Shitting at the Ivy

We took a big walk down Robertson Boulevard this afternoon and right in front of the Ivy, the fancy movie star-studded restaurant, I had a terrible stomach problem. I don't know what happened, but I had to run up close to the tree in front of the Ivy where the valet parking is and squirt out a runny, brown, soft boiled egg of a poop. I tried to aim it up the tree to hide it because there were lots of agents and Hollywood types looking at me from the terrace of the restaurant. Dad said it was ok, "only jerks go there--at least every time I go there, it's full of jerks."

Then we went to a kitchen design store and looked at marble counter tops. They are trying to get ideas for the kitchen in Nice. Finley lay down in the kitchen design store and wouldn't walk, so Mom had to drag her from one kitchen display room to the next. Finn had to be dragged to the car too. We went through Benedict Canyon with the top down and had dinner at Beverly Glen in a Chinese restaurant. My stomach was still upset but it didn't stop me from having some spring rolls.

I helped Dad drive home, my paws on the steering wheel and ears in the wind. The sun was going down and the pollution made it look like the mountains were shrouded in a pink, purple mist. The Goodfellas soundtrack was on, we were all in the pack and it was magic.