The Imperial Sumo
In Tokyo there is a number of 'imperial palaces', and there is another structure, vast in size, that is the palace of sumo. Sumo wrestling in Japan is big sport, in every conceivable way. The events themselves are spectaculars of traditional moves and brilliant form, with wrestling reputations to be made or lost. These huge men who end up eating themselves close to death to attain their great girth, are showmen of the first degree, imperious in upholding the royal lineage of Sumo.
It might have been seen as prophetic, when former French president Jacques Chirac named his Maltese Bichon 'Sumo'. One can only wonder, what could he have been thinking? Quite simply the name went to the little dog's head. As did the imperial premises in which the dog found itself. Not everyone gets to live in the Elysee Palace, and fewer dogs than human beings, at that. Anyone, even a dog, can become accustomed to living high on the hog, with pate at every meal, served on a silver salver.
The acute shock of being unceremoniously removed from the pleasures and comforts of palace living, to having to resign oneself to life as an ordinary citizen, even citizen-dawg - in the case of poor little Sumo, a small dog with an enormous name to live up to - appears to have resulted in a crisis of confidence in his humans. Particularly scornful, it would appear, had he become of the former imperial president of France.
Severe depression overtook the formerly cheerful little dog. Who can blame him, after all? It may be true that his favourite little canopied dog bed exited the Elysee Palace when the Chirac family did, but those 16th and 17th Century sofas remained where they were, back in the palace, no longer available to the little pooch, so long accustomed to leisure hours upon them. It would turn anyone's previously sunny outlook on life black.
Little wonder then, that Sumo took to biting the elderly, but still imperial Chirac. What other way does a little dog have of expressing its extreme disappointment and displeasure in his human's lapse in entitlement to royal accoutrements? Anti-depressants appeared to help, but then the gloom would settle in again, and another nip on the leg would remind the former president of what he had given up to his former political protege, but more latterly, ambitiously bitter rival.
Finally, it was admitted that Sumo would be better off put out to pasture, to leaven his temperament. There he is now, settled down pastorally on a farm outside Paris, following the last bite, on 76-year-old Mr. Chirac's chest. Which is what occurs when one is truly chest-fallen, and that portion of the anatomy becomes more vulnerable to the angry ravages of a pet's crushed ambitions.
It might have been seen as prophetic, when former French president Jacques Chirac named his Maltese Bichon 'Sumo'. One can only wonder, what could he have been thinking? Quite simply the name went to the little dog's head. As did the imperial premises in which the dog found itself. Not everyone gets to live in the Elysee Palace, and fewer dogs than human beings, at that. Anyone, even a dog, can become accustomed to living high on the hog, with pate at every meal, served on a silver salver.
The acute shock of being unceremoniously removed from the pleasures and comforts of palace living, to having to resign oneself to life as an ordinary citizen, even citizen-dawg - in the case of poor little Sumo, a small dog with an enormous name to live up to - appears to have resulted in a crisis of confidence in his humans. Particularly scornful, it would appear, had he become of the former imperial president of France.
Severe depression overtook the formerly cheerful little dog. Who can blame him, after all? It may be true that his favourite little canopied dog bed exited the Elysee Palace when the Chirac family did, but those 16th and 17th Century sofas remained where they were, back in the palace, no longer available to the little pooch, so long accustomed to leisure hours upon them. It would turn anyone's previously sunny outlook on life black.
Little wonder then, that Sumo took to biting the elderly, but still imperial Chirac. What other way does a little dog have of expressing its extreme disappointment and displeasure in his human's lapse in entitlement to royal accoutrements? Anti-depressants appeared to help, but then the gloom would settle in again, and another nip on the leg would remind the former president of what he had given up to his former political protege, but more latterly, ambitiously bitter rival.
Finally, it was admitted that Sumo would be better off put out to pasture, to leaven his temperament. There he is now, settled down pastorally on a farm outside Paris, following the last bite, on 76-year-old Mr. Chirac's chest. Which is what occurs when one is truly chest-fallen, and that portion of the anatomy becomes more vulnerable to the angry ravages of a pet's crushed ambitions.
Labels: Animal Stories, Companions
posted by Pieface @ 1:40 PM
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