If you were looking forward to taking care of a West Highland terrier
and it turned out to be a French bulldog
would you be disappointed? Well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder (and I must admit the little blighter above seems to be saying 'love me!'). Our Swedish friend Carl Otto, who can't keep a dog in his London dwelling, clearly misses his little companion, no doubt pining back in Stockholm. So how saddened he must have been when he came to supper and I learned the truth, reeled a bit from the picture on the internet and rudely asked whether it slavered and snorted like other bulldogs I know.
Alas, he said, it did. So I'm afraid I dashed his hopes of finding his beloved canine a temporary home here. J, who is entirely to blame because he gave me the wrong information in the first place and raised my hopes, asked me how I'd feel if I had a child and someone else told me it was ugly. To which I retorted that you can't choose the look of your child, but you can choose your dog.
Anyway, reflection on my insensitivity was rammed home, amid gales of laughter, up in Edinburgh with friend Caroline, who had also shared our rather odd supper and noted how, after that tergiversation, Carl Otto went rather quiet. Such was the thanks he got for introducing me to two of my idols, Anderssons Harriet and Benny, last year. Humble apologies, min herre.