Meanwhile, Shila's focusing on wild larkspur, a real rarity around here.
He stops to take a drink, my little Narcissus looking at his reflection.
Diane, who I suspect is here to visit Chet Baker as much as me, feels very sorry for the crestfallen Bacon, who only moments before was my Olympian ideal of dog perfection. Well, that's what living with a Boston terrier can be like. You're gazing down fondly, maybe embracing this sweet animal, cuddling him close and pbbbbbt! and you drop him like a hot potato and wave your arms around like there's a swarm of African killer bees buzzing around your head. Smells. With Bostons, it's all about smells. Some they make themselves, and some they outsource. All are bad.
Sara says that emanatory capacity is all that stands between her and a Boston terrier puppy. Imagine. Well, I can imagine. This is my life.