Dear Dachshund, where are you? Love, Butters

where are you?

As I've rounded that golden age of 21, there has been a lot of speculation as to just who, exactly is my boyfriend. Is it the renegade Pip from the wrong side of the North London tracks? Is it the burly Jimmy with whom I have had weekly Starbucks rendezvous for as long as I've resided in this Hill they call Not? The countless greyhounds, huskies and other brawny creatures I've been spotted sniffing on various street corners (let's face it, girls, size TOTALLY counts)? The correct answer is: none of the above. I am a ferociously single bitch, and proud of it. I am a tease, a flirt extraordinaire. Like Carrie the Pomeranian.

However, two things happened this weekend which have struck me to my "no-plus-one-thank-you" core. 1) SATC2. Mommy has yet to see it, but I nipped out of the house Saturday afternoon for a matinee and found myself emerging from the theater, as I did after the first, feeling less than stellar about my single-gal status. There's got to me a Mr. Big dog out there somewhere for me...and 2) I think I may found him. Well, glimpsed, to be more accurate. When mommy and the bloginistas got together for brunch at 202 on Sunday, as we were waiting to be seated, I saw him. You know how there are moments you just know, a click of canine hearts, two tails wagging in one. He was a lean, mean, toy dog love machine. A chocolate hunk of a sausage dog, his short little legs pounding the wooden floor after me as mommy dragged me to my table. Our eyes met. We sniffed. I pounced. Sigh. Oh my tubular love, I didn't even get a chance to ask your name...

Dear dachshund, if you're reading this, I'll be waiting for you, stick in mouth, at the Duck Pound in Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon. Please don't leave me to chew it alone. 

Love always,
Your Butters xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx