Petits Chiens

An open letter to the dog owners of France,

Dear Messieurs and Mesdames,

I understand your precious pups are a special part of your family and as such they should be allowed to go everywhere you want to: Cafes, restaurants, tolerant shops, evening promenades, even the odd museum. I am not philosophically opposed to the four-legged members of our world, in fact many of my good friends have adopted them into their lives and I have become rather quite fond of them.

Indeed if I were to take one under my charge I would enjoy the opportunity to allocate it a very chic French name and purchase a neck bandanna for each day of the week.

The reality is your canine babies are easier to tolerate than my four ‘precious pups’. Yours are quieter, they exist below eye level so can easily go unnoticed, they don’t struggle to understand the right/left rules of the footpath so do not constantly block my path, they do not complain about the lack of options at restaurants, they do not knock over glasses and seldom are they seen engaging in shouting or hitting spats with each other. Mine truly can fight like cats and dogs. I have uttered the words ‘pardon’ and ‘desolee’ multiple times each day to excuse their minor blunders. And while I am acutely aware that some of you are not happy to put up with my offspring - you make your position clearly obvious when you ask the garçon to change tables away from us - many of you have been exceedingly accepting.  Your generosity of spirit is incredibly appreciated.

But your semi-domesticated best friends come with a string attached.

There is the issue of their ablutions.

I came to Europe to enjoy your architecture and people watch. I wanted to absorb the sights, smells and tastes that come with a different culture. I find it hard to do so when my eyes must be firmly fixed on the ground in front of me, while also focusing my periphery vision on the upcoming path of all of my children.

Indeed some of you diligently follow your dog around with a dark coloured plastic bag ready to collect any unfavourable deposits. It’s just unfortunate that you subsequently tire of holding your parcel until you locate a rubbish bin and therefore release it from your hands in the path of oncoming pedestrians.

And to your cousins in neighbouring Spain - particularly to the signors and signorinas in Barcelona, I have some niggling questions.  Yours is a city of concrete and stone. Unlike Paris there are very few green spaces. You also live in some of the smallest apartments in the world. I imagine your love for your special Alonzo, Benito, Chiquita, Padre or Pepe is unconditional. I’m sure you’ve even convinced yourself that a 30 square metre apartment is an ideal place for a labrador or dalmatian to live. But when you return home during siesta time to retrieve your mate to take him wandering through the Gothic Quarter of the city to relieve his bladder or his bowels do you wonder about the impact your special friend’s waste product will have? Do you notice the constant yellow river of dog urine running down the centre of the narrow alleyways as it has tracked down the sloping concrete from the doorstep at which he decided to relieve himself? I wonder if you ever suffer the same awful consequences as the rest of us that you just had to look up to admire a balcony garden, interesting building feature or your neighbour’s underwear hanging from her balcony and at that exact moment of lack of focus you feel the familiar squidge under your feet?

I write this not for resolution of the issue, but in anticipation of your contemplation of this odorous quandary.

Enjoy your evening promenade.

Yours, ever hopeful.

Mother of four small children (all owners of sandals with very thin soles)