Balenciaga.
Back to my Adventure. I got out of the taxi, pulled a strange piece of paper off of the back of my suit (it must have been something on the taxi seat…ugh…I should have used a private car service), and rang the bell. The couple that live there was unpleasantly surprised to see me, as well they should have been. I towered over both of them, simply quivering with righteous rage.“GIVE ME BACK MY DOG,” I said, my eyes boring into the husband’s. He flushed and invited me in.
My dears, the interior was a nightmare of Ikea and Target! I mean, they had a Thomas Kinkaid painting over the couch. Painter of light, indeed. After I had settled myself delicately on some Swedish thing passing itself off as a sofa, they proceeded to ply me with cheap Chianti and Philly strawberry cream cheese (served in the container) and crackers.
Then they told me:Bucky had loosed his collar and run away, apparently because he missed me.
I couldn’t believe my ears. They said it had happened days ago, but they had been too heartbroken to tell me that my darling little dog had disappeared into the woods of Connecticut. Probably to be devoured by a raccoon, or worse.
My heart cracking, I let out a wail of grief—and was answered by a storm of barking! BUCKY!
I dropped my Chianti and Philly smeared cracker on the floor (no great loss, the carpet was white shag), and leapt to my feet. Which is no mean feat when you’re wearing stiletto heels! “Bucky, my precious, Mummy is coming!” I cried out, and ran out of the living room in the direction of the frantic barking. My incredibly keen hearing discerned that it was coming from upstairs. How could I have ever thought his barking was piercing?
There was a huge pile of dirty laundry at the top of the stairs, but I vaulted over it, to be confronted with Walt Disney wallpaper and pink moldings. Faint from the décor but determined, I followed Bucky’s barking to a bedroom door where he had been shut up, and yanked it open. BUCKY!
He hurled his tiny, wiggling self into my arms, and at that joyous moment of reunion it didn’t even matter that he urinated down the front of my Yves St. Laurent suit. We were Together.
But then I turned, and heard the sound of the unspeakable couple coming up the stairs! With my free hand, I grabbed a handful of soiled laundry and HURLED it into their faces! Fortunately, it was dirty underthings! And not dainty wisps, I can guarantee you that!
Blinded and gagging, they fell back down the stairs!I ran down the stairs, past the couple trying to extricate themselves from the compost they called underwear, and leapt into the taxi.
“FLOOR IT,” I screamed at the driver. He had been amusing himself with a copy of “Barely Legal” and didn’t anticipate my sudden arrival into the back of his automobile. But to his credit, he dropped the magazine and gunned the motor, even though I assume his fly was open. (I was not about to look over the driver’s barricade.) We flew out of the driveway, spitting gravel. I kept my head down until we were back on the highway.
So, THAT, my dahlings, was my Adventure. Bucky is laying in his little marabou trimmed handcrafted artisanal dog bed as I write this, and all is well with the world. Except for the hired help. Where IS that lazy maid with my chamomile tea?
I shall write about Fashion Week a bit later today. For now, all I can say is...ugh. If I wanted to dress like an anorexic teenager, I'd have my jaw wired shut.
Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog
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