I’ve almost forgot to talk about my dog Stromboli. Outside the blog-life he does not really need introduction, as everyone seems to remember him and his name way earlier than they could possibly remember anything about me.
Well, Stromboli is an inexhaustible source of infections and allergies, a black hole for my finances and the main reason I talk to complete strangers while I’m walking on the street, in a park, or along the beach.
He was found by the Asociacion de Animales de Berja in the mountains of Almería (Spain) when he was five months old. He was then sent to an animal shelter in the Netherlands and it is there that my husband and I adopted him. He was seven months old and the name Stromboli – like the Italian volcano and not a kind of ‘calzone’ – was already waiting for him.
Stromboli is technically a rescue dog, but please don’t get too compassionate. He does not need it. He is a truly happy dog whose life can be envied by many. He has been in all the parks in the Netherlands and in Paris to show off his anti-rain outfit. He has climbed the highest mountains of the Apennines in Italy and now he gets to swim in the Caribbean Sea. Like a guy in a bar in Sint Maarten said: ‘He is not a rescue dog, he is a dog on holiday’.
My father calls him ‘mezzo cane’, half dog, because he is half of the size of a Dog with the capital ‘d’ and because there is a bit of every breed in him. My mother-in-law calls him ‘Broccoli’ because she got his name wrong. I simply call him a lot.
Everyone has got reasons for loving their pets. I love Stromboli because:
He is a good-looking fella.
He finds friends everywhere.
He is the only dog I know who has been chased by a whatthehellisthat.
He is brave enough to rescue coconuts.
He hates rain as much as I do and he waits patiently for it to stop.
He falls asleep while asking for attention.
He is simply adorable when he sleeps in general…
And he is even cuter when he does not sleep alone.