When people think of pets in France, they think dogs. Tiny, fluffy poodles poking their heads out of fashionable pocketbooks.[1]
As for my wife and me, when we think back on the two years we lived on rue St. Didier[2] in Paris, we think of a very different sort of pet. We think of Chuck. Our Rhode Island-bred, orange-and-white, tiger-striped, sometimes biting cat, Chuck.[3]
Not long before moving to our cramped sixth-floor Parisian apartment, we were introduced to Chuck at the Providence Animal Rescue League.[4] Unlike the kittens there who eagerly poked their paws through the bars of their cages, Chuck just sat in the back of his pen and looked up at us with a wounded expression.[5] “I know you’re not going to choose me since I’m a full-grown cat,” he seemed to be saying, “so I’m not going to try and sell myself.”
But when my wife gently lifted him out, Chuck allowed himself to purr very softly and we adopted him on the spot.[6] A few months later, when it became clear that we would have to move overseas because of her job, most French people we talked to urged us to bring our new pal[7] along.
During those first few months in Paris, when we could understand little that was said to us and felt like strangers right down to the soles of our shoes[8], Chuck’s new European-style habits gave us much-needed laughter and encouragement. He was delighted with French food—rabbit-flavored Friskies—and he cheerfully rode the bus in a cat carrier that allowed curious passengers a full view of his impressive mane.[9]
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