Mittens, my three-month-old cockapoo, nabbed a plastic bag from the dirty snow with her mouth, shook out an opened ketchup container, and licked. Not exactly the height of haute cuisine. Then she sniffed out the feathers left from a cat’s midnight snack and rolled, covering her fur with bloody fluff. Hardly haute couture, either.
So what do puppies and Paris have in common?
I can’t take Mittens for a walk without every neighbor kid running out the door, panting: “You are so lucky. Aw. . . I want one, too.”
When I told my friends we were moving to Paris for twelve months, they all said, “I wish I were you.” One woman even asked (jokingly, I hope) if I wanted to do a husband swap for a year. Even now, as my husband readies for a two-week solo trip to Paris over spring break, people keep saying, “Lucky dog” and don’t believe him when he says, “It’s for work, not fun.”
The pet-crazy kids on our block don’t want to hear about having to set my alarm to take the puppy outside in the middle-of-the-night cold to empty her bladder. The fashion- and food-obsessed francophiles don’t want to know about having to wait eleven months to get health insurance or visit a bank five times before being allowed to open an account.
Puppies and Paris. Adorable. Enviable. Exhausting. Not that I’m complaining. I know I’m not allowed to. And anyway, I can’t open my mouth. Mittens is wagging her entire bottom with joy, a joy I can’t help but share, as she covers me with kisses. And ketchup. Bon apetit!
Charming! as always.
I loved it, it reminded me of my Little Bit and her treasure hunts when we are out walking. Lol