This post was supposed to be about these people:
They were the tourists sitting next to us yesterday at Bistrot Marguerite, which is quickly becoming one of our regular lunch spots. Here, doesn’t it look pleasant?
And the tourists were so cute–they tried to order house red wine out of a phrasebook. While pointing to the phrasebook. “I’ll just let you order,” the waiter tried his best to explain. “We have many types of red wine.”
So Nick and I practiced our French together, and they kept looking over at us suspiciously, as if perhaps they suspected that I was asking if it were possible to snap a picture of them without attracting attention–maybe by propping the camera up on the newspaper a bit?
Anyway. The thing is that on the way to the bistrot, we did our regular walk along the line of pet shops. And although we have agreed about a hundred times that we really need to wait until next year to get a puppy because of the rather extended absences we have planned, we found ourselves in love with a tiny little Jack Russell in the last shop.
She was literally flinging herself belly-first against the cage window, whining and whimpering, over and over again. She. Wanted. Out. Now. She was tough and determined, and it was horrible to have to leave her there. Here I am, still thinking about it:
But we still went on our planned walk, wandering through the Marais in search of a new cocktail shaker, arguing about wedding details–you know: the usual. And, mysteriously, we ended up back at the pet shop. “Oops,” was all Nick had to say about that.
So please meet Jolie Wilson, because when we went back in she started up again, and the salesman knew easy marks when he saw them (click the photos for close-ups):
He sent us home loaded down with food, equipment, and toys, including this monstrosity which, he explained, is really all about her self-esteem:
I think he was right, too–look how proud she was when she managed to kind of drag it:
So we are smitten, and we’re working on a coherent training strategy, and arguing over which of us she loves more (we’re thinking it’s probably Nick, because in spite of all of his tough talk, I seem to be the one playing “bad cop”). And there will be a million more photos and cute little anecdotes, and I will bore you to tears.
Oh, but one thing: Nick asked if it was typically a problem to have pets in French apartment buildings, because he couldn’t remember if he had asked about it in ours. “Of course not,” sniffed the salesman. “That would be like saying you only take tenants with certain hair colors. It’s discriminatory.”
So there’s your cultural nugget for the day. I’m off, though. I have a puppy to housebreak.