Cat or Dog?

It would have to be cat. My mum let us have a cat when we were kids and so we have had one ever since [a series of replacements rather than the same one, obviously]. My daughter bought home the last one immediately after we had declared, “That’s it. No more pets” She promptly left home and failed to take the cat with her. He is still here about 12 years later.

For one of my big birthdays, we went to Nice on the Eurostar and the TGV, crossing Paris with a few minutes available to admire the amazing Train Bleu restaurant at Gare de Lyon. The French are big cat and dog lovers, too, it seems. Both in Paris and in the coastal resorts, I have noticed a penchant, especially amongst ladies of a certain age, for both cats and tiny dogs on leads, in baskets – even of the cycle handlebar attachment type, or simply tucked under one arm. They can clearly be a fashion accessory.

Taking the busy early morning return TGV to Paris, and in plenty of time to take our two reserved seats in the direction of travel and a table, an elderly French lady with a diminutive dog strode past us along the platform, obviously looking for her own seat. “She’s going to sit here with that dog,’ I said to my wife, and she did, taking her place opposite us.

Never mind, I thought, it’s only a few hundred miles of close-up dog. The dog spent Nice to Avignon sniffing my ankles. I turned to my wife. “It’s doing heavy breathing on my leg,” I said. From Avignon to Lyon it slept on the seat next to its owner. “About time,” I said from behind my hands. From Lyon to Paris it sat in its basket a few inches from my face, as I ate my previously purchased cheese and ham baguette. “Don’t you dare,” I muttered in its general direction.

“At least it doesn’t stink,” I munched sideways to my wife as the dog watched me eat every mouthful. “Why has it got that stupid bow round its neck?” I added. My wife looked up from her book and shrugged her shoulders.

Approaching Gare de Lyon, attention drawn by a sudden rash of graffiti on every available concrete surface, of which there are plenty as well as on the flanks of the parked up suburban commuter stock, people suddenly and somewhat feverishly began to gather their possessions together, as though there was only going to be a two minute stop at the terminus station.

“Can you reach my coat on the luggage rack, please?” asked the French lady with perfect English who was sitting opposite us. The dog looked at me smugly. I’m sure he mouthed, “Boo-boom.”

TGV unit at Nice station, 1999.