Dog-field correspondent Ludo laments the price of fame
By Ludo
Finally, I’m back. I know you’ve missed me, but it hasn’t been my fault. Every hound and human in the suburb agreed that my column was the highlight of The Rotunda’s inaugural
issue – and yet I was omitted from the second one. Why? I’m not sure. My owner says it’s because in the wake of my success I’ve become arrogant and drunk on celebrity. I call it Tall Puppy Syndrome.
And how petulant of him to include another so-called “literate" dog, Albert, as one of North Fitzroy’s ten most powerful? Oh, please. I’ve known Albert for years and it’s common knowledge his owners ghost-write every single last word of his. It’s been horrible watching him be embraced by the public. No doubt there’ll soon be calls to rename Alfred Crescent as Albert Crescent.
And how petulant of him to include another so-called “literate" dog, Albert, as one of North Fitzroy’s ten most powerful? Oh, please. I’ve known Albert for years and it’s common knowledge his owners ghost-write every single last word of his. It’s been horrible watching him be embraced by the public. No doubt there’ll soon be calls to rename Alfred Crescent as Albert Crescent.
Have I become arrogant? Well, it’s true that there have been some incidents. When an insignificant looking Jack Russell stole my tennis ball, I snapped: “Do you know who I am?” But he had no respect. And that frustrated outburst was the natural consequence of me being hounded by adoring fans and even some critics.
A ridiculously jealous little man approached my owner last week and sarcastically asked him if I’m enjoying my “15 seconds of fame”. (The fool didn’t account for dog years – it’s actually 105 seconds of fame). Becoming a public figure is difficult. I have to deal with jealous and bitter male dogs. Meanwhile, bitches are throwing themselves at me.
A few critics have even accused me of being some kind of self-loathing poodle. I deny this. While poodles may have a reputation of swanning around smugly with their carefully curated curls – the self-appointed intelligentsia of the dog world – I am not unhappy with them accounting for 50% of my DNA. It’s just that my father was a poodle, and — well, you know what that means. He’s been having a good time with Retrievers, Cavaliers, Labs, Spaniels, you name it. As my Mother barked at him during their acrimonious bust-up: "You’re an animaI". And obviously, I resent him for abandoning me at such a young age.
Sigh. I’ve been distracted from my professional gig reporting from the dog-field this week, but it’s not easy being swallowed up and spat out by the cyclone of celebrity. Dear Readers, I’m going to take some time off for a little bit of self-reflection and self-care. Maybe some Downward Dogs. I’ll be back next issue with a real report. See you then.