So there I was, a good pat of butter in hand and no croissant in sight. Naturally I hopped the next flight to Paris, where Fashion Week was in full swing. Frankly, I needed an excuse to get Manolo, my beloved Pom, out of the house. He’s been driving me nuts lately.
“Manolo! Don’t use that Ming vase as a hockey puck!” I scolded.
“You can’t tell me what to do! I’m a rock star from Mars! I’ve got tiger blood!”
My butler Peevish thought I was rewarding bad behavior by taking Manolo to France with me, but I proved him wrong.
A little quality time taped to the wing did wonders for his fur-ocious attitude.
Speaking of unusual punishment, many of the getups that sashayed down the catwalk belonged in stir.