Wednesday, July 3, 2013


My world-weary coon hound Phoebe does not like her picture taken.  I swear, her aversion makes me think that in a past life, she was pursued mercilessly by the Paparazzi.  Most of my photos that I attempt to take of her wind up looking like this:

Or this:

Or even better, like this:

It's like Salvador Dali met a dalmation in a dark alley.  What a mess.

At the end of an attempted photo session, she'll usually give me a long suffering look and heave a sigh, and allow one passable shot with a pained expression:

"Please.  Make it stop."

You would think I was ordering her to line up for a bath or something.  Sheesh.

Max, on the other hand, cannot wait to have his turn.

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