Dog Days of Paris

By Brook Dougherty My husband had an opportunity to teach in Paris this summer. Naturally, our daughter and I went along for a month. The apartment in the Marais was the size of a fitting room at Elyse Walker, but we got used to it. As gorgeous as it all was in Paris, what really excited me were the dogs. Since I couldn’t think of anything more boring than bringing home pictures of Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre’I think we all have a vague idea of what these landmarks look like, we decided to aim our camera down, and get to work on ‘Louie Schmooie: The Dogs of Paris.’ I tried to learn how to say, ‘Excuse me, may I please take a picture of your dog?’ As it turns out, I do not speak fluent French, but am freakishly good at not-afraid-to-make-fool-of-myself, which worked almost as well. After 12 rolls of film, we concluded that French dogs are very, very different from American dogs. ”For one thing, Paris dogs have better table manners than most of the kids at Jacopo’s. They sit quietly on their person’s lap, gently resting their muzzles near a plate of chicken, never expecting that they will be offered any. Now if that had been our dog Blackie, she would have been on the table inhaling the chicken and anything else near her muzzle. ”Paris dogs are excellent shoppers. On our field trip to Chanel, we saw the most gorgeous women with the most gorgeous dogs. They were small and fluffy and not on leashes, and able to navigate around racks of clothes without peeing on the carpet. Paris dogs know how to wait outside a store, and they also know how to go to work. They sit on stalls at the markets, nestle in bags at department stores and work behind the counter at cheese shops without eating all the cheese. Paris dogs behave even if they are not on a leash. They walk behind their person through crowded sidewalks and do not gnash their teeth at other dogs. They do not leap nose first at strangers’ crotches, causing them to double over and pretend they suddenly have to lean down and examine their shoes. ”The only down side of Paris dogs, which isn’t really their fault, is the dog poop on the sidewalk and in the gutter. But they do have nice people who come around and take care of that. ” ”Paris breeds are different, also. At first, we thought there were a lot of mutts in Paris, but it turns out that there are a lot of Euro-breeds that aren’t common here. Lots of Jack Russells and funky variations on dachshunds. Boxers with non-clipped ears, and vineyard dogs that sleep in barrels. ”And then there was Marcel. He was the dog at a gift store near our apartment. A black and white French bulldog with bedroom eyes like Jack Nicholson’s, he peered up at me sleepily and I nearly lost my mind. I dropped to my knees and began to pet him. I felt a rush of guilt go through me, as if Blackie could see me, but I didn’t care. I was cheating on my dog, and it felt good. I came back day after day, one day buying soap, the next day buying candles. It didn’t matter what I spent, I just wanted to feel Marcel’s smooth coat and peer into his deep brown eyes. Finally, my daughter said, ‘Mom, the owner hates you. You keep taking pictures of his dog, and squeezing him.’ So I bought a rather expensive straw bag with leather handles. I thought that would buy me time. ”The night before we left Paris, I stopped by and said goodbye to Marcel. Of all the places we had been to, this was the saddest to leave. Marcel was there, and this time, he leapt into my arms, and for the first time, we kissed. On the lips. It was a moment. My daughter walked me the rest of the way home, holding me by the arm. Like all French affairs, this one had left me heartbroken. The next morning, I woke up early and walked down Rue St. Paul one final time. I glanced into the window of the gift shop, and there he was. My boy. I couldn’t bear to go in and say goodbye one more time, but it did my heart good to know that there he was lying on his chair, sleeping, and I could imagine him like that when I got back home. I walked the final block to our apartment, and for the first time in a month, stepped in a big pile of dog poop. It snapped me out of my Paris-is-the-best-place-on-earth mood. ”So we returned to L.A. with about 300 dog pictures, eager to see our Blackie again. Trouble was, when we arrived home, she didn’t recognize us, and was glued to our housesitter’s leg. After about a minute, she remembered and immediately peed on the floor. What a dog. What a great American dog.