Read an Excerpt
The Tinkerbell Hilton Diaries
By D. Resin
Warner BooksCopyright © 2004 Philip Brooke
All right reserved.
Chapter OneNov. 01 |02
I've been Paris Hilton's dog for just under twenty-four hours now. I've been on both coasts, two airplanes, and three parties that you weren't invited to. Since yesterday. Afternoon.
Paris is like the United States Army of slack ... Paris Hilton will kill more time by 7 a.m. than most people will, ever.
I'm coming to you now live from a limo somewhere between here and Rodeo Drive, where I've been informed we will "get me looking right" for the film premiere we have scheduled for this evening. Discovering she didn't bring her credit card, Paris has wondered aloud if the five thousand in loose cash she has on her will be enough for "the dog stuff."
I have to say, for an animal that's been so forcefully bred behind the genetic eight ball that taking a shit requires me to stand on my tippy toes, this is shaping up to be quite a life.
Nov. 02 |02 Gravy Stain
I had no idea dog food came in this many varieties. Up until now I've been living on stuff that I thought was food. It kept me alive and I got it twice a day.
Here, it's food. Little bits of meat in gravy.
Plus, I've got the snack thing wired down tight ... all I have to do is wait by the top of the stairs on the second floor for a servant to bring a tray (they do it every few hours or so) and pop out at the last possible second, lean all my weight to one side like the Duke boys putting the General on two wheels, and bingo, a food storm. The food I can snag off the floor before the servant tries to kill me with whatever hand isn't holding his sprained ankle in place, or applying pressure to staunch a flow of blood is all mine.
I think this is what it's like when you people discover Internet porn for the first time. "I'm never leaving the house, ever!" I said aloud to a Pomeranian. Three Pomeranian dogs also live here in the LA house, and they're all completely stupid. Pomeranians are the dog equivalent of the short bus kids: you sort of have to be patient with them. Unfortunately, because they're small, yappy, and ubiquitous, they're the ones most people picture when they hear the term "toy dog." Real fond of barking at nothing and getting freaked out by their own tails. Not exactly Lassie. In fact, if they had done that show with a Pomeranian dog, it would have been much simpler: Timmy would fall down the well, Lassie would furiously lick itself for forty minutes, and then Lassie would turn around and psychotically challenge a small rock to a fight, which it would ultimately become intimidated by.
Getting away from the Pomeranians isn't too hard, as not too many moments tick by without Paris fussing over me in some way. It's not bad, it's just ... I mean, the novelty has to wear off a little eventually, right?
My New Owner
So far Paris has a slack, blank, almost Zen sort of ease that's like wallpaper to read but seems like it will be pretty easy to get along with.
Yesterday during brunch she knocked a skewerlike fondue fork off the edge of her table, which sailed into her thigh like a dart. It took her a full five minutes to even notice. The fork just sat there as if some tiny Columbus had annexed her left leg for the glory of Spain. I was too stunned to bark. When Paris did happen to glance down, she peeled the paper top off an individual pat of butter, yanked out the slightly impaled fork, and applied the paper as you would a patch on a rubber dingy.
She did all of this slowly, and I never saw any blood. Since she was wearing capri pants, I briefly wondered if her leg was actually fake, but her ankle was clearly flesh. You can't have a fake leg with a real foot, can you? In any event, that's pretty calm. She makes Miles Davis look like the Tasmanian devil.
Paris's sister Nicky is a little more of what you'd think of as normal, in that you don't find yourself wondering if she has any fake limbs.
Nov 04 |02 Wrong
Oh, for the love of God ...
I'm in a pink angora sweater.
Here I thought I was a pet, right, a companion, not a hood ornament. Turns out they couldn't get me to a specialty toy dog store on Rodeo Drive fast enough to put me in a pink angora sweater and place a big pink bow on my head. I'm one of those dogs now ... the kind that people cheer when a falcon swoops down and disappears into the sky with one in its talons.
We were noble animals once, you know. Chihuahuas were bred to be familiars to royalty. My kind was once thought to serve as a guide for the human soul after death.
I just saw my reflection in the limo window-I look like the shit that a very flamboyant shark would take after it ate Isaac Mizrahi. I would try to kick my own ass if I met me. Splendid.
Nov 05 |02
Reach Out and Torch Someone
Keeping up this journal won't be too hard, that's for sure. Paris has some sort of cell phone fetish: one or more of just about every form of tiny personal messaging device ever invented belongs to her arsenal. Handy for thumb-sized paws.
This morning I swiped a phone-messenger roughly the size of John Ashcroft's libido from a pile of about fifteen on Paris's nightstand. She thinks it's adorable that her dog wants to be like her "mommy."
I'll bet Joan Crawford thought the same thing when the kid asked for a typewriter. Seriously, I'm being made to wear a tiny scarf as I type this. I barely have a neck, mind you, but look, I get to have a scarf.
The scarf has bunnies on it.
Excerpted from The Tinkerbell Hilton Diaries by D. Resin Copyright © 2004 by Philip Brooke . Excerpted by permission.
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