Whereupon witnessing the solid, unreproachable, camera-ready marriages of the political candidates, the author ruminates on his own untidy connubial past.
As one thrice-divorced, M. Chariot knows something of the caprice of l'Amour, and hopes to spend not a little time blogiating on the subject. Signs, portents, vague suspicions, sidelong glances — let the beleaguered spouse take note!
But alas! In contrast to the ne plus ultra unions currently enjoying the political exhibition — divorce can be such dreary material, non? Deferring to the sensitive reader, I propose intermittent, short meditations, snapshots if you will, leaving discerning parties the wiser, without subjecting anyone to undue idealism-recovery time. The delicate are forewarned.
Yes, divorce. How do the auguries escape one's awareness? Last night I awoke, in a chill lather, from a dream about my second wife's precious pet Pomeranian: the pampered, the persnickety, the pestilent Little Micheline! How I wish I could erase from my memory that repellant pooch! The wee nasty barkings. The annihilated top hat. The missing monocle (finally found — in her feces — by the maid). M. Chariot is not the first husband to be challenged by a Pomeranian for the wife's affections, no indeed! But I could not help feeling that with every ounce of her furball fuselage, Little Micheline mounted against me a most malevolent campaign. A canine crusade which trotted my marriage, on a rhinestone leash, to its unforseen conclusion!
Ne'er to be forgotten, the day came when, pretending to kiss-kiss, Little Micheline lurched of-a-sudden forward to bite me squarely on the nose! Words cannot describe the sheer horror of looking directly into the eyes of a snarling, wild creature clamping fang into flesh! Those terrible red orbs, glaring, all the way to an exclusive veterinary office in Beverly Hills, where it was arranged to release my proboscis by prying open her tiny jaws with a specialized medical device. And not a week later, from her villa in the south of France (to which she and Little Micheline repaired on holiday) my wife serving me the restraining order.
Holiday indeed! Looking back, it boggles how I could not have seen the looming spectre of divorce in the hard twin crystals of Little Micheline's tiny, malignant eyes! So very upsetting, all of it; difficult to recollect. Although I've had a little work done, in a harsh light the scar remains. Still, one can't get plastic surgery on one's soul, now can one?
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Comments
Perhaps, if the marriage had endured, you could have countered it with a real dog.
Pomeranians are petite cadeaux placed on earth to allow us to one day sing Amazing Grace with feeling.
But then, perhaps there's a real dog inside looking to revenge itself on humanity for what we did to them?
Thank you for thoughtfully blogiating on the subject at hand. A special thanks to M. et Mme. Biblio.
M. Chariot is attempting to uncover topics appealing to our readership. Perhaps one allows the "rating" to make the determination?
l'Amour, a subject very close to mon petit coeur ~ and yet so painful, non?
Please, Monsieur, more l'amour! Please!
(scraping it off would devalue you considerably...by all means, no.)
Your tale brings to mind my office mate -- owner of two darling, but yipping Yorkies. She got her husband's attention one day by stating that the dogs are more companionship for her than he is...quite a mouthful for her! Considering his daily cartoonish emulation of "Hank" from "King of the Hill", in the back yard drinkin' beer with his buddies, no doubt she was making a good point...
So, beware in the future of the impact of little furry dogs. They can become like an expensive designer purse....a necessary accessory for some...Think, Paris Hilton...alas, and ouch!
M. Chariot has not always been - and will not always be - Love's Fool!
Oh tut, I guess its not prejudice if one originates from a perspective of perfection.
In this house, perhaps because there are so many varied animals in residence, decorum is not just advised, it is required.
So I'd like to say it was not Micheline's fault. Nor was it the fault of your impetuous schnoz.
No, I would lay the blame firmly on the lap of the now ex-Mdme_Chariot. Barking, chewing, stealing - these are the handlers bailiwick. Mdme didn't understand which end of the leash was her and which belonged to the rat-hund. I'd wager you were not the first nor the last to suffer the consequences of her laissez-faire management.
Sadly I can only say better your nose than the face of the banana-curled 3 year old next door. The best cure for your soul, I dare say, would be raising a dog of your own in a disciplined, well-trained, loving environment.
I adore most dogs, but have never met a Pomeranian I've cared for.
From what I've read (in other venue), it sounds as if your gentleman friend may very well have had it coming! You'll excuse me for saying so!
Divorce may seem repugnamt to some, but I know of three lives it has saved.
"Marriage is the triumph of imagination over intelligence." Oscar Wilde
"Second marriage is the triumph of expectation over experience." Me
If you ever lose your mind and go for a fourth try, look for a large dog that has been well trained by a woman who, as Caruso Wegie so wisely points out, know which end of the leash is which.
Paws up!
Allow me to commend to your attention the classic short story, Moon-Face, by Jack London. It describes in quite practical, nearly didactic clarity a most creative solution to the problem posed by having an exceptionally superfluous and pesky lap-pooch perennially despoiling one's serenity. As a nice bonus, the matter of the lap-pooch's accustomed lap is disposed of as well (assuming that the lap in question requires disposal).
With just a little contemplation, you could quite handily adapt Mr. London's adopted remedy to the issue of your ex-wife's devilish pomeranian -- and the ex-wife as well. Even retroactively, so to speak.
Why... your jaw is hanging agape in a rictus of abject horror. My guess is that you are quite familiar with Mr. London's celebrated narrative, and it's course of action strikes you as a bit... extreme?
Perish the thought, Monsieur. We are all civilized here. One must learn to distinguish ecstatic fantasy from bruising, stuporous reality.
This reminds me of my first husband, Denny, when he got hepped up on a forty! You and I have similar troubles, Moonshure.
But still, you won't marry again? I can cook good.