I have a little black mini-Daschund ( as if they could shrink further)  who is got four feet just about three inches high, two ears that flap like good ole wooden flap-fans and eyes that have the soporific glazed look of Devdas under some serious alcohol abuse spell . He is called Louis, very French, but that is where the similarities end with that fastidious nationality. He has no obsession for perfectionism or aristocracy .  Louis is now five months old but unknown to him  he has turned our world literally upside down and slippery wet . And it has to do with his shitting habits.

My wife who has by now acquired nearly professional dog-trainer status ( it comes automatically with a  marriage license, I guess) has given up. First, it was the Mumbai Mirror which found its dutiful place under Louis’s  bladders but clearly uninspired by  Kareena Kapoor’s bland interviews , the pink papers followed  down under. Disappointed by the recessionary  headlines, Louis continued happily raining indoors to counter the dry-spell outside. Apparently, the imported newsprint acts as a mobile bathroom while the poor fellow is still teething or teetering with some spillage issues. Or so I was told by my better half with the confidence of a veteran. Either ways, my morning reading habits are now solely dependant on Louis’s ablutions.

Louis ,  of course, is the first dog who actually disobeys without a trace of emotion or guilt. On the contrary, when people scream blue murder as he releases a perfectly well-shaped sausage from his tiny posterior, he actually wonders if something is wrong with us.

Sorry, I have to rush ( pun unintended)  therefore I will have to break this sob or rather shit-story into a few other installments.