The dog, the bitch and the Christmas tree

Notes from a room in Paris

I am woken by a deafening silence and there is a strange eerie light on the bedroom ceiling. I pad through into the salon and stare out of the long windows. It’s snowing and the rue Linois looks very unfamiliar. The snow is so thick that I can hardly see across the street but I can just make out the white shutters of the neighbouring apartments opposite and the lighted windows of the big magasin des jouets. As I watch, the number 70 bus slides across the road but the driver manages to control it before it ploughs into the line of snow covered cars and narrowly misses an awkwardly parked taxi. A few people scurry past bundled up and anonymous in their thick winter clothing. Some are slithering on the icy pavements. A motor cyclist’s bike suddenly shoots from under him leaving him sprawling on the icy road, floundering like a fish in the dirty slush. It’s like watching a silent film.

Claude, the Alsatian cross we are looking after for our American friends while they visit their family in sunny San Diego, has joined me. We look out at the snowy street scene together. As I look down at Claude’s glossy black and tan head I heave a great sigh. Claude must go out for his walk whatever the weather.

* * * *

As soon as we enter the snow sphere we are almost knocked off our feet by a howling blizzard blowing its icy breath down from Siberia. Claude shrinks back against the wall and when I try to reassure him I get a mouth full of snow flakes. We walk very carefully towards the Pont Grenelle trying hard not to fall over. The footpaths along the Seine at the Ile des Cygnes lie under a pristine blanket of whiteness and the Radio France sign is invisible. Only the stark, denuded trees creak uncertainly in a bitter wind. The Seine looks grey and bleak and in the distance La Tour Eiffel glitters with frost. Standing alone on her little island the Statue of Liberty has exchanged her laurel wreath for a snowy crown.

By now though, Claude and I have had enough of playing arctic explorers and we walk back unsteadily over the bridge. We have just arrived outside the Monoprix hypermarket when Claude commits what amounts to a cardinal sin in Paris. He suddenly comes to a halt, digging his paws in and ignoring my feeble tugs on his lead. Then looking around shiftily to make sure no one is nearby he squats down and relieves himself.

Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, a skinny female figure appears swathed all in black like an avenging giant ant. A shrill, high pitched voice emits from her tiny, scarlet mouth. She waves her arms and points her red talons at Claude who is looking intently at a point over my shoulder and nonchalantly pretending all innocence. Quivering with self righteous indignation she shrieks that I should be ashamed of myself for letting my dog defecate on the pavement where honest folk have to walk. She says she will report me to the police and I will get a big fine, yes! Maybe I will be sent to prison she says excitedly. ‘Vous etes etrangere?’, she asks slyly. I shrug and try to apologise but it’s not apologies she wants. No, she wants to humiliate me. That of course is so much more satisfying. Her voice is getting louder. Passers by on their way into Monoprix have stopped and are staring curiously at our little tableau.

Perhaps seeing that I seem to be less than useless in this situation, Claude decides to take things into his own paws. He begins barking loudly in her direction, straining on his chain and doing his best ‘Hounds of the Baskerville’ impression. She freezes for a moment. Then her snapping black eyes blink rapidly as she scrutinises Claude whom she has now identified as ‘un chien dangereux!’ Her mouth opens and closes but no sound comes out. She begins to walk backwards gingerly. She is wobbling on her impossibly high heeled black boots. Claude crouches down on his belly and growls low in his throat pretending to be a wolf. That does it! She teeters on the edge of the curb for a moment before she keels over and is flung on her back in the snow. Her pipe cleaner arms and legs are waving feebly in the air. We both gaze at her for a moment in horrified fascination. Then taking advantage of her unforeseen demise Claude and I turn round and battle our way back through the snow towards the apartment.

* * * *

For some reason the ascenseur is full of the wonderful scent of pine trees and for a moment I wonder if the cleaner has been a bit over zealous with the air freshener. I glance down and notice that there is a little carpet of pine needles on the floor. When we get inside the apartment however, a wondrous sight awaits us. While we were out battling the elements a beautiful Christmas tree has been erected. It is dripping with red and gold tinsel and crystal star-shaped lights twinkle among the dark green branches. I am speechless with delight and so it seems is Claude, who wanders over to this fabulous symbol of Christmas and after sniffing it inquisitively, casually lifts his back leg and pees dreamily against its trunk! Joyeux Noel a tout le monde!

Copyright Rusty Gladdish 2010