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Travel Piece  by Ida Nasatir

Letter from Paris  by Ida Nasatir,  August 17, 1951

August17, 1951—Ida Nasatir, "A Letter from Paris,"  Southwestern Jewish Press, page 6,  Dear Julia and Mac:. Everywhere a Frenchman goes, his dog is sure to follow. Dogs go to church regularly (they politely wait outside until services are over), they follow the children to school, they are permitted in hotels, restaurants and cafes. They accompany their masters on the trains, where they either sleep in the aisles or sit next to their owners on the plush seats and avidly watch the passing scenery. (Perish the thought of a baggage car for a traveling French dog). The "objectors" to dogs entering restaurants are in the minority camp. It is not at all an uncommon sight to see smartly dressed women bring their lap dogs in to lunch or dinner with them; presently wiping the dog's mouth with their napkin and then their own. No one shows signs of being disturbed by this. Who said a "dog's life?" Strangely enough the profuse number of dogs seem to get along most amicably with the equally large number of cats. These animals have some curious conventions of neutrality in Paris; they sleep side by side, eat out of the same dishes with never a snarl or scratch. This arrangement must be of a long standing, so long that nowadays the animals are born to it, for one day we were watching a kitten just old enough to toddle about, to see what it would do when a strange dog came along. It paid no attention to the dog, and the dog respectfully walked far around the kitten. Even the mongrels of Paris soon come to know that they are favored. One such odd-looking hound-dog lives in the same hotel we do. He looks like some sort of ungainly cross between hound and pointer, with huge heavy paws. He interests me because he is the only dog I ever saw that had not a single grain of sentiment anywhere in his make-up. He is out for revenue only, with a pagan frankness which is at times fascinating. He pouts on no airs, but on the contrary, he is easy going, jovial and a good mixer right up to the point of certainty that there is nothing in it for him. He maintains this attitude impartially towards friend and stranger; the hotel's people are no more to him in a sentimental way than any one else; he views the whole human world without prejudice, as a potential source of graft. Show yourself a reasonably hopeful prospect, and he is with you, prompt to the minute; tighten up, and he marks you off to profit and loss thenceforth and forever. He not only has to see the goods, he is also as nearly no-account as a dog can be, and he has no more affection than a clam for any number of quite good people who like him and do well by him. He seems to know that all French people do well by dogs. He seems never to forget the many times he walked with his master along the Champs Elysees, where he saw the girls and women who dye their hair and French poodel to match. Who said a "Dog's Life in Paris?" —Fondly, Ida Nasatir.

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