I am talking about the dog. One of the crazy juxtapositions in Paris is the one between the posh 16th arrondissement and the Bois de Boulogne. The Bois is elegant and beautiful (Bois is "woods" in French) with its meandering paths through leafy forests and around picturesque lakes. It borders the western boundary of the 16th. By day there are families and couples enjoying this serene pocket of nature in the city. At night the Bois is home to the city's population of hookers, transvestites, their "clients" and all manner of others who, should I say, are "active" at night.
So what does all this have to do with the dog? I'm getting to that part.
A month or so ago, when Harry, our 14 year old poodle, was still spry enough to make it all the way around the block for his morning walk, and I were strolling down Avenue Victor Hugo when we were approached by a tall and very elegantly dressed woman. She was weaving ever so slightly as she halted in front of us and knelt down to pet Harry. "Ooo, la, la, tres mignon, mon chou chou" (ohh, very cute my little cabbage) she cooed as she began to stroke him. She turned to me and asked if she could caress him further (all in French of course but I will spare you the original and simply translate from here). "Wow, she has beautiful skin!", my 49 year old, spent my life in the sounthern california sun self, registered. This is when I realized that the "she' was actually a "he", and a very beautiful one at that, (life truly is not fair....). He/she (my very politically correct daughter informs me that he/ she should be referred to as SHE because that was how SHE was dressed so that was how SHE wants to be thought of - all righty then) was also drunk or high or something. It was early in the morning and it most probably had been a long night for her. Anyway, I told her " of course" and she proceeded to pet Harry and coo at him face to face. Poor Harry looked up at me in bewilderment, his cloudy eyes asking "who WAS this person anyway"?
She then began to show her ardour a might more aggressively. All of a sudden she shoved her purse at me and growled "HERE, TAKE IT" in bass voiced English!, and began to encourage Harry to lick her face. Of course Harry obliged, he really is a very obedient doggie, and then his new friend stuck her tongue into Harry's mouth! Again Harry turned his head to look at me between these french kisses, as if to say, "what IS this guy doing to me and............ am I allowed?" By this time, the guardian sweeping the sidewalk of the elegant jewelry shop we were in front of, caught my eye and gave the universal sign for crazy, rolling her finger at the side of her head.
Harry's new admirer couldn't get enough of him it seemed. Harry is a big dog and his "girlfriend" was a tall guy so we were basically blocking the sidewalk during this encounter. How WAS I going to escape this?
Just then a well dressed couple with a little dog in tow stopped at our roadblock. Harry's lover began to pet him more and more furiously and then she grabbed Harry "can you guess where?" and continued to stroke him. I am NOT making this up! Harry gave me one more look and I decided to no longer allow this sexual harassment of my dog to continue. We may both be overly polite and meek Americans trying to fit in, but enough was enough. I dumped her purse down beside her and with a firm 'bonne journee madam, au revoir' pulled Harry away. She reached out to grab him back protesting, "no,no,no........" and then abruptly gave up and twirled around to the new dog waiting with his owners to pass.
Harry and I escaped the scene and seconds later we were joined by the other couple and their little dog. They apparantly hadn't been quite so obliging. We all shook our heads and muttered in French how bizarre, etc. I felt part of my neighborhood there on our street corner, banded together with my bourgeios neighbors, protecting our dogs against vicious sexual assult! I didn't let on to them that Harry probably enjoyed every minute, any kind of attention is usually good attention in his mind. I am sure that their little parisian fluff ball was suitably mortified.
Poor Harry, hobbling home, hopefully realizes that at 14 years old (almost 100 in people years) he apparantly has "STILL got it"!
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