Oh Those Lucky, Lucky Dogs of Paris

Or how to make friends and influence French people without trying.

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I had no idea that the fastest way to win over a Parisian, or at least get them to overlook bad grammar, is to show up with a bug-eyed, lap-size spaniel. In Brooklyn, my dog Luni was no big deal. But here? Here he’s a ten in dog terms, a 22-pound ambassador, a furry key to the city. 

It’s hard to describe how different it is to be in Paris with a dog versus the last time I lived here when all I had was my youth. 

I have been invited by strangers for lunch and drinks and to share charcuterie boards because of this dog.  Brawny delivery guys stop to tell him he is beautiful, as I stand there rolling my eyes. People make kissing faces at him from across the street, and chic women kneel and exclaim: “Oh, il est trop!  Je craque,” which is kinda like saying he’s so cute, I could die. Luni has friends in local cafes, where they call him “Lulu.” Meanwhile,  I’m starting to feel like JFK on his first state visit to France with Jackie. To paraphrase:  “I am the woman who accompanied Luni to Paris.” 

One night, I went with Luni and my human friend MJ to a place called Chez René in the Latin Quarter featuring old-school waiters with long white aprons

After bringing Luni a bowl of water, one of the servers leaned in and whispered:  “There are some remnants from the beef we carved for another table, may we offer them to your adorable dog?”

I could barely nod yes. At that point,  I wasn’t even used to the idea that you could bring dogs into restaurants.  Then he followed up with this: 

 “Would you like his meat served with your meal, or now?”

How is a jaded New Yorker supposed to cope with that?  I was undone. When we left, they gave me a little plastic box with more scraps.

Vincent serving up dog treats at Le Drapeau

To be fair, this dog spoiling is not that unusual. At one cafe in the Marais, dogs always get a dish of treats and a bowl of water. But all this resonates differently if you have come in from the cold during your first week in France totally exhausted by the vocabulary needed to buy a bed and blankets.  When you’re feeling like a ragged and incompetent stranger in a strange land, and Vincent, the bartender, expresses utter delight at your presence and then presents dog treats, it’s like having a secret pass to a different sort of Paris. Dogs are an excuse to connect or to show affection. They are avatars for the sentimental side of this city.

Paris doggy daycare transportation

Dogs can also be a huge drag. For two months, Luni was so disrupted by our move from Brooklyn that if I left him alone in the apartment, he’d wail and maul my door as if I’d abandoned him at a train station.  So I had to take him everywhere.  But canines are not allowed in museums, grocery stores, most parks, or Jazz caves.  So after telling friends in New York how I could go to restaurants with my dog, I found that the only thing I could do was go to restaurants with my dog. The joke was on me. 

I would try to sneak out when he fell asleep like a cheating spouse or a mother backing out of a toddler’s bedroom.  I’d put my shoes outside the door because if he saw me with them, he’d know I was leaving. I’d sneak some lipstick in the bathroom. And to throw him off, I’d put on slippers and lie down on the bed, close my lying eyes, and pretend I wasn’t going anywhere.  He was suspicious of the lipstick, but he’d curl up and snore.

During those long weeks, I only made it to the hallway twice without Luni sensing my absence and howling at a pitch that could wake everyone in Père-Lachaise cemetery. Defeated, I’d retreat, muttering about unhealthy co-dependence and searching the internet for anti-anxiety meds for both of us.

Luni was not happy to see other dogs at the cafe but tolerates them.

Just as Luni got better about being alone, I lost him for 35 minutes. I thought he’d escaped through the front door of my building, where there is a canal and a bike lane that rivals the Tour de France for speed and volume of cyclists. I expected to see a crowd of people huddled around my crushed dog, but thank God, no.  

Maybe he’d trotted into the cafe next door, La Marine, his favorite. We have coffee there with a whole host of dogs, a beagle, an Italian greyhound named Nemo, and a 14-year-old dachshund named Ermine.  I ran inside sobbing something to the staff: 

 “Lulu est perdu!”  And in even more mangled French:  “If you see him, trap him behind the bar and hug him.” Marie and the other servers were suitably alarmed and on the case. “We will hold on to him, do not worry!” 

Franck, the kind contractor painting the apartment next door, went to canvas the block. My friend Cathy posted a picture of Luni (in a beret) on a local Facebook group, and I started knocking on doors in the building.  

It was a Halloween costume now he wants to wear it out.

I found Luni on the top floor in a corridor I didn’t even know existed.  Turns out, he howls when behind a door, but not in front of one. Later, I brought him to La Marine to show them the chien was no longer perdu. The servers came out from behind the bar and encircled us. Someone suggested a glass of wine, and Luni fell asleep under the table, totally at home.

This is a health certificate booklet for travel in Europe from a French vet. They put it all in this passport-like booklet. So yes, he basically has an EU passport.

I’ll post more dogs of Paris photos on my Instagram tomorrow.

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