I love my daily walks with Indy in Paris. As a French bulldog, she attracts much attention and I am often stopped and asked questions regarding her age, her health, her snoring, and her general well-being. Parisians like to check in on her to ensure that the American at the other end of her leash knows how to properly pamper their furry comrade.
For the record, Indy has the best life out of anyone I know.
She has beds in every room of the apartment and she sleeps about 19 hours a day. Right now for example, she is cuddled up underneath the radiator, loudly snoring on a full-belly. The rest of the day will include fetch, walks, and a visit to the cafe on the corner where she gets treats for no other reason than being chubby and cute. She’s doing alright as far as I can tell.
Still, it’s nice to have her as a conversation starter with Parisians out walking their dogs-especially when their pups are other French bulldogs patrolling the city. This weekend I was stopped by an elderly gentlemen in a suit and a smile on a street in the seventh. He grabbed my hand, blue eyes twinkling from a face long-ago surrendered to wrinkles and said:
‘My dear, you look just like my wife on the day I met her fifty years ago. She has owned eight French bulldogs in our marriage. Your hair, smile, and little dog remind me exactly of why I fell in love with her in the first place. Thank you for making my day.’
So yes, Parisians might have a bad reputation. But sometimes an encounter reminds me of why I love the French.
Thanks to you old guy-you made my day.