Day 15 (pretending to be French)
I had a dream last week that I was having a conversation (with faceless, unidentifiable dream-people) about dogs in French, which I don’t even really know. So I pretended to be French today.
It felt particularly appropriate when I took out Dog 3, a Bichon Frise. Actually, I didn’t even know what sort of a dog he was until the other day, when a fellow person-with-a-dog mentioned it.
“Is he a Bichon?” she’d asked.
“Yes.” I said, smiling. It made sense. Sure.
“My mother has one.”
A lot of West Village dog people are so brittlely friendly. Like if one dog approaches another, they smile and beam like it just took a step on the goddamn moon. Which I guess in and of itself isn’t so bad. It’s just that so many of them have this reserved, polite, refined, proper demeanor they affect while they’re in the midst of what is essentially two animals tied to strings sniffing at each others’ asses. Like that’s the time for an overexertion of manners on their part. It’s funny to me, but I guess you get used to it if you deal with it every day. It’s still funny to me, though.
Anyway, I figured what better place to pretend to be French than in the West Village. I left for work listening to Stereolab, and wearing red lipstick, a leopard coat, and black leather gloves. On the subway, a couple wearing sunglasses were, for some reason, talking about me. I could tell. When I looked at them, I decided it was with admiration, judging by their expressions. For my chic appearance. I imagined they were French, too.
I thought it might make a difference with maddening Dog 3, if I took another approach with him. A French approach.
“Allons-y!” I said a lot, in an upbeat tone, instead of my usual muttered “Come on.”
It actually seemed to keep him moving. I smoked a cigarette and adjusted my sunglasses, noting with joy that 3 had expelled all waste (not even on a silver grate) within a record eight minutes. Chouette!
On the way back to 3’s building, one of the West Village Dog People came up the street with a cocker spaniel. The dogs began to slowly circle each other, but no fangs were bared.
“Allo.” I said to the other dog in my higher-than-normal tone. “Allo.”
I was wondering if I could successfully be phony-French and get away with it. I could if conversation was limited.
“Nice dog.” The guy said. “How old?.”
“Ohhh…” Should I pretend not to know English? Or just have an accent?
I dropped it. Screw that. I didn’t want to have to run into this guy again and always have to pretend to be not only French, but also the owner of Dog 3. It was too complicated. I might forget one day. Or he might start asking questions about France. Or he might go there every summer or something. It's one thing to pretend to be French in your head and to dogs, but I, for one, wasn't about to go the extra mile to sustain that type of delusion with another human.
“I really don’t know. I just walk him.” I said, and flicked my cigarette butt into the street.
“Oh.” He responded, and waited the loaded few seconds when I knew he really just wanted to split.
“Bye now.” He said.
“Au Revoir.” I responded.
It felt particularly appropriate when I took out Dog 3, a Bichon Frise. Actually, I didn’t even know what sort of a dog he was until the other day, when a fellow person-with-a-dog mentioned it.
“Is he a Bichon?” she’d asked.
“Yes.” I said, smiling. It made sense. Sure.
“My mother has one.”
A lot of West Village dog people are so brittlely friendly. Like if one dog approaches another, they smile and beam like it just took a step on the goddamn moon. Which I guess in and of itself isn’t so bad. It’s just that so many of them have this reserved, polite, refined, proper demeanor they affect while they’re in the midst of what is essentially two animals tied to strings sniffing at each others’ asses. Like that’s the time for an overexertion of manners on their part. It’s funny to me, but I guess you get used to it if you deal with it every day. It’s still funny to me, though.
Anyway, I figured what better place to pretend to be French than in the West Village. I left for work listening to Stereolab, and wearing red lipstick, a leopard coat, and black leather gloves. On the subway, a couple wearing sunglasses were, for some reason, talking about me. I could tell. When I looked at them, I decided it was with admiration, judging by their expressions. For my chic appearance. I imagined they were French, too.
I thought it might make a difference with maddening Dog 3, if I took another approach with him. A French approach.
“Allons-y!” I said a lot, in an upbeat tone, instead of my usual muttered “Come on.”
It actually seemed to keep him moving. I smoked a cigarette and adjusted my sunglasses, noting with joy that 3 had expelled all waste (not even on a silver grate) within a record eight minutes. Chouette!
On the way back to 3’s building, one of the West Village Dog People came up the street with a cocker spaniel. The dogs began to slowly circle each other, but no fangs were bared.
“Allo.” I said to the other dog in my higher-than-normal tone. “Allo.”
I was wondering if I could successfully be phony-French and get away with it. I could if conversation was limited.
“Nice dog.” The guy said. “How old?.”
“Ohhh…” Should I pretend not to know English? Or just have an accent?
I dropped it. Screw that. I didn’t want to have to run into this guy again and always have to pretend to be not only French, but also the owner of Dog 3. It was too complicated. I might forget one day. Or he might start asking questions about France. Or he might go there every summer or something. It's one thing to pretend to be French in your head and to dogs, but I, for one, wasn't about to go the extra mile to sustain that type of delusion with another human.
“I really don’t know. I just walk him.” I said, and flicked my cigarette butt into the street.
“Oh.” He responded, and waited the loaded few seconds when I knew he really just wanted to split.
“Bye now.” He said.
“Au Revoir.” I responded.
posted by Unleashed at 11:44 PM
1 Comments:
Amusante anecdote. :)
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