I am seeing red

No, I'm not angry .. I've just been looking at pictures of Gabriel in his beloved red shirt and it made me think of this series of pictures.



This one's my favourite.











No - wait - this one's my favourite actually. Sorry.













No, it's this one - I'm certain.





Um. Well - no, maybe .. er ..







Is this one it? ~lost in confusion~








THIS. THIS. This is my favourite. I - -



~clunk~ I give up.

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!