a scrap

A scrap is actually an understatement, but the word was chosen carefully. It was a full on dog fight. I couldn't work out what they were fighting for. It was pretty vicious, and it took a fair effort for me to get them apart.

It seems to be a tiny pink towel that is folded over twice, and which I had left on the floor once I had done the required balance exercise on it, that was the cause of it all.

All the mats are downstairs, and the dogs and I are in the studio which has the hardest of hard tiles that are 100 years old this year. These tiles look a lot like French tiles but apparently are typical of this region up until the 1930s. (The room next door, which I covet, has much older and more elaborate tiles. One day, one day...)

After the dogs retreated to (their?) respective corners Pickle slunk under my bed where the large box from a heater is folded, and she probably thinks that if she is quiet she can stay there all night. Zacchi says he doesn't care if she has the more comfortable bed (two expansive layers of thickly wadded cardboard), he has the scrap of pink that is closest to Mum at the computer.

Oh the perils of being popular! (Zacchi says "Mum, this is what love looks like...")

They are miffed that I am not walking them again tonight. It's trying to rain, and seems a particularly dark night. They had a very good walk this morning, but they don't think it wasn't enough.

And now the little scrap of a ragamuffin is curled up on the floor pretending to be comfortable, while the wounded ego is in the lap of luxury where I can't photograph her without the flash.
And now back to art...


Today I am grateful for cooler temperatures.

PS: Before I could shut down the computer and get back to work (or go to sleep) this had happened without me hearing a thing! Typical hot-blooded Italians, these two! It's no wonder I don't know where I am half the time :-)