Contagious giggles and smiles dominated backstage as our youngest stars prepared to take center stage. Customized Haute Couture gowns mirroring their matching runway looks fused as the girls mingled around admiring their custom couture pieces. Playful and light-hearted, innocent and sweet relive the unique atmosphere that dominated backstage moments before the Haute Couture Autumn Winter 2016-17 show.
We’re in the last week of July, guys! Just a few more weeks before stores start releasing their Halloween merchandise, pumpkin everything comes out, the sun starts setting a little earlier, and the weather gets a tad more chilly.
Do we know what kind of dog Rollo is? or is he just a huge mutt?
Well I think he’s a mutt - but Young Ian was much more poetic about it:
“See? It’s a dog,” Ian said proudly.
I took a quick half-step behind Jamie, grabbing his arm.
“Ian,” I said, “that is not a dog. It’s a wolf. It’s a bloody big wolf, and I think you ought to get away from it before it takes a bite out of your arse.”
The wolf twitched one ear negligently in my direction, dismissed me, and twitched it back. It continued to sit, panting with the heat, its big yellow eyes fixed on Ian with an intensity that might have been taken for devotion by someone who hadn’t met a wolf before. I had.
“Those things are dangerous,” I said. “They’d bite you as soon as look at you.” Disregarding this, Jamie stooped to inspect the beast.
“It’s not quite a wolf, is it?” Sounding interested, he held out a loose fist to the so-called dog, inviting it to smell his knuckles. I closed my eyes, expecting the imminent amputation of his hand. Hearing no shrieks, I opened them again to find him squatting on the ground, peering up the animal’s nostrils.
“He’s a handsome creature, Ian,” he said, scratching the thing familiarly under the chin. The yellow eyes narrowed slightly, either in pleasure at the attention or—more likely, I thought—in anticipation of biting off Jamie’s nose. “Bigger than a wolf, though; it’s broader through the head and chest, and a deal longer in the leg.”
“His mother was an Irish wolfhound,” Ian was hunkered down by Jamie, eagerly explaining as he stroked the enormous gray-brown back. “She got out in heat, into the woods, and when she came back in whelp—”
“Oh, aye, I see.” Now Jamie was crooning in Gaelic to the monster while he picked up its huge foot and fondled its hairy toes. The curved black claws were a good two inches long.
The thing half closed its eyes, the faint breeze ruffling the thick fur at its neck. I glanced at Duncan, who arched his eyebrows at me, shrugged slightly, and sighed.
Duncan didn’t care for dogs.
“Jamie—” I said.
“Balach Boidheach,” Jamie said to the wolf. “Are ye no the bonny laddie, then?” “What would he eat?” I asked, somewhat more loudly than necessary. Jamie stopped caressing the beast.
“Oh,” he said. He looked at the yellow-eyed thing with some regret. “Well.” He rose to his feet, shaking his head reluctantly.
“I’m afraid your auntie’s right, Ian. How are we to feed him?”
“Oh, that’s no trouble, Uncle Jamie,” Ian assured him. “He hunts for himself.” “Here?” I glanced around at the warehouses, and the stuccoed row of shops beyond. “What does he hunt, small children?”
Ian looked mildly hurt.
“Of course not, Auntie. Fish.”
Seeing three skeptical faces surrounding him, Ian dropped to his knees and grabbed the beast’s muzzle in both hands, prying his mouth open.
“He does! I swear, Uncle Jamie! Here, just smell his breath!”
Jamie cast a dubious glance at the double row of impressively gleaming fangs on display, and rubbed his chin.
“I—ah, I shall take your word for it, Ian. But even so—for Christ’s sake, be careful of your fingers, lad!” Ian’s grip had loosened, and the massive jaws clashed shut, spraying droplets of saliva over the stone quay.
“I’m all right, Uncle,” Ian said cheerfully, wiping his hand on his breeks. “He wouldn’t bite me, I’m sure. His name is Rollo.”