Bulldog+salami=gasmask

Indy has spent the majority of the morning trying to bite her own ass.

I blame the salami she managed to inhale in the two seconds it fell on the kitchen floor this morning.

Evidently, salami + Indy = flatulence.

I’ve been catching up on the blogs I read, and every few minutes I hear what sounds like a whoopie cushion, followed by a bark, and then a tasmanian-devil masquerading as my dog scurries across the floor in circles, trying to bite her own butt.  She is under the impression it is under attack.

Since it is distracting, I have attempted the following two methods to rid her of the gas so that I can continue about my day in relatively clean air:

1.  I tried squeezing her from either side.  This resulted in a pathetic glance and snort, followed by a long yawn.

2.  I tried squeezing her head backwards into her body, like an accordion.  This was in the hopes that all air would be pushed back and out.  Result: Slobbery hand.  Well that and she sat in the corner with her back to me for about five minutes, glancing over her shoulder every so often to make sure I noted her disapproval of my fart-free tactics.  She remained in that position until of course, she loudly tooted again.

So now she’s back to running around in circles, in what has got to be the most effort anything French has ever put up against an attack.

Seriously.

Freedom Fries my ass.

Well, her ass-as the case may be.

Paris, je t’aime

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.

eurostar humiliation

My mother says she won’t pick up my wedding dress from the shop until I get the gigantic horse costume out of her apartment.  I bought it for my brother to wear one Halloween in London.  He didn’t.  So now neither the dress nor the horse have been worn, and both are residing in the UK.

The question is-which is more practical?  The wedding dress only gets used the one time-but a giant horse costume, that is likely to provide decades of entertainment.  It’s just one of those never-go-out-of-style items.  When one isn’t having a wedding, owning a wedding dress is little more than a prescription for depression.

Besides, the horse costume makes it appear as though you are a cowboy riding the animal.  Complete with fake human legs on either side of the saddle, its one of those giant stuffed contraptions where the pants are really the back legs of a HASBRO inspired Mr. Ed.  There’s really only one problem with retrieving it from London.

Indy.

Well, Indy and the idea of wearing a horse costume on the Eurostar as that is most certainly the only way to get it on the train.  Not sure how well I’d be able to mingle with the other passengers with a massive horse erecting from my crotch.  Not well would be my best guess.

That problem aside though-there’s still Fatbreath to worry about.

She once spent hours attacking the foot of a giant stuffed Ninja Turtle masquerading about as a drunken Englishman.  Complete with growls, raised fur, and ferocious grunts she hung off the poor guys foot as he mingled with the rest of his painter-inspired posse.  Makes me wonder how she’d handle the horse.

Though to be fair, its probably better than me handling the dress.  Honestly, I’d have to wear that monstrosity on the train to get it home as well.  Which is worse? Horse-crotch or unexplained solo-bride on the Eurostar?  Sitting there by myself in a dress that could not possibly described as anything but  wedding attire on a bad hair day with little make-up?

Horse crotch wins.  Next stop-train station.

the Indy incident

In Paris I go to the laundry mat about once a week.  Sometimes I take my dog Indy along, just for some company while waiting for my clothes to finish their spinning joyride.  It was during one such evening that my story of the day takes place.

It was almost closing time so the janitor had already arrived by the time my clothes were finishing.  She’s a charming little Indian woman-somewhere in her late forties.  She smiled at me while opening the cleaning cupboard to get her supplies. I returned the smile as I unloaded my warm clothes.  Indy remained sitting on the floor, day-dreaming about better times like breakfast or fetch.  I had just started folding my clothes and loading them into my bag when it happened.

The janitor pulled out a broom.

Anyone who has ever seen a bulldog around a vacuum or a broom will understand the intensity with which these items are hunted by the otherwise snorting, lazy creatures.  One sweep in and Indy was already crouched, ready to pounce, hop, chase, and in general be an annoying pest to the poor woman.  As her furry butt began its first launch I decided to cut her off before she began playfully irritating the janitor.  The woman had yet to notice that my dog had already claimed the plastic bristles as her prey.  So I instinctively yelled out

“Indy!”

As I stated earlier, the janitor is an Indian woman.  An Indian woman who had not seen my dog do anything, so didn’t realize I was yelling out the name of my furry companion.  A woman who was under the impression that I enjoy randomly yelling out the nationality of people who cross my path.  Like some sort of specialized tourette syndrome.  So naturally she responded in kind.

“Excuse me?!” All traces of her smile vanished.  One hand reflexively went to her hip, eyes narrowed as she looked me up and down with what can only be described as complete disgust.

“No, no, no.  Sorry, no, that’s the name of my dog-she was about to attack your broom.  I wasn’t talking to you-I would never do that, ummmmmm I mean yes-you’re Indian-but I wouldn’t call you that-I mean…” (Clearly someone had handed me a shovel as I continued to scramble farther and farther into my hole of humiliation-in French no less).

Her eyes now ready to shoot firebolts.

“Her name is Indy-as in Indian, as in brown people?”

“No-not like that, not at all-like the Harrison Ford movies!!”

(small smile on her end) “ohhh like Indiana-”

“Yes!  Exactly, like Indiana Jones” (insert apologetic smile)

“Like in the movies?”

“Yes, like the movies” (I start humming soundtrack while petting my fat, useless bulldog.  Woman smiles and joins in the humming)

“I love Harrison Ford, he’s sexy”

(Huge grin of relief washes over my face) “Yes, yes he is”

That’s how the evening ended.  She continued cleaning, I continued folding, and for the next ten minutes we both passed the time humming the Indiana Jones soundtrack with the occasional smile at one another.