FRENCH WORD-A-DAY

The 5 senses in French + Smokey's Grief

Pictured: Sam and Breizh, in 2009. Smokey's parents met and eloped in Marseilles. It is the most amazing story ever. A miracle! Please read  "Chien Perdu" here. (But don't miss the update, below).

l'ouïe (wee) noun, feminine

   : hearing

Related Terms & Expressions:
  l'ouï-dire = hearsay, rumor
  avoir l'ouïe fine = to have sharp hearing
  avoir l'ouïe un peu dure = to be hard of hearing
  être tout ouïe = to be all ears
  à portée de l'ouïe = within hearing
  les ouïes des poissons = fish gills

AUDIO FILE: listen to Jean-Marc read today's example sentence: 
Download MP3 or Download wav

 

Les cinq sens. Nos cinq sens sont les suivant: la vue, l'ouïe, le goût, l'odorat, le toucher. The five senses. Our five senses are the following: sight, hearing, taste, smell, and touch.

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE... by Kristin Espinasse

To sharpen. I spoke about the French word aiguiser in a previous post, and was set to feature the verb today, when plans changed. It may seem like a strange word choice following the news about our dog's death--but then my senses seem sharper since Breizh passed away on Saturday.

With the past four days being cloaked in sadness, I began to wonder if grief isn't one of our 5 senses... but of course it isn't, as evidenced by the following list (quickly counted on my right hand, beginning with le pouce, or thumb). 

• la vue (sight)
• l'ouïe (hearing)
• le goût (taste)
• l'odorat (smell)
• le toucher (touch)

No, grief is not a sense, but a stirrer of the senses, as we see in these examples:


LA VUE - SIGHT
Soonafter our 9-year-old golden retriever passed, I saw something alarming, quelque chose I had never before noticed. Smokey, Breizh's 6-year-old son, was sporting a silver barbe, or beard.

I remember the day, not three months ago, that I saw Breizh's gray mustache (or was it white?)--after someone pointed it out to me. And I wonder, how many more things--evident, present, glaring--are we not seeing? 

L'OUIE - HEARING
J'entends. I hear a whistle in Smokey's breathing, one that wasn't there before. It is le souffle of sadness and it sometimes terminates with un gros soupir.

Patting his soft, lopsided head, I murmur: Je sais, Smokey, je sais. Elle est partie, notre Breizh. Elle est partie. But it's okay. It is okay. All will be okay.

LE GOUT - TASTE
Food was tasteless, but my appetite returned on day two, arriving on a rumble of hunger pangs. But for Smokey, who lost his mama, it would be 5 days before he would show any interest in his croquettes--the sound of which used to make him do twirls in the air! This morning, no air-twirls, but he did wag his tail excitedly as I set down his bowl. His hunger had finally returned.

L'ODORAT - SMELL
Together, Jean-Marc and I buried Breizh before a field of sunflowers, in front of the laundry line where I go almost daily to dry our clothes.  A wooden wine box doubles as a headstone and a shelf where we can set mementos--like the mug with Breizh's picture, which doubles as a vase.

This morning, while collecting escargot shells from the surrounding field, to set beside the vase of bougainvillea, I remembered Smokey's unusual behavior, when days before he strolled up to the grave and lay down beside it.  He must sense she is here... I thought. Only to watch him walk off with half a cross!

Smokey! Bring that back! I called, hurrying up to him to retrieve the horizontal piece of the cross. Setting the broken tree limb back in place, over the grave, I stared at the cross I'd replaced.  Death, it seems, has a sense of humor, too. 

LE TOUCHER
Smokey's hair has never felt softer, and touching him has its effet tranquillisant. I wish I'd saved a lock of Breizh's hair. Then again, what would I do with it? Wear it around my neck? No! Like those small plastic envelopes holding my children's first teeth, it would be forever hidden in a shoebox, somewhere discreet.

MY INTERGALACTIC DOG

(These paragraphs were originally posted under the "sight" section, above. But I found a better example and needed to move this one somewhere else. The concluding section seems fitting.)

On the phone with my aunt, we were talking about the planet Pluto which has been making headlines lately. "It really makes you wonder how it all began. Consider the endless galaxies!" 

My aunt's words queued my mind which now pictured a vibrant midnight blue outer space with rolling waves of silver stars. Suddenly a smiling golden retriever jetted right past me! There was Breizh, riding an asteroid the size of a basketball! My head got whiplash watching her streak past me, a line of sparkly stardust in her wake. I watched as she disappeared into the future (or the past?). Oh the mystery of where exactly she is, the spirit of our sweet, golden girl.

I had to share the image of a beaming Breizh transported through space-- had to share the vision with my aunt, who very sweetly and politely responded, as if she, too, could picture that intergalactic dog of mine rocketing across the starry sky.

And it dawns on me now, clearer-headed days later, the delicateness that framed my aunt's sympathetic response. I hope to remember to react as she did the next time someone is grieving - to remember to see the intergalactic dog that is not. Nod your head wildly, utter your conviction - let her know that you see just what she sees... and so let her grieve. 

                                                  *    *    *  

Dear Reader, Thank you so much for your comforting words regarding Breizh. The empathy you shared, via the comments box and by email, helped to unblock further streams of emotion. 

Here is the most recent photo of our golden girl. At the time I took the picture I did not know it would be the last, or I would have taken a thousand more. As it is, this image fills me with peace, representing, so sweetly, her ongoing journey.

Amicalement,
Kristi

Woof woof! Bow wow! Aboiement (or how to say dog bark or barking in French)

Nothing to do with today's word, just an iconic zinc bar in Marseilles: Le Bar de la Marine (made famous by Marcel Pagnol in his "Marius" Trilogy.

un aboiement (ah-bwa-mahn)

    : bark, barking (of dog)

Also: aboyer = to bark, un aboyeur (une aboyeuse) = a barking dog

Reverse dictionary: 
to bark up the wrong tree = porter plainte contre la mauvaise personne
his bark is worse than his bite = il fait plus de bruit que de mal 
 

Audio File: Today it is 17-year-old Max's voice you'll hear when you click on the following file and listen to this French sentence: Download MP3 or Wav file

Les aboiements de Smokey font peur aux bandits! Smokey's barking scares the bandits!


A Day in a French Life... by Kristin Espinasse

This morning I hurried downstairs to let out our dogs. I wasn't going to make the same mistake as yesterday by enjoying a rare grasse matinée. That extra thirty minutes sleep-in cost me a demi-heure of clean-up time after I was late helping Smokey get to his morning business. Quel dégât!

This time there were no suspicious odors wafting up the stairwell, and I reached le rez-de-chaussée to find the floors clear and dry. Ouf! The week was off to a good start!

"Good morning, doggers!" I offered my warm English greeting quickly followed by some serious French, "Allez les Toutous! Pipi dehors!"

Sliding open the porte-fenêtre in our kitchen, I was amused by the morning routine. Braise paused at the door, letting her son race past her. As Braise waited her turn she looked up at me, anticipating the usual acknowledgment.

"C'est bien, Braise! Très, très bien! Tu attends." I caressed her soft head and rubbed her floppy golden ears between my fingers. She is a sweet dog, if extremely pushy at times (mostly at snack time).

Comme d'habitude, Braise and I turned our attention to Smokey, who had bounded out of the house as fast as a cowboy surprised by bandits. Shooting from the hip—or all guns blazing—Smokey charged forward, propelled by a noisy gargle of aboiements:

OUAF-OUAF-OUAF-OUAF!!!!

Smokey's head shot in every direction, pulled this way and that by his flapping, toothy muzzle—out of which came the skinny dog's tirade of threats. The scene would be hair-raising if seen by any other perspective than our own.

Braise and I watched, unwilling to point out to our voluntary hero the obvious facts: there was, as usual, not a bandit in sight—not even a lowly field mouse sped by.  

Never mind. When Smokey reached the edge of the yellow, parched lawn—fitting of this wild west scene—he began pacing back and forth, coughing out a few more threats in his best impression of gardien. Down below, where the lawn drops off and the grape vines spread out in one great field of spectateurs, Smokey addressed his leafy audience. "I," he barked, "AM Top Dog!"

Braise and I looked at each other knowing very well the truth of the matter: though Smokey is top dog of our hearts, he could not hurt a top fly.

Meantime, he doesn't need to know that... 

"You tell 'em, Smokey! You tell 'em!" in the safety of Smokey's noisy wake, Braise and I cheer the underdog.  Handicapped since the tender age of two months old (his hanging tongue but a hint of les ravages he suffered) he has come a long way since that fateful day, when he crossed paths with a couple of lost and angry dogs who mistook him for an easy target....

What the aggressors failed to notice was the Top Mama nearby.

Braise saved her son that day. After being stapled back together and given a "good chance" of making it. Smokey did. Il a survécu. 

 ***

Read the story of a brave two month old golden retreiver, here.

FRENCH VOCABULARY

la grasse matinée
to sleep in

une demi-heure
half an hour

quel dégât
what a mess

le rez-de-chaussée
ground floor

ouf!
phew!

Allez les Toutous! Pipi dehors
Come on, dogs! Pee pee outside!

la porte-fenêtre
glass door 

C'est bien, Braise! Très, très bien! Tu attends.
That's good, Braise. Really, really good! You're waiting. 

comme d'habitude, or simply comme d'hab
as usual 

un aboiement
bark 

ouaf-ouaf
woof-woof, bow-wow 

le gardien, la gardienne
keeper, watchman(woman) 

les ravages (m)
ravages 

le spectateur, la spectatrice
onlooker, witness, audience 

il a survécu
he survived 

You've come a long way, Baby. Smokey eventually healed on the outside. On the inside he seems to have gained back his confidence, as evidenced by his morning patrol.

 

Since Smokey's frightening attack, Mother and Son regularly practice Self Defense for Dogs.

Braise: Son, mind your ears! You look more like the Flying Nun than Rambo!

Smokey: OK Mom, just trying to look scary. By the way, who is the Flying Nun?

 

It takes many tender moments to rehabilitate a victim, especially a victimized animal.

Smokey, left, says: "I can protect you, too, Mom."

fugueuse

       Almond trees, "lemons", or jalopies... near the town of Orange, France.

fugueuse (foo geuhz) noun, feminine

    : a runaway

=> the masculine is fugueur (foo guer)
=>Also: la fugue: running away ; faire une fugue or fuguer = to run away ; le fugitif (la fugitive)

Sound File: Listen to American-accented French... in today's audio file (the Francophones in the house are doing la grasse mat* or "the sleep in"...):
Download MP3 or Download Wav

Braise, "la fugueuse", est rentrée avant hier après un l-o-n-g périple!
Braise, the runaway, returned day before yesterday.... after a l-o-n-g journey

*faire la grasse matinée = to sleep in  

A Day in a French Life... by Kristin Espinasse

"A Sensational Walk in the Country"

There's plenty of time to collect a branch or two of almond flowers alongside the path, or sentier... for our dog, Braise, is dragging and I have to slow down and turn around several times to egg her on.

"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a, Fugueuse?" I tease our 5-year-old runaway. "Trop fatiguée? Et ben, je me demande pourquoi?!"

Our dog's recent escapade was enough to tire out my very tear ducts! Who knew that tear ducts could ache? A day and a half! One entire night! It was her longest disappearance.

What is sure is that our golden girl needs more exercise, more adventure... and it is up to us to get her out and about every day... else suffer another anguishing all-nighter!

"Come on!" I call, heading out to the river. The surrounding grapevines are leaf-bare and a blurry man is pruning them. I squint my eyes but he still won't come into focus, and so I do the wave: the big friendly whoever-you-are-I-salute-you! wave. It works and the stranger returns the greeting!

Braise would like to be even more amicale... she'd like to mosey over and discover just what's in the farmer's casse-croûte... but her roaming days are over (!) and I shout for her to follow us (not that Smokey is following along any better: he's taken along a picnic of his own in the form of one chewy oreille de cochon).

Between Braise's dragging feet and Smokey's smokey treat (he is obliged to pause every two minutes to lie on the ground and chew), ours is a slow stroll.

There is time to collect several branches of wild rosemary, the purple-blue flowers looking unusually true. After a despairing night, my senses are strangley "bright", so that when the noisy mallards glide out of the ruisseau... I am thunderstruck. I stop to watch in awe as the ducks fly off. 

Quickly, I step over to the stream, which is filled with irises -- soon the yellow flowers will pop out. But I am no longer searching for first flowers... it is the canetons that I'm interested in. When will the baby ducks appear?

Ma and Pa Canard are now circling cautiously above our heads and I understand only too well their concern...

I call after our furry fugueuse and our trio walks on amid flowering trees and morning song. It is time for us to return home from this sensual balade. So much to be grateful for. Yes! Thank God, Braise is back! 

 
Le Coin Commentaires
Join us here, in our community corner. Respond to today's story, offer a correction, or ask each other questions about French or France! Click here to enter the discussion or simply to learn from it.

And here's a recent comment from the What to do in Lyon edition. Margie writes: Wow! This was wonderful reading and many fabulous ideas for Lyon. Could we possibly ask same question but substitiute Strasbourg for Lyon? 

 Hi Margie. Yes, definitely! Stay tuned for the What to Do in Strasbourg - Que faire à Strasbourg edition :-) Meantime, Readers, get your ideas ready... and save them for the upcoming post!

Jean-Marc's USA Wine Tour: Meet Chief Grape and taste his wines in New York this Monday March 7th at Vestry Wines from 4 to 7 PM and in many other US cities !

French Vocabulary

le sentier = path

qu'est-ce qu'il y a = what's up? what's the matter?

fugueuse (fuguer) = runaway

trop fatiguée? = too tired?

et ben, je me demande pourquoi? = well! I wonder why?

amical(e) = friendly

le casse-croûte = snack

une oreille de cochon = pig ears (dog treats). These, and more pet supplies here. 

le ruisseau = stream

le caneton = duckling

le canard = duck

une balade = walk, stroll

***

The Paris Wife: Chicago, 1920: Hadley Richardson is a quiet twenty-eight-year-old who has all but given up on love and happiness—until she meets Ernest Hemingway and her life changes forever. Following a whirlwind courtship and wedding, the pair set sail for Paris, where they become the golden couple in a lively and volatile group—the fabled “Lost Generation”—that includes Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound, and F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. Read the reviews, here.

Also see:

Songs in French for Children :

Nintendo's My French Coach :

Provendi Revolving Soaps The practical and very neat Provendi revolving soap fixtures have adorned public school washrooms throughout France for years. Now they're turning up in the most chic places. Order here.

It's All About Braise!
. 

Since Smokey, below right, gets most of the blog space... it is time to shine the light on his Mama Braise! Here she is above, in Sept 2009, with Smokey and sisters... 

  

And though she lets others jump higher... she is the strongest of all!

She saved her son... on that fateful day in October, when two dogs attacked and left him for dead. She barked and barked, chasing them away.

But that doesn't mean she's not une chipie, or "a little devil", ever ready to elope with Smokey's dad, Sam (and ain't he "glam", that Sam (above, left)? Don't miss the story "Lost in Marseilles", when she and her boyfriend almost... almost took the train to Venice for "une fugue amoureuse", or elopement. Click here for the story.

Tug of War in French, with puppies

The game of tir à la corde is illustrated here by our pups.

le tir à la corde

    : tug-of-war

 

A Day in a French Life... by Kristin Espinasse

This'll be quick today... for by the time you receive this missive, I will be on a train heading north to the American Library in Paris. And, on a less exciting note (so as not to say "sad note"), by the time you receive this letter the puppies will be gone.

Gone from our home, to be exact--yet settled in to a new nest.

I took the following pictures a few days ago, when the remaining four puppies were busy with a game of tir à la corde.*  Watching them "tug" and "war" reminded me of les hauts et les bas* that life will throw at them, no matter how good their new homes may be. 

And so, to our 6 darlings, I would like to tell them that in this vie*...

You've got to know when to clamp down....

...and when to tug...

and, sometimes more importantly,

 
you've got to know when it is time to let go.... and refuel.

Also...

It helps to be a team.

Have fun and don't struggle so much.

Never lose hope...

Give... a lot!

In this way you will always be a winner.

We will miss you Dixie, Épice,* Étoile,* Sugar, and Dune (the last two names we're just trying out... until the new owners let us in on the permanent prénoms*...)

As great grand-mère* Jules suggested, we'll have to have you all over to our house for a big birthday party in one year's time. I can't wait to see how you will have grown (I hope I will have too). Which brings me to the last lesson (or second-to-last lesson): never stop learning and never stop loving.

lots of love,

Grand-mère Kristi

PS: my, how you've grown!

Comments, corrections--and stories of your own--are welcome and appreciated!

~~~~~~~~~~French Vocabulary~~~~~~~~
le tir à la corde = tug-of-war; les hauts et les bas = the highs and lows; la vie (f) = life; une épice (f) = spice; une etoile (f) = star; le prénom (m) = first name; grand-mère (f) = grandmother

 

*   *   *

CINEMA VERITE  

Coming this Saturday in Cinéma Vérité ... photos from Suze la Rousse! Don't miss them.

Shopping:

SmartFrench Audio CDs Intermediate/Advanced

French Demystified...simple enough for a beginner but challenging enough for a more advanced student.

Lego Make & Create Eiffel Tower 1:300

Cavallini Carte Postale * Vintage Paris * set of 12 cards Keepsake tin:  Regular & Joyeux Noel

 

   

Attacked by Puppies!

Photo of the puppies (beneath my son's legs) with their little identity tags (having just returned from the vet). Read today's picture story "Puppy Fodder" in which Braise-The-Dog and I offer up our ears, fingers, and toes to the Puppy Gods... before they go. (This is their last week with us...)

le fourrage

    : fodder

Audio File and Example Sentence Download Wav or MP3

Le fourrage est, en agriculture et élevage, une plante, ou un mélange de plantes, cultivée pour ses parties végétatives... Fodder is, in agriculture and breeding, a plant, or a mix of plants, cultivated for its vegetative parts. (Example from French Wikipedia)

A Day in a French Life... by Kristin Espinasse

PUPPY FODDER

Kids! Every parent knows that caring for them can be an all-consuming activity, that is, when the kids are not busy consuming you.

Yesterday, Braise and I, exhausted after 7 weeks... and 14 years (respectively) of child-rearing, decided to GIVE IN.  And so we collapsed on the front porch and put up our figurative white flags.

With that... the puppies rushed forth in victory!

After getting our ears, noses, fingers, and toes chewed on... and our shirts and fur slobbered on... on a eu assez*... That's when we decided to play dead in order to get these puppies off our heads!

(Photo, below: Braise, in the background, feigns la mort.* I follow suit, protecting my face just in case...)

Braise is a natural. Just look at her play dead...

In my case, the puppies aren't buying it -- though one stops to feel my pulse with her paws.....

After a bit of ceremonial concern (short-lived sympathy on their part) ... the puppies now esteem... that it is time to revive the drama queens. Let's get their ears! Let's pull on their hair! (Braise, in the background, continues to play dead, unfazed by the toutou* torture...)

The victor! (Actually, there were six of them. Each got his/her turn to rise to the sky as Champion, glorified. 

***
Have you ever let a band of puppies run all over you? Comment here. If not, I urge you to add this to your 10 things to do in 2010 list! (You are making that list aren't you? Why not share a few of the items with us, here? I could use a few ideas for my list. Thanks in advance for the inspiration!)

Also: if you are planning on attending the American Library in Paris event this Wednesday, Oct 7th, then please be sure to let me know so that I might look for you!

~~~~~~~~~French Vocabulary~~~~~~~~
on a eu assez = we'd had enough; la mort = death; toutou = doggie

 

larron

Le Petit Larron -- The Little Thief.

larron (lah rohn) noun, masculine

    :  thief

l'occasion fait le larron = opportunity makes a thief

Le larron does not seem to be used in conversational French (my daughter taught me the word after she learned it in her French class while reading a classic text) ... so here are some useful synonyms:

un escroc (swindler, con man, crook)
un malfaiteur (burglar)
un voleur (thief)

 

Audio File and Example Idiom: Download Wav or  Download MP3

    s'entendre comme larrons en foire = to get along well, to be as thick as thieves

A Day in a French Life...
by Kristin Espinasse

Today's episode will be brief -- brief as the life of a houseplant under the tutelage of a black-thumbed housewife.

Au revoir* to my dear Spathiphyllum plant, a gift from my voisine,* Brigitte. I kept you, dear Spati, en vie* for a record 6 months... when last night six thieves broke out of their prison pen...

(Photo of "thieves breaking out of prison pen" -- not the actual pen--which is much larger. Here, the puppies are simply re-enacting the breakout that led up to so much mischief...)

...wrapped their sharp teeth and puppy breath around your lovely white flowers, and dragged you kicking and screaming across the kitchen and living room floors... leaving your leaves and your dirt in their wiggly-tailed wake.

No time to write; I've got puppies to police and a houseplant to treat...with bandages, glue, and a splint or two --  thanks to the ol' black-thumbed housewife remedy.
.

(photo of Mama Braise, giving les petits larrons a lecture! Oh, those troublemakers look smug!)

Comments, corrections, and stories of your own are welcome and appreciated. Click here to access the comments box.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~French Vocabulary~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
au revoir = goodbye; la voisine (f) = neighbor; en vie = alive

***.

"Watch out for the Dog!"

Our New Puppy & Dog Commands in French

Max and Jackie with baby Braise, 2006

la fifille(fee-fee) noun, feminine

 : affectionate term for "my little girl" or "sweetheart"

Petit Larousse (French) definition: fifille = fille, fillette (girl, little girl)

 

Audio File & Example Sentence:
Listen to my (then 11-year-old) son, Max, pronounce the following sentence:
Viens ici ma fifille! Come here, my girl!

Download MP3 or Download wav

French Expression:
filfille à sa maman = (derogative) mommy's little girl

A DAY IN A FRENCH LIFE..
by Kristin Espinasse

(Note: the following story was written 3 years ago.)

I had many concerns about acquiring a dog: Who would take it for a walk? Who would make sure there was enough fresh water in its gamelle,* and what about la pillule,* barking, ticks... not to mention who would watch it while we were away?

Strangely, of all my worries, communication wasn't one of them.

"That's a good girl!" I congratulate our puppy, Braise, after she has done her besoins* outside the house (and not on the couch like the last time).
"You are SUCH a good girl!" I repeat, patting her soft head in approval.

"Mom, Braise doesn't understand you!" my 8-year-old says, pointing out the problem: English.

I never thought about our dog being French. I stop to consider Jackie's point. Though I do not agree with my daughter (Braise understands my English... when there's a reward biscuit in my hand), her language comment does remind me of a tip that I have just learned: speak in one-, two-, or three-word commands.

When next I return to the house, I offer our pup a one-syllable English order: "Come!"

But Jackie stands her ground. "Viens!"* she corrects, in French. Our puppy obeys -- only who can say whether it is the French or the English command that worked? Hmmm? Hmmm!

When Braise jumps up on me I react. "Down!" I tell order.
"Koo-shay!"* Jackie insists, over-riding my command.

"Sit!" I continue, determined to educate the dog à ma façon.*
"Assis!"* my daughter counters, with growing concern for our dog's linguistic education. If Jackie has her way, our dog will communicate via French one day.

To my "Shake!" Jackie corrects "Donne la patte!"* and when I say "Good girl!" Jackie feels compelled to translate my flummoxing foreign words: "Bien, fifille!"*

My daughter's concern throws me back in time to when I used to stroll her, as a six-month-old, through the village of St. Maximin. "Are you hungry?" I would say if she cried, or "You seem a little tired." Occasionally a French neighbor would intervene.

"You are not speaking English to your child, are you? The two languages will confuse her!" they cautioned. I remember being taken aback by what I found to be an absurd idea: that the commingling of languages might in some way harm my child, or at least result in mental mayhem.

I listen to the child in question, who is speaking to our puppy in French and to her own mother in English. Instead of letting language tangle in her mind, I'd say she has it wrapped around her Franco-American finger. As for our puppy, she has us all tied around her Provençale paw.
.

***
Comments welcome. Please share with us one benefit of being bi-lingual. Can you think of any negatives (or set-backs) to knowing many languages? Do you believe that there is some truth to what those ladies said about confusing a child by teaching the young learner another language? Share your thoughts and experience here.

 

Today's story was written years ago. Now, our Braise has puppies of her own. We are much more relaxed about babies, these days, and therefore speak in French, English... and sometimes Franglais! (The photo above was also taken by Jacqui McCargar. Thanks Jacqui!).

 

~~~~~~~~~~~French Vocabulary~~~~~~~~~~~~
la pillule (f) = pill, birth control; la gamelle (f) = bowl (for pet); les besoins (mpl, from "faire ses besoins" = to relieve oneself) (for an animal: "to do its business"); viens! = come here!; koo-shay! (pronunciation for "couché!" = (lie) down!; à ma façon = my way; assis! = sit; donne la patte! = give me (your) paw; bien, fifille! = good, little girl!

Comme Si de Rien N'Etait

After a spell in Marseilles (Hex in the City?) the dogs are hanging out now, like angels, at the farm. That's the seductrice (winking). Sam "The Man," the gentleman gigolo, is looking camera shy. Click to enlarge this photo.

comme si de rien n'était

    : as if nothing had happened

Sound File & Example Sentence
Download MP3 audio clip

Les chiens nous regardent, comme si de rien n'était.
The dogs look at us, as if nothing had happened.

.

A Day in a French Life...
by Kristin Espinasse

(Note: The following story is continued from Wednesday's post.)

We wake up to the sound of barking! Rushing over to the bedroom window, we see no dogs in the cours* below. Hearing more aboiements* I look up to the sky. It is the seagulls that are calling. Cursed seagulls!

The sun is shining brightly, comme si de rien n'était.* The night had the nerve to end, the next day, to begin, sans chiens.*

"What are we going to tell Jackie?" Jean-Marc asks.
Our daughter sleeps, each night, with her hand dangling from the bed, to the floor, where it rests with reassurance on her dog's soft back.

I do not know how to answer my husband's question. I keep opening my mouth, but only the letter "I" comes out. 

"Je vais faire un tour,*" Jean-Marc decides, putting on his T-shirt.
"Wait for me!"

During the ride over to the commissariat,* I see a caniche* on a leash, its owner trotting along, light on her feet.  My face feels so heavy--as if anchors were drawing down the sides of my mouth; it is a strange sensation: the palpable weight of a frown.

I was not brought up to be so negative! "What You Say Is What You Get!" was the only other elixir in the medicine cabinet of my American childhood--that--and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. There were no cures for lost dogs even then.

*     *     *

At the police station, the droplets of blood have been wiped away. The comptoir is clean and behind it one of the officers is telling us there have been no reports of missing dogs.

We are turning to leave when another officer speaks up: Attendez une minute*... golden retrievers? Ça me dit quelque chose*... Yes, last night... at the train station--il y avait deux chiens goldens en train de s'amuser sur la pelouse.*

"Ce sont nos chiens!"* My husband shouts, his back already to the police officers as we hurry toward the exit.

*     *     *

At la Gare Saint-Charles a man is passed out beneath a tree, beer bottles surrounding his head like a halo. Jean-Marc and I step around the SDF*. There are no dogs playing on the grass, some twelve hours after the last sighting. We head up the famous sky-high stairs.

I see spots of blood on the steps--the same sanguine spots that Braise had left across the kitchen floor last week, before going into heat.
"Braise!" Jean-Marc shouts across the upper esplanade. A few disheveled men, beer in hand, look over to the shouting man. "BRAISE!" he calls out, with force. The men set down their bottles and study the newbie wanderer. 

Braise come here! my husband commands, to the empty air before him, as if our dog would appear, comme ça.* And why not?
"BRAISE, Braise viens*!" I join in, zigzagging forward, looking here, there, in search of a miracle.

I see another homeless man sleeping on a filthy mattress beneath the train station. I hope the dogs slept here, à côté de lui,* so that all might find comfort.

"Let's go back to the B&B and get something to eat," Jean-Marc finally decides.

Driving out of the parking lot, Jean-Marc turns right--changing direction at the last minute. 
"We'll just have a look over here," he explains. The car climbs to the upper-level, behind the train station, where a small square is empty... but for a couple of wayward travelers who are perched, side by furry-side, at the top of some steps, three or four meters from the street.

Ils sont là!* The tired travelers look over at us... comme si de rien n'était.

*     *   *

Once the dogs are locked into the car, with the windows slighly ajar, I turn to thank the hero. "You are king. KING!" I shout, having once mistaken my husband for the King of Spain,** once upon a time....

"I would marry you all over again!" I say, wrapping my arms tight around him, rediscovering the palpability of passion. And a kiss never tasted so good.


***
Comments

Update: Don't miss SAM'S version of this story (in French, of course!)... over at the blog Entre Gris et Rose.

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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~References~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
King of Spain: please don't miss the Gallic love story of how I met my husband... and mistook him for un roi. Read the introductory chapter to my book Words in a French Life: Lessons in Love and Language.






An attentive amour.

French Vocabulary
Would some of you like to help define these words in the comments box? Merci!

cours
aboiements
comme si de rien n'était
sans chiens
je vais faire un tour
commissariat
caniche
Attendez une minute
ça me dit quelque chose
il y avait deux chiens goldens en train de s'amuser sur la pelouse
ce sont nos chiens! = those are our dogs!
SDF
comme ça
viens
à côte de lui
ils sont là


Braise, left, and her dashing, doting, date for the night in Marseilles.

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MAP of the Misadventurers' path

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creve

Now that you know the ending to our lost dog story, we can slow down a bit -- and learn the middle part! (Click on the photo to enlarge... and please excuse the marchand de sable or "sandman" in Sam The Man's eyes, but you'll allow him the excuse of complete exhaustion, won't you?!)
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crevé(e) (kruh-vay) adjective

    : exhausted, dead beat

Audio File & Example Sentence
Download & listen to "creve" MP3

Les chiens, qui se sont échappés, sont complètement crevés.
The dogs, who had gotten away, are completely exhausted.
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A Day in a French Life...
by Kristin Espinasse

(Note: To read Part One of this story go here).

At the commissariat de police along the Canebière, Jean-Marc and I step up to the comptoir.* I go to rest my arms on the counter-top... when I see gouttelettes* of blood on its surface. My hands drop to my sides and I look over to Jean-Marc, who is already pleading with les policiers*:

"S'il vous plaît... on a perdu deux chiens...."*

Three officers fix expressionless eyes on us. They must think we are crazy. Here we are, looking for a golden retriever in heat... when the person in line ahead of us had been injured. But weren't our own hearts bleeding? Could the officers see the injury inside of us?

They could. Earlier, at Stalingrad square, it was another officer, stationed in a fourgonnette,* who had suggested we stop into this, the Noailles, police station. I had run up to the police truck, after nervously crossing over tram tracks and traffic lanes, to ask whether anyone had reported a missing dog. Only, as the policeman leaned over to the truck's window, to hear me, a few more frantic citizens arrived. The man now standing behind me was drunk--and the woman standing beside him, angry.  "Bon,* I will let you get back to work..." I said to the policemen, wondering whether, to the authorities, domestic anger might constitute a more pressing situation. That's when the officer shouted over my shoulder, to the man and the woman: "Would you two keep your voices down, please?!" Next, he pulled out a notepad.

"Were the dogs tattooed?"
"Yes!" I remembered with a sigh of relief.
"Were they wearing médailles*?"
"Yes... I mean, no! Both dogs recently lost their tags..."
"Have you called the SPA*?"
"Yes--but we got a recording!" I remembered my husband's cynical remark, after hanging up the phone: "Et, bien sûr, ça ne répond pas!"*
"Are the dogs méchants*?"
"No! No, no!" This was the third time that we were asked this question, which still took me by surprise. I had not realized that golden retrievers might pose a threat to anyone! Unless... out of desperation... or in response to what might feel like a threat... Oh, Seigneur!* What if a couple of kids found the dogs and tried to drag them inside, by their collars--when the hungry animals wanted to find their way home? My mind began to draw up disaster.

"Is there a number where we can reach you?" the policeman asked, putting a stop to my imaginings. After carefully noting down the information, the officer suggested we stop into the Noailles police station.

*     *     *

Back at Noailles, I stare at the droplets of blood on the counter, wondering where oh where is our dog--and is she in pain? I hear Jean-Marc's voice, and see that he is turning to leave. "Merci," he thanks the officers, who wish us bonne chance.*

On the corner of Canebière and Boulevard Garibaldi we see Jean-Noël, Sam's owner. He is standing alone, which answers a pressing question. Jean-Noël reports that he has spoken to his wife, Sabine. She confirms that no street accidents--involving dogs--have been reported. Oh, mon Dieu--it is only a matter of time!

"Chances are, the dogs are still roaming..." Jean-Noël says, on the bright side, and I am touched by his hopeful heart. My own heart sinks at the thought of Sabine and Jean-Noël losing their dog--all because of us! "Sam" their golden retriever of eight and a half years... is one of the reasons that travelers flock back to their charming B&B, where the golden host adds so much to the cozy atmosphere.

"I'll head north," Jean-Noël tells us.
"Okay," Jean-Marc says, "We'll head west."

I try not to think about how the dogs may be heading east, or south--advancing in the opposite direction. The situation is hopeless and the dogs--helpless! It is the helplessness and the innocence of the animals that torture us the most. How to explain the nauseating sentiment? It feels as if my own five-year-old child--and his little sister!--had wandered onto a freeway! I can almost hear the cars screeching to a halt, as the "toddlers" toddle across seven lanes of traffic. God help them!

I do my best to keep my thoughts tied up, for fear I'll let loose the wrath of WHY: Why did we bring Braise to Marseilles?! Why didn't we have her spayed?! Dammit, Dammit, Dammit! Maybe if I displace the heavy blame from my heart that is being crushed... I will find relief?

The wrath of WHY continues: Why did we choose this weekend to come to Marseilles! Why did I let my family talk me into getting this dog? I knew she would break our hearts one day... one day....

One. Day. One. One... Focus your mind! One. Love... Love is all. Be loving. There is no use pointing fingers. What we are to do is to love each other through this pain. I reach over to put my hand on Jean-Marc's back, which is wet through his T-shirt with worry. He is weaving in and out of traffic, looking left, to my looking right--our eyes endlessly scouring the crowded boulevards and side streets of Marseilles. I look under the parked cars, up the stairs to the church.... inside the open garages. They could be anywhere--anywhere at all.

*     *     *

Fast forward. It is 2:30 a.m. the next morning....

"Let's do another tour around the neighborhood." Jean-Marc says. The tears in my throat wet my vocal chords so that I do not recognize my own voice. It is a low, slow, slur that comes out: I do not know how to tell Jean-Marc that I want to go to sleep now. I feel too guilty to admit to this. How can one ever stop looking for a lost love?

"I think that's enough for tonight," I say.
"You don't want to do one more circle around the block?" my husband asks, point blank.
"I don't know. I can't make a decision! I want you to decide."

"Ne me mets pas dans une situation embarrassante!" Jean-Marc's words strike back.
"But, I--"
"Ne me mets pas dans une situation embarrassante!"

I am stunned by his unexpected reaction, until I begin to try to translate the French: "Do not put me in an uncomfortable position." It is then that I feel compassion instead of defensiveness. It wasn't fair to ask him to end the search.

And so I end it.

"Let's go in now." And we do, but not before unlocking anxious eyes from the sidewalks, the alleyways, the parks, the gardens and the squares. Oh, Braise--Sam!--are you somewhere out there? Goodnight.

Inside our rented room I ask one last question. "Veux-tu me prendre dans tes bras?"* And I hope my husband's arms will strangle the worry inside of me, in time for us to fall to sleep.

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***
Read the final chapter of this story.

Note: this story continues on Friday. Comments

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~~~~~~French Vocabulary~~~~~~~
Would some of you like to help translate these terms in the comments box? Merci beaucoup!

comptoir
gouttelette
policier
s'il vous plâit... on a perdu deux chiens....
fourgonnette
bon
médaille
SPA
Et, bien sûr, ça ne répond pas!
méchant
oh, Seigneur!
bonne chance
Veux-tu me prendre dans tes bras?

May she never fly off by the wings of her ears (see how they're ready to go!) again!
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In books: The Rose Cafe: Love and War in Corsica

Starred Review by Publishers Weekly. Avoiding military service in Vietnam, American author Mitchell spent six months working in the kitchen of the Rose Café on the French Mediterranean island of Corsica, a season of which he recollects in this powerful memoir.

chien perdu

Our beloved dog, Braise. Photo taken one month ago...
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CHIEN PERDU

    : LOST DOG
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Audio File
Download Chien "perdu" MP3 file

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A Day in a French Life...
by Kristin Espinasse

A terrible thing happened at the breeder's in Marseilles: the dogs escaped.

Jean-Marc and I arrived at the boarder's (who, I now admit, were not really brothel owners at all--but a sympathetic couple who run a charming bed and breakfast near the Gare St. Charles). We had met them--and their dashing golden retriever, Sam--last year, when we rented a room, chez eux,* for the night. When they graciously agreed to welcome Braise for the weekend--at the height of her chaleur*--we couldn't believe our luck.

And now, somehow, that luck has gone terribly amuck. Sabine, the B&B owner, met us at the door of the historic building in the heart of Marseilles. That is when we heard the bad news: "Ils se sont échappés."* The dogs had disappeared.

Sabine was white with worry, having just returned from an initial street search. "Je ne comprends pas!"* she said. How could the dogs have possibly gotten loose? Sabine & Jean-Noël's B&B, an ancient bonneterie,* is located off the busy street, beyond a towering row of sky-high buildings which flank La Rue de la Libération. To enter their home, one has to pass through three doors, one entry hall and a courtyard. How the dogs made it through all of these barriers, to the street, beyond, is one great mystère.*

There was no time to figure it out. Jean-Marc and I turned on our heels and headed back out the door. We had this naive notion that we might find our golden retriever--as one might find a needle in a golden haystack--by sheer chance.

*     *     *

The "haystack" that is Marseilles is nearly two million inhabitants strong. Stepping back out onto the Rue de la Libération, I watch, horrified, as the cars lurch, screech, and speed by. Our Braise, who was reared in the countryside, is accustomed to dirt roads. The most dangerous "wheels" in our area belong to tractors--which occasionally putt-putt past by our farm, a haven that she rarely ventures away from.

My God, Marseilles. Of all places to be lost! Please God, please God...

I begin questioning the pedestrians. "Excusez-moi... vous n'avez pas--par hasard--vu des chiens?"* Incredibly, a man and his daughter have seen the dogs sans laisses*:

"Two long-haired dogs? Yes, we saw them around 3 o'clock. They were headed that way."

I thank the monsieur, allowing the bad news to register. 3 o'clock? That was 3 hours ago! Just how much distance could two dogs cover in 180 minutes? I look down the crowded street, innocently searching for the dogs -- before it dawns on me that they had been headed toward the crowded Canebière on this saturated Saturday afternoon. 

"Come on!" Jean-Marc says, "We had better take the car." As I begin to cross the street, I feel my torso jerk backward. Instinct. A car honks, angrily, sparing me. Beyond, more cars reel by, jumping lanes, erratically, ever eager to get ahead of the next guy.

*     *     *

As we make our way down the boulevard, I notice how hard--at times impossible--it is to see the sidewalk, where the dogs might still be wandering. The cars, which line the trottoir,* are packed so closely together that they block our view of what might lie beyond.

Lie beyond... Oh mon Dieu!* What if the dogs were lying somewhere in the middle of the street?

Our search on wheels begins. Jean-Marc pulls over the car again and again. "Run in and ask the barman... Hop out and ask the coiffeur*... Go and check with the greengrocer... There's a policeman!" Meantime he throws his head out the window to question pedestrians: have you seen two dogs--goldens? On a perdu deux chiens*... Headshake after headshake, they haven't.

As we drive up one narrow street and down the next, busy boulevard I see many dogs. Each and every one on a leash--lest it be crushed by a car or a tram! I look down to discover, for the first time, the chaotic tracks of man and machine. Looking up again I see a tram rushing forward. Even the homeless people, who almost fade into the background of the busy streets, have their scrawny dogs secured with leashes--and for good reason!

I have never seen so many people in one place in all my life. If the cubbyholes and pockets of this crowded city aren't hiding our dogs--the people are--via one great human patchwork curtain. The absurdity of our search settles in--and seizes us. I feel a lump growing in my throat as shock steals my voice, strangles the breath of hope. We continue our search in silence, here beneath the sun that soon will set.

*     *     *
Continue reading Part Two of this story.

Comments

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~~~~~~~~~~~~French Vocabulary~~~~~~~~~~~
chez eux = at their place; les chaleurs = heat (dog's heat); Ils se sont échappés = they escaped; je ne comprends pas = I don't understand; la bonneterie (f) = hosier's / lingerie shop; le mystère (m) = mystery; Excusez-moi... vous n'avez pas--par hasard--vu deux chiens? = Excuse me... you haven't--by chance--seen two dogs?; sans laisses = without leashes; oh mon Dieu = oh my God; le coiffeur (m) = the hairdresser; on a perdu deux chiens = we have lost two dogs
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My mom, Jules, and Braise playing together last Spring, in the Vauclusian countryside, not a car in sight.