Elvis’s Peeing Spree Led to a Very Unexpected Adventure
Strawberry fields forever.
Elvis was trotting in front of me on a narrow pathway leading to the sea through lush grass and wildflowers. Stopping occasionally, attracted by a sound or a smell, he would perk his pointy ears, wiggle his dust brush-like tail, and venture into the jungle. The summer grass was much taller than him.
“Elvis, on avance!” I’d call, meaning “move on” in French, and he would hop, like a little rabbit, back to the path.
Elvis had joined the family a year ago, just a few months after my divorce was legally pronounced. He came to us one cold day and stayed. Won consciously or not, I believe Elvis was our consolation prize after the big loss.
His mum’s owner told us that Elvis was an accident born from a brief encounter of his bitch with a friend’s dog. Accident?! This mini powerplant of love is no accident. He is the third son. Like the two older ones, he switches homes and parents every other week.
He was not supposed to be with me, on this Archipelago island at my friend Annika’s house, but my boys went away with their dad and could not take him.
The island was a new territory for Elvis, and he was proudly marking it all along the way. After the fifth time that he lifted his hind leg…
