Have I ever mentioned that every month or so, a jet setting couple jets off and leaves me in charge of their blind dog? They do.
Meet Bianca, miniature greyhound. She eats sweet potatoes and hamburger and loves to walk all over you when you are trying to sleep. You have to encourage her to go #1 (rubbing her back and saying “goodgirlgopotty”), but she’ll #2 in the litterbox on her own accord. You’ll know she has #2’ed because she’ll run out and furiously claw the carpet, and folks, it’s amazing what happens next. She’s all proud and scratchity-scratch and I’m all, Oh! Clap! Clap!, and then my lips open and a strange, false voice, the same voice that I’ve heard some of you use when speaking to the wee bald humans, that voice sings, “Good GIIIRL!” I haven’t always been the “Good GIIIIRL!” type, it just came upon me one day, in early 2004. I guess it’s official, my heart is not a lump of granite.
The squeaky turkey leg is Bianca’s favorite toy and she knows when I am going to leave her because she hears me putting on makeup. This is when she gets all affectionate and curious, sidling up as if to say, “Did I ever mention that you’re pretty and smell nice? What a fetching blouse! My, green is your color...DON’T LEAVE ME!”
Generally, she’s a goddess, but she is always running into things. She’s blind you know.
Her owners live just off the lovely pedestrian rue Lévis by métro Villiers in the 17th. It’s nice there. Last time, I bought a kilo of cherries at the street market and ate them until I had a massive stomachache. I also looked at a lot of depot ventes. I tried on a YSL jacket, white with black bow pattern. There was a matching dress, 50 euro-ish, but both were a tish snug. My gym has a branch in that neighborhood with funny egg-timer lights in the bathroom; it’s like peeing to the 60 Minutes clock.
I run at the Parc Monceau on weekends and marvel at the teenage girls playing cards on the lawn (wrap your brains around THAT, mallrats!) and also, the roses, which are as big as heads of cabbage, sweartogod. Once, I saw a group of school-children walking in a line, each clutching a scribbled drawing in his (or her) chubby fist. With their bright cardigans and leather French-kid shoes, I just wanted to string their rotund bodies from a tree and admire their shiny faces. Preferably with some hot cocoa. It reminded me of the Madeline books, seeing those school-children. Parc Monceau is her park you know, the park of Madeline and Proust (in no special order of importance).
Okay, let me tell you all the negative stuff about this job now.