Fifi The Rasta

I love Paris in the summertime

Less people if you can avoid the tourists and the skies seem clear of pollution.

Of course the city empties out even more after the Grand Depart.

Back in the July of 1985 I was walking in the Bois de Boulonge, which is much larger than Central Park. A Citroen pulled onto the grass near le Lac Inferior. A family was inside. All their bags were packed on top of the sedan. An older man got out and pulled a well-coiffed poodle from the car. His children were crying. He picked up a stick and threw it into the woods. The dog chased it and the family drove away. The big poodle came back and searched for the car.

It was gone.

The poodle looked at me.

I already had a dog.

He was on his own.

A friend later told me that the poodle had been abandoned by the family for the summer vacation.

"C'est le tradition."

I saw the dog running with other dogs throughout August.

They seemed happy to be tramps.

A month later I'm in the same section of the park and spot the Citroen slowly cruising the woods.

The driver was calling for his dog.

"Fifi, Fifi."

I shook my head thinking him cruel, but Fifi came bounding from the underbrush.

His hair was matted like a Rasta and his body was considerably thinner for the regime of squirrels and trash.

The car stopped and the man greeted his dog, as if this rendezvous had been planned from the start.

"Oh, Fifi, time for you to see the beauty salon."

The owner put him back in the Citroen and they drove off in the direction of Neuilly-Sur-Seine, proving once more Josh Fielding's old adage, "A dog is the only animal that loves you more than it loves itself."

Even if their owners are Parisienne.