I still thought about Eddy as I went to the same shops looking for treats for Sophie. While looking at leashes, I felt a nudge from a small dog who persisted in following me. His owner explained he was a recent rescue and she was there to look for toys. I picked out a little hedgehog, I would've bought for Eddy and handed it to him. And it was a hit. I felt ridiculously pleased and saddened at the same time.
Paris is the perfect place to have a dog; I wish my hotel came equipped with them. (In fact someone in the office has a couple of Westies I always try to lure to my room.) Everywhere I walk there are dogs, every park, every store, every cafe. Nobody minds them, everyone seem to expect them.
Since I'm a big walker, I feel at odds without a dog. I almost become a dog stalker. I feed them, I talk to them, I take pictures. But I couldn't envision either of my dogs sitting calmly under a cafe chair while hundreds tromped by. Even though both were city dogs, they lacked the acclimatization to crowds and indeed were sorely lacking in the sophistication of the title subjects of Rachael Hale McKenna's The French Dog. I wish my dog would wear a jaunty little scarf, but the girl is as averse to dressing up as the old guy was. And I can only dream of zipping around on an old red Vespa, dog in sidecar. (I don't drive and quite frankly I'm terrified just watching any motorbike tear through Paris traffic. And the drivers who have their dogs perched in front are people I openly curse.)
I never last more than a couple weeks on my own. I need my four legged shadow.
As much as I love Paris, home is where my dog is.
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| Cours St. Emilion's big red dog. |
