This is just a little plug for a nice discovery I made about a month ago: café Le Réveil du Maître. It’s a lovely café that admits dogs. You can enjoy a relaxed, sunny atmosphere and have coffee and muffins, while your pet runs around freely playing with friends.

I like the fact that it feels like a real café, instead of just a pet store with tables and chairs. Located in the Mile-End, it’s a nice 45-minute walk up St-Denis and St-Laurent from our place, but Comet and I made the journey twice this weekend. According to their site, their only publicity is word-of-mouth, so I’m adding this little blurb to it.

Like it’s ever any other year.

get into…

the sour cream.

And quite frankly, I resent the accusation.

A dog’s IQ is inversely related to the number of times you can pretend to throw the ball, and have her fall for it and run all the way down the hall before realizing she’s been duped. Again.

Although we went for the run early in the morning, yesterday was a scorcher. Ever the trooper, Comet made it to the top of the mountain and back. When we got home I was sure she’d run to the waterbowl, but she took a few steps into the cool house, and plopped onto the hardwood floor.

(Don’t worry, she was back in full form today)

“That’s MY crotch!“

Last week, with the move and everything else that went on, I wasn’t the most dedicated mom to my pooch. Moreover, Comet was turning one on Monday, so when I heard that Montreal’s sortiedechien.com invited us to their doggie Xmas party, I felt I owed it to her to attend.

Not really knowing what to expect, I made my way there, only to find it was a real bar with low lighting, loud music, beer and pool tables, except everyone had a beer in one hand, and was holding a dog on a leash on the other.

Since I didn’t know anyone, I initially decided I’d let Comet lead the way, greeting whomever she wanted to greet, and I’d just follow. It was her night, after all. However, after going around the room five times in the first minute, I revised the plan.

You had your social butterfly dogs like her who went around meeting and sniffing as many canines as they could (and Comet seems to be developing a clear preference for the bigger boys… she’s a Great Dane groupie). At the same time you had your cooler, shier doggies just propping up the bar, trying to look like they were enjoying themselves, secretly hoping someone would talk to them.

No doggie Christmas would have been complete without a barkalong and a gift exchange, and Comet got to go home with a stuffed bone and a new ball. And even I got to make some new friends.

Merry Christmas, Comet!

(photo from sortiedechien.com)

If you see someone running in Lafontaine Park one evening, with a little dog (I don’t know, say a Boston Terrier), running by her side, painstakingly trained to stay close and not run off, and if you’re above the age of four, and you run up to the dog SCREAMING at it and stamping your feet, terrifying it into running into its mistress’ legs, a tree, or worse, the street, you will be punched in the larynx. Dumbass.

(Yes, I use a leash, but lightspeedpooch is very fast and strong.)

But I had to blog this! Comet would want me to.