Caroline in Paris

I ate a dog treat yesterday. As if that weren’t enough, I’m fighting the temptation right now to go eat the rest, and they’re really supposed to be…well, you know. For the dog.

Jolie turned one year old on Monday, and yesterday we took her to the Mon Bon Chien doggy bakery to celebrate. We obviously hadn’t planned ahead well enough, because if we had, we could have ordered a bone-shaped cookie with her name baked into it, but I don’t think that she minded much–she made a beeline for the toy boxes. “Good marketing strategy,” I told the owner, and started checking out the forty-odd flavors of homemade human-grade treats while Nick offered Jolie one toy after another.

And while the visit was quite enjoyable, we learned something disturbing there. I’ve been wondering for ages now about the pet population control, since no one here seems to spay or neuter their dogs. There’s no Bob Barker urging them to; no sad-looking kittens on posters in the subway urging owners to do the responsible thing; nothing to indicate, in fact, that anyone here considers it the “responsible thing.” So, where are all the strays, right? I’ve spent this whole time thinking that the French have just managed to avoid having any–like maybe they control the breeding, and love animals so much that there’s no shortage of good homes for the extras.

I was wrong.

“I got Diablo there from a family that bought him along the quay,” the owner of Mon Bon Chien told us. “They thought he was a six-month-old Yorkie–and that’s what they paid for–but it turns out he was only about six weeks old, and he’s got maybe a drop of Yorkie in him. They were going to turn him out on the street, because that’s what they do here, but I convinced them to let me take him, instead.”

Can you imagine??

Meanwhile, lucky Diablo, right? Being rescued into a life where he spends all day with a dog-treat baker, surrounded by hundreds of imported toys? Could be worse–it often is, in fact. She also told us that the usual policy when an owner dies is to kill the dog. Fortunately, she also told us about a rescue agency that tries to place dogs in that situation, so when we are ready to get Jolie a sister, we’ve got a socially-conscious source.

Oh, but back to the top: while looking at all of the treats, I exclaimed in particular over the “truffles.”

“Oh, yes!” the owner told me. “That’s carob on top; the white ones are covered in yogurt. Do you like Reese’s cups? You have to try one of these!”

There was absolutely no polite way to decline, although I was secretly relieved when she cut it in half. But, you know what? Delicious. After tasting it, I regretted that there was no polite way to ask for the other half. And I naturally got a couple for Jolie, and that’s what I’m trying so hard not to eat right now.

She did get to have a “pupcake” with a candle in it. How many treats does one dog need??