My First Bath

Or, what fresh hell is this?
I went from looking like a particularly grungy denizen of the East Village, to looking like a lady at the Ascot races. But what happened in between was rather dismal. My owners, of course, thought it was a hoot. I beg to differ. I liked the part when they dried me out with a towel. The rest is overrated.

WTF?

Yesterday I met a "pure" Yorkie called Miette. The owner quickly pointed out it means "morsel" in French and stated that it doesn't look like I am a pure Yorkie, because of my floppy ears, but that I have a beautiful face. Well excuuuuse me.
Miette is 4 years old and is, believe it or not, half my size. She is impeccably groomed. Her hair cascades around her dainty little face and her coat is even and coiffed and a beautiful tan and silver. She is totally obedient, unlike me and my rebel streak. We played a little, so she was cool. But then apparently she had an appointment at the community garden. Ces't la vie.
After my bath I look like a million bucks myself.

Punk East Villager From Astor Place or Lady Astor?

 You be the judge.