Sunday, May 31, 2009

The Lady from the Sixth and her Dog

My cousin Jacques-David was cooking dinner for my mom and I and I had gone down the street to pick up some butter from the store. I approached the entrance to our building as the old lady from the sixth floor came struggling across the threshold, bracing the door open and shoving her little shaggy dog out with her left foot, one hand clutching her purse and the other entangled with the leash. The dog’s legs were splayed out, resisting the shove, and as the door slammed shut behind them I noticed the reason for the hurry was that the dog was in the middle of a dam-bursting-tsunami-inducing urination. The old lady let out an exasperated “C’est pas vrai!” (It’s not true!) and stood there watching the scraggly little throw-rug darken the doorstep. The dog and master blocked my way into the building and all I could do was bite my lip and try not to burst into uncontrollable laughter as the old lady re-opened the door, bent over, held it open with her large derrière, produced a wad of crumpled Kleenex from her purse and proceeded to mop up the enormous yellow puddle that lay in the foyer. The insignificant clump of tissue was quickly overcome by the lake of waste and left the poor lady to the task of swishing around helplessly murmuring repeatedly “Je vais te tue.” (I am going to kill you.)

While I have little sympathy for people who buy little furry doormats for pets I felt kinda bad for the lady. Yet, I wasn’t about to offer the shirt off my back for mopping purposes. At a loss of what to do I wimped out and offered a less-than-helpful “C’est dommage.” (It’s too bad) and gingerly sidestepped my way through the doorway. “Faites attention, Il y a beaucoup de pisse la!” (Be careful, there is lots of piss there!)