By Guest Le Chien Noir

It’s 3 in the morning. I’m upstairs, listening to Tom Waits on the computer, using headphones so as to not wake up the noisy one in the next room or she who feeds me and the man of adventure. They sleep downstairs.

Sometimes I listen to Edith Piaf but tonight her music would make me homesick for the Parisian streets and tasty French country cheese. Merde, my life is sad. My people think I am a dog like those two dense labradors that live down the street. I hate those guys.  Every morning they walk placidly along with their owner, following the commands he mumbles between sips of coffee taken from a plastic travel cup.

After watching them pass I can’t even take solace from breakfast for it is always dried kibble and tap water. (French prison food).  If I give them the stare my people may drop me a piece of Swedish cheese or chunks of last night’s salmon dinner. I use to live for those mornings. Now I spend most of my time in my kennel. It sits under the wood working bench — a dark place for me to hide copies of “The Bark” magazine and the few cigarette stubs I manage to snatch during my morning downtown walk.

When no one is around I come up here to listen to sad music or watch Youtube videos of poodle tricks to pick up some new techniques. Sometimes I watch British voice overs of wild animals or Project Runway reruns.  Maybe I will cheer up when the new season of PR starts. Can’ be too soon.