“This is not a dog-friendly bakery,” she plucks at me. My two french bulldogs, freshly bathed that morning, sit quietly at my side. I look down and admire their outfits today. The girls are both sporting matching tufted holiday vests.
Mme Anti-Chien pipes up again, “There are no dogs allowed here.” And she starts exciting others in the line, declaring dogs are harbingers of the virus, the plague, and any other imaginable ailment as I watch her bakery bag also rest on the same floor my dogs do.
There’s nothing to be done about it – her cajoling started while I ordered my weekend bread. The attendant leans over the register and says, “I have a dog like yours. Thank you for bringing them.” She knows me, and this is the best bakery in the immediate neighborhood – one of the few open on a Sunday. While I generally don’t come with the girls in tow, I wanted to gift a basket full of goodies to my visiting friends from the States, who are avid fans of this company from afar.
I slowly pluck abricot champagne confiture from the shelves, and we wink and giggle as I pay for my order. Meanwhile, Mme Anti-Chien continues to rally. I finish my errand and start to move out of the store. Most in the line show apologetic shrugs as I move past. I wanted to say it but restrained myself from telling Mme Anti-Chien to “mind her onions.” Instead, I say, “Merci, Madame. Et bon Dimanche.”
She fluffs her invisible feathers at my response.
A man two spots behind decides to take up her protest. “No dogs are allowed in here!,” he bellows at me, practically spitting in my face. He’s angry for a reason I don’t think he even understands, as I glance down at the girls who do not understand either.
“Merci. D’accord.” I say. “Bon Dimanche.”
It may be a bit ‘Pollyanna’ of me, but I have faith that if you take the upper road, it’ll find you – even if you’re a bit lost.
Bisous and big hugs from France,