The Golden Age of Tasha

Friday, 25 July

Before I break for summer, a bloglet with some news from my muse...

For recent arrivals to this photo-essay, Tasha is the dog I rashly adopted in a fit of grief after the death of the blog’s ur-muse Elsa. Not the easiest of canines, Tasha and her challenges have at least provided much textual fodder for my Diary, first in its Paris-Berlin form and since 2019, in the Paris-Perche iteration. I slip pictures of her photogenic, expressive face in whenever possible. I don’t know where this publication would be without her.

Now 10-ish (exact age unknown), Tasha has changed over the last six months. She is still la Princesse, vociferously demanding attention and expecting old duvets all over the house to cushion her sleep. She remains convinced of her rule wherever she roams.

During our morning walks in the country, she continues to be led astray by the whiff of a deer; she can still cause trouble. I'll spare you the details, but recently she had me shouting her name in vain as I pursued her on all fours through a muddy field of rapeseed (their matted heads prohibiting bipedal passage).

But I can no longer call her The Indefatigable One. The morning walk extensions last 30 minutes rather than three hours. Once she's back, she no longer insists on a second jaunt, is instead happy to potter around the garden chasing lizards. The call of the wild - when, tiring of reptiles, she would raise her nose, sniff the air and tear off into the woods - is less acute. It has been some time since she has made us late for a concert or no-shows at a dinner party. Instead, she's become ever more attached to me and follows me everywhere, from room to room, duvet to duvet, allée to allée.

On her lead in Paris, she still snarls and writhes like a rabid dog when confronted with a fellow canine. But off-line, she's much more chill.

I mean, don't you too detect a new air of gravitas in her gaze?

Not worrying every second about where Tasha is and what she's up to and who she's going to scare out of their wits with her deep bark has been good for my nervous system and blood pressure. But it's a bittersweet relief. A golden age is by definition a peak; things inevitably go downhill from there. Tasha is getting or already is old and that of course saddens me, perhaps even more than with our other dogs, since my own advancing age stares me in the face every morning at the mirror.

But, hey, summer is a time to live for the moment, so I'll stop here by wishing you all light in August. And rejoice that a calmer Tasha is still in our lives.