Emme Lou is losing strength. My baby girl can't pull herself around on the living room rug like she used to be able to. She doesn't seem to be totally out of it or in any pain, but I'm afraid that I'm going to have to make a painful decision in the not-so-distant future.
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A couple of Sundays ago in Hudson River Park, Rudy and I met a Speedo-wearing, probably-50-something guy of European (French? Italian?) descent who lovingly accosted Rudy and kept saying "Holy papa!" He rubbed, squeezed, and petted on Rudy quite a bit and, in his pretty thick accent, asked me his age and told me that he wanted to take him home so he could share his big bed. "Holy weirdo!" I thought. But he seemed nice—and harmless—enough.
The day before, while I was walking Rudy after the 'phews and I got back from the High Line, a woman had called Rudy "the basset hound who's taking over New York City." Hee hee.
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Tony and Emme snuggling up on my couch earlier this month (with Rudy's butt on the side):
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OMG! It's a corgi rodeo!
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Some elegant-looking-Emme photos from last month. I often take her to sit on a raised area of the sidewalk around the Juicy Couture store entrance at Charles and Bleecker. She meets her public and gets some fresh air. Dog walker Bryan had told me he was making sure the girl got outside for a good amount of time, and I realized I had too often been cutting her walk time short to make my life easier.
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And, finally, a purty Irish setter who was at the Greenmarket on Saturday:
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