Feb 5, 2021 Dusting off the memories on Lucy's adoption day.
March
2001
You
do feel Parisian walking along with your smart-looking dog. Only here a
few days and I am being asked directions all the time. I have a dog, I
must know what I am doing here, and certainly where I am. Once outside,
Lucy always has the look of knowing exactly what she is doing. She is
dragging me along behind the leash, we're starting another adventure and she is
only complaining when she is left behind in the apartment. The American
neighbor across the courtyard who just moved into the building as well, is
telling me my dog is crying and barking when I am not there. She is still
sneaky, she waits a good half hour to make sure I am not doubling back and then
starts the howling. We need some time to settle in. Complaint
number two coming at me in the neighborhood, is the worry I will not pick up
her poop. Me, a New Yorker who wouldn’t even dream of not picking up.
I am an easy target, non-threatening, have cute little blonde dog, and
when she squats the nervous poop police appear out of nowhere, I notice they
don't go after the Goths and the glabrous who have set up camp on the corner of
rue au Maire and Beaubourg, their large street-dog breeds have left mountains
of rust-colored mush which streaks all over the sidewalks, curbs and into the
road. But, no I am the one they are after, the only one in 2001 as far as
I can see that picks up after her dog. Before I can safely brandish the
plastic pick-up bag from my pocket, a city construction worker yells at me for
letting my dog just poop, as it were. He had recently appeared from a
manhole and being eye-level to this organic site is probably one of the
hundreds of reasons he hates his job. Four weeks into my move here I find
the courage and my voice to reproach, and sustain an assault that doesn't stop,
yelling, je suis la seule a Paris qui ramasse!
We
were passing in front of a bakery, Lucy had to go, again. I was
completely out of ramasse stuff, I left her at the curb went
into the bakery to ask for one of the tiny filmy bags hanging at the cash
register. Non, they are for customers. “Je dois ramasser what
my dog has left in front of your door and I have nothing, I am sorry."
Non, vous êtes obligée de ramasser! Failing to
convince her of the absence of her logic and with her screeching at my back as I
left, I left the cadeau. I was having a really bad day, and
needed obviously to build a better vocabulary. I still didn't have the
furniture I ordered months before, a cell phone nor could I open a bank
account. I did have electricity and heat and could cook and while I was
sick, I could make it downstairs to the yummy Chinese eateries, they were
keeping me alive. Between deluges of water coming from the sky raining
hard on my sky windows, I would run out to the pay phone and call the U.S.
Italy, Australia anyone who would listen to me and vent how impossibly hard it
was to get anything done here. We would take walks down to the Seine and
watch the river overflowing its banks, the cars that were left parked on
the quais floating in the river and the water marks rising up
the beech and chestnut trees lining the banks. The skies were merciless.
Aha, this is also Paris.
Another great word I had to figure out, mordre. Sounds like mort, doesn’t mean that. Il mord votre chien? I thought this was the funniest thing. The French do have a sense of humor. How can my dog be dead, she is right there smiling at you. I would smile and wink, like ok, I get the joke, moving on. If they insisted, I would say, non, bien-sûr! Also a weird reply to does your dog bite? Weird American French. I need to say, Non, mais non!
Lucy
was allowed into "our" bakery and she was allowed to put her paws up
on the counter and say good morning to Cathie. I announced that fall and
each subsequent year, when it was her birthday and she got her sugary chouquette.
After a while you are awarded the great distinction of an habituée,
a regular. It is very important in Paris to establish relationship.
Once you are in, the nice pieces of fruit/vegetables, bread are chosen
for you. Your well-being is asked about, your dog’s, too. And if I
had a 20 minute story, they would listen to it and let the line wait behind me.
I am an habituée. Of course I don’t abuse that because
as the hyped up New Yorker who moved to France and wanted her sandwich
yesterday, I used to be in that line with a look of disbelief on my face.
Really? I have to wait through all of these stories before I get my
sandwich?
Paris doesn't really offer any great green runs inside the péripherique, but there is a fabulous dog run around the border of the Jardins des Tuileries. Across the street, on the rue de Rivoli, is Angelina's, an equally fabulous tourist haunt famous for its chocolat chaud and atmosphère de la belle époque. It’s a salon du thé, created in 1903 by Antoine Rumpelmayer. One has to go there just because of the founders name. Rumpelmayer, great name.
One
fall day Lucy and I had a hot chocolate date there with a friend. I had
gotten quite nonchalant about having general access to all eateries with my
dog, but I was surprised when the maitre d'hôte advanced my friend
and me to the front of the que after gushing over Lucy's furry paws and brought
a champagne bucket full of fresh water for her to the table. Everyone
adored the Labrador like heaves of water being gulped down and we settled in.
I noticed Lucy just about finished the bucket and didn't notice until we
were leaving her eyes brimming with oh my dear god, please forgive
me as she let loose a river on the wonderful red runner that reaches
into the restaurant. She peed for a minute, we couldn't stop it and she
just looked mortified, eyes rolled up to the red crescents, head humbly down,
wanting the floor to open up right there. There weren't enough napkins,
tablecloths, tea towels to fix this thing up and I stood helpless. The
reception area rushed over and apologized- to her and let me go with a smile
and a c'est normale. My friend said, if it would have been a
small child making a scene at the restaurant, we would have been engulfed with
glares. She decided she only wanted to go to the nicest places with a
dog, you get a better table, too.
A letter. June 25, 2010
Lucy and I, we'll always have Paris...and New York.
La petite cocker-americaine died this morning in my arms, near our home, in Paris,
"Where good Americans go to die", Oscar Wilde.
You are tired, you want to go. I hear you and understand. This heart-achingly painful moment I felt coming when you turned your back to me. You couldn't look at me and faced the corner, you never did that, and I knew how hard that must have been for you, my sweet Lucy who would never ever want to leave my side. Then you had the seizure and I held you into the wee hours until your body calmed enough so that you could go to sleep. I never wanted to see you suffer, my little one, I would do anything for you not to suffer. I wanted to be with you in the end and I hoped you would give me a sign. You did, and this day came. I trundled you in my arms even though it was over 80 degrees. You hated the heat so much but you were so dazed that you didn't feel it, but you looked at me and when I cradled you down rue Turbigo to Dr. Krieger's office, I felt you trusted me and I had to be strong. You chose the summer, a beautiful June day and unseasonably warm for Paris. I know summer is not your favorite time of year. It's so hard for you to breathe. It was a jaw dropping beautiful day and I had to do the hardest thing I would ever have to do.
Your doctor is teary-eyed, too, he says we made the right decision. Your eyes are so beautiful they still gaze deep into my heart. Even after your last little sigh as the last breath left your lungs, your eyes stayed so bright and shiny. You know we stay connected long after the last breath.
Dr. Krieger said," les meilleurs amies" to his colleague who will be taking over the practice from this week. Our Dr. Krieger was by our side for 9 years, skillfully taking care of your good health, your happy life in Paris and saving your life not just a few times after you got into chocolate, what was up with you and chocolate? I don't want to cry because your soul needs to be set free, you need to know that I will be OK. Thank you, my dear devoted sweet dog for more than 16 years with you.
After a life that you feel has meant more than everything to you, you physically feel a chunk of your body gone, never to return, you understandably can barely breathe.
Dr. Krieger, Dr. Jaquet let me have all the time I needed to stay with Lucy, they trimmed some of her fur for me, which I never would have thought of. Then, leaving the room is the next hardest thing but there is paperwork to fill out, after which I walked/ran didn't matter where, all over Paris to not be still. Still hurt too much. I kept looking up, I wanted to see a Lucy-shaped cloud. Paris looked even more painfully beautiful that day. I had never noticed the degree of ornamentation on the upper floors of the buildings, all the iconic and varied shapes of the tin roofs. I had never looked up that much in my adopted home. I was, for the most part, looking where I was going or down at Lucy.
Cafes, how can I sit in a cafe, anymore, she was always with me. Eat bananas? Listen to music? Jump on my bike with the empty basket in front? I feel so lonely.
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