Seeing France: The Dog Days of August

It was a lovely affair, ten or so affable types eating dinner in stone courtyard. Afterwards, I walked back down the carreyrou, the pedestrian alley, to my door.

Time to take the dog for a midnight walk before a good snooze. I had adopted a fluffly little white dog a couple weeks earlier. He is a darling. Mostly.

He did as dogs will doo, and I praised him, as any yuppy positive-speak parent will do, and we worked our way back up the darkest parts of the alley. The full moon overhead did not penetrate. I heard bones crunching. Did he have one of those baby birds in his mouth? I pried open his tiny jaws and attempted to pull out what was inside. He continued to chew, and managed to puncture the line between my finger and the fingernail. Blood spurted on my favorite white dress. I succeeded in not screaming in pain or anger.

After discovering he is a werewolf with bad manners, the adventures with Bean (his given name) continue. Like I said, I live in a pedestrian alley, see...

BACKGROUND: ...and there is a nasty old woman down the way, (1)never said hello, even when greeted (2) did not compliment my buxom flower pots brazenly bearing their beauty, but instead remarked that pots not mine, but left in my twenty feet, were neglected, (3) while I did work just inside my door, Bean attached to the table outside door - BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ " Does this dog belong to you? I thought he had been abandoned..." Dog wears fancy harness etc.. I did not react like a calm and bemused adult. Anyway...

Because of above interaction, I hesitated today to leave him leashed to table while I put price stickers on my stuff for vide grenier tomorrow. MY MISTAKE NUMBER 54, 326. I took the clothes rack out to the alley in preparation for loading the car... and Bean the Dog escaped...and escaped ...and escaped.

I try my high-pitched "isn't this all a lovely game" voice calling him as he made it to the street. Did not work. Two English druggy types are sauntering by, "Can you catch my dog?" OOPS. He scampered past them. Watch out for marijuana - slows your reflexes.

DONG DONG DONG DONG DONG...a big wedding is letting out of the church, and hundreds of Koreans and otherwise foreign people are pouring forth from the dark mouth of l'eglise...Druggies and I, not at our best, trotting through the crowd. Dog ...long gone.

Fifteen, that is QUINZE en français, minutes later ( I had not counted on their fortitude, these befuddled potheads) we realized he is somewhat subject to reverse psychology, and we scattered, as though running away, now on the rampart walls. We would trap the little sucker, with out superior intellect...dang...druggies were in MY camp.

FINALLY, seeing me run away from him, no longer coyly beseeching him, with sugary overtures, Bean tore towards me, above the speed limit for within the village walls, and I captured him in my arms.

He is a sorry Bean, right now, a real "it was my first time off leash and I went crazy...it was awesome, but Mom, I am so glad to be home with you now" Bean. I responded, " Maybe when you are five years old, you can be off leash again..."

Westy (brat) and Bichon (fluffy, ridiculous girly dog) = Besty. Needs work, but all well.