Dogs are ubiquitous in the bars and cafes of Italy. 
Who do you think cleans the floor? 
It keeps labor costs down and subsidizes the feeding of urban canines.
Brilliant, no?
But bunnies in restaurants?
Take a lepus to lunch? 
Bring your own bunny.
Chow.
Chanel has died. 
Not the fashion (even though it’s not Italian, it seems eternal) nor the designer, herself (Coco is long gone)—but the dog.
Chanel apparently was the oldest living dog at 21 years of age. That’s 147 in dog years. 
She lived in New York. Her favorite dish was boiled chicken and rice, clearly a Manhattan thing.
No pastrami; no corned beef? And she called herself a New Yorker…
No pasta; no red wine? 
Why even live to a ripe old age without the satisfaction of these staples, I ask?
Though I see the appeal of the pullet, rice is a bit like eating an old sock, and a clean one, at that. At least pasta is sauced.
Now that Chanel is gone, a new contender has taken a stand: Max, a 26 year-old mixed breed Cajun. I’ll bet his diet features more spice: Louisiana Rat Gumbo, Squirrel Etouffee. 
Now, that’s living.
Dinner tonight in Rome?
Pasta Puttanesca.
My key to long life:
1 lb. Spaghetti, cooked and drained.
Saute 5 cloves thinly sliced garlic in 1/3 cup Olive oil until soft. Add 2 teaspoons anchovy paste, 1/2 tsp. hot red pepper flakes, 1-28-oz can whole tomatoes in juice, 1/2 cup pitted Kalamata olives. 2 tblsp. drained capers, pinch of sugar, 3/4 cup chopped basil.
Toss with hot pasta and serve 4-6 people with, of course, a glass of Chianti…or two.
Chow.
Beautiful and clear today on Lake Como, but the radio on the bar by the pool suggested clouds for the rest of the week.
Thunder, lightening, rain. Time to head for home.
We used the rest of the afternoon to pack up: my lambskin, my ball, my chew-toy and a marrow bone 
I picked up via the waiter at dinner last night.
A last swim in the lake; a final patrol of the manicured gardens; one more chase of the hotel cat.
Drinks on the terrazzo (more Martini olives, garlic stuffed this time) 
under a waning moon.
Tomorrow we begin the dreary ride home, 
nodding off to the sway of wipers across the windshield.
Paradise, lost.
Chow.
Alas, we quit the palace yesterday. 
La Reserve disappeared from sight through the rear window of the Big Black Car, my angst at leaving born out as drool down the fine leather back seat.
We drove the windy coast road above Monaco, across the border into Italy.
Adieu, Francia. A bientot.
I believed all was lost when we passed through Milano. Busy streets; commercial sections; no beaches in sight.
Then, a hint of greenery from the open car window as we sped out of the city. A nose out the forward section to decipher the air: water.
Fresh water. Sweet, salt-free, non-irritating, hypo-allergenic H2O. 
No more itchy after effects of retrieving floating sea-born objects.
Lake Como spread before us like a giant azur-blue carpet, sparkling with silver thread in the sunlight. The car rolled down a narrow road beside the water for what seemed like miles, then pulled up to il grande palazzo del lago: 
Il Serbelloni in Bellagio.
A sturdy gentleman in a tan uniform heaved our bags from the car onto a trolley (my bag, with a small sheepskin rug, a green, water-proof ball and a genuine mink cat-like facsimile, came first). The scent of grilled lake-fish dressed in garlic and parsley wafted through the entry doors.
The porter pulled a bone-shaped treat from his coat pocket and slipped it into my grateful mouth.
Traveling is hell, no?
Chow.
Boat travel in any breeze greater that 5 knots should be prohibited—worldwide. If the vessel lists, I insist: NO PASSAGE.
While I enjoy licking up most things that end up on the floor, keeping time with seasick people is not a highlight. 
At least not after the first two or three victims.
It took me a full day to get my sea-legs, and that was AFTER I left the ship. Remember, I have four of them. You know how one year to a human is like seven years to a dog? 
Well, one day of motion sickness to a dog is like seven days to a human.
“Feel” that.
The only upside to the trip was the ending: A private car to La Reserve, jewel on the Cote D’Azur.
A warm, salt-water pool, long lunches on the palatial veranda, speed boats (too fast to sway) along the Mediterranean shore.
Doggy spa treatments at La Petite Chien: sugar scrub on the belly, acu-pressure to points north of the tail, ear massage.AHHHHH. The buffing of toe nails; the fluffing of chin hairs. Pellegrino or Evian? I ask you.
The ferry floor is but a dim memory. On to the beach a la Francaise.
Chow.
Silvio’s in trouble, again.
This time her name is Patrizia. 
It seems she was wearing a wire when she dined with the Prime Minister on the night of last November’s U.S. Presidential election.
And a candlelit dinner was not the climax of the evening, so to speak. 
Apparently, instead of dessert, Silvio instructed his guest to “Go and wait for me on the big bed.”
And I say: What’s wrong with that?
I love big beds, though generally I tend to sleep near the edge, just on the inboard space behind one of my people. Better to stay planted n the mattress that pushed to the floor after midnight. But, I digress.
Patrizia said that she only one of 20 women invited the first time she attended a dinner at Berlusconi’s Roman residence the spring before. The evening of the election, there were only 3 women at the table. But, Patrizia’s the one who got to spend the night on the big bed.
Must have been her personality, no? I’ll bet she does awesome tricks.
Sit. Stay. Rollover.
Chow.
OK. I’ve received a number of corrections since I started this blog concerning the spelling “Chow”. People seem to think I am misspelling the word. Hello?
I am a dog. I hear the language of humans through canine ears. I am Italian, yes. But I am a dog first. 
Just as humans are humans first, then Italian, French, American, second.
When I hear “Ciao”, it is similar to the Pavlov response…(now that was an easy experiment, no? I mean, show a dog a treat and he drools…duh)
To me, “Ciao” will always mean “Chow”. And why not?
Who in this country doesn’t think about food all the time.
This IS ITALY.
CHOW!
First of all, who names their dog Bambi?
Second of all, who would encourage an animal to sing opera?
Witness:
Third of all, is Elvis really dead?
Ain’t Nothing But a Hound-Dog, afterall.
Chow.
More mozzarella in the house this weekend. Warm and fresh. A little on crumbled polenta in my breakfast dish. A nibble in the afternoon from my Contessa’s hand.
Some mozzarella facts:
Do not put fresh mozzarella made from unpasteurized buffalo milk in the refrigerator. 
It is best at room temperature and should be eaten within two days of production. If you haven’t had mozzarella this fresh, you haven’t had true mozzarella. Purists eat their mozzarella without accompaniment. 
My advice: Go to Italy, Campania specifically. 
It is mozzarella’s Mecca.
Signs for dairy outlets along the highways in the Naples area are common. Some sell excellent mozzarella. If you always want the real thing, look for caseificios bearing the Denominazione d’Origine Protetta, or DOP seal, a European Union certification that guarantees top-quality Campania mozzarella.
Last year, 32,000 tons of DOP mozzarella were produced in Campania. Only 16 percent was exported. The very finest DOP cheese never leaves the region because it is made from unpasteurized milk and has a shelf life of only a few days.
Make sure you’re eating the best. It’s easy to spot the difference between handmade mozzarella and machine-produced cheese. Each artisanal ball has a Y-shaped flap marking the place where it was seamed by the cheese maker, or “casaro.”
Ricotta cheese is made from a milky mozzarella by product. Here in Italy, ricotta is served for dessert surrounded by honey, orange peel, cinnamon and other condiments. It’s a wonderful summer treat.
If you’re doing a high-protein diet (my favorite), a one-cup serving of the cheese is loaded with protein and has virtually no carbohydrates. Of course, it also has 336 calories, 220 of them from fat. But, fat is good for the brain, no?
And eating the cheese promotes intelligence and good looks. Just look at the Italians…
Chow.
My take on thinking outside the box: The Litterbox
, that is.
Cats on leashes.
Like the phrase “herding cats”, the picture that comes to mind is one of chaos. A whole lot of pulling, dragging and sliding. 
Cats cannot be cajoled. They walk at their own pace—if they walk at all.
Here’s a little thinking outside the litterbox, canine style: smart dogs use the litterbox as a snack bar. It may be recycling taken to it’s extreme, perhaps absurd, conclusion, but it fulfills the fine criteria of a dog. 
Disgusting, putrid and sure to illicit a speedy reaction from your human.
And, alas, a bath.
Chow.
