I can’t recall whether I have made it known on these blogs that I am not a dog lover. Ever since I was a child, I can, however, recall a certain dislike towards this type of animal. Despite having at least two of them as family pets and one as the pet of my brother in the house during my growing up years, I never took to them.
Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t harm one, unless of course it was absolutely necessary, but I just don’t like the things near me. All they seem to do is stick their wet nose in your groin (a wet nose which has recently sniffed the back end of another dog) or slobber all over you! And some of the little things jump up and cover you in whatever is on their paws.
And why is it that these creatures know I don’t like them and always make a beeline for me whenever they can. I can walk into a house with several other people; people who actually like dogs, and for some reason it is me the little darlings come up to. It is me they want to stroke them. But I won’t. I just don’t like touching them.
Now, during my recent holiday in France, one of the local dogs decided it was going to leave an impression on me.
Did it try to capture my heart and make me like dogs by being nice to me; by behaving well; by keeping out of my way?
Did it heck!
We were all walking down a street in a lovely French town. It was a quite beautiful setting with a lot of river side cafes and boats of all shapes and sizes moored and gently rocking in the water. The sun was shining and it was a hot day. I was carrying my camera; snapping away as the scenery inspired me and I had a bottle of water to keep me refreshed.
Suddenly my legs were brushed by a small, furry creature. I watched it run past. It was a small dog. Naturally my dislike for these things became immediately apparent as I exclaimed that I had just had a close encounter with a large rat! It ran on and away from me.
I was pleased.
But not for long. My party had stopped to look in some of the local shops. Shops which sold handbags! Why is it women folk cannot walk past a handbag shop? So I had to stop as well, but I was not going into the shop. Instead I stood outside enjoying the view and the sunshine.
I felt my right leg getting wet. I knew it wasn’t rain, because there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Was my water bottle leaking? No, a quick check of that reassured me that the bottle’s integrity was still intact. Had a café owner just chucked out some water across the pavement? Had a boat splashed when mooring?
It was no to everything I was questioning.
I was left with no choice but to glance down at my leg. And there with a smug grin on its face was the little rat that had earlier brushed past me. It was using my leg as a lamppost!
The English and the French have always had a love/hate relationship, and this little fur ball was not doing anything to enhance that. If I were a violent type, that little rat might now be walking round with a rather large shoe sticking out of its rear end!
Fortunately for me, one of my party was Nursey; Chef and Nursey had also made the long trek to the south of France for their holiday; and she, being the well equipped nurse that she is, had all manner of alcohol based cleaning aides in her bag. Thank goodness she had purchased such a large handbag.
Now I realise why the women folk always stop at handbag shops, they need to carry round all sorts of supplies! 😉