My pal, Harriet Sternstein, has a shop in Paris - Mon Bon Chien. I was invited to visit . . . maybe quick television spot, or a radio interview -- ah, the possibilities.
And so one day it was announced, "Jill, we're going to Paris." And that's how it began, one day in the late summer of my third year.

Not all Lakeland Terriers may visit Paris. It entails a visit to your favorite vet -- at least one visit, as it turns out.
That, and lots of paperwork by the United States Government and some minister in France.
But in the end, it involves very little actual work on the part of the Lakeland Terrier.

And so after months of planning on the part of someone other than myself, we packed my little duds, and off we went.
I rode in the belly of a big plane, which would not take-off until the lady was assured by both the pilot and flight attendant that I was safely aboard,
napping with pink pig and my fox. No, I was not sedated in any way -- I'm merely a calm-in-my-crate kind of Lakeland.
In fact, I've flown almost a dozen times in my young life, though this was my first trip across the pond.

Wednesday, 22 November 2006.
What does it take to get a Lakeland Terrier to Paris, France?
One number-200 crate, one sherpa bag filled with toys and Lakeland clothing, a camera bag, one suitcase, and one carry-on laptop bag.
By my accounting, that’s five (5) bags, a lady, and a 15-pound terrier. OK, fourteen pounds – I’d been sick.
With the utmost love and care, I was handed over to priority shipping at American Airlines.
No, I wasn’t afraid at all . . . but did I mention the Xanax for the lady, and the business-class seat?

Thursday, 23 November 2006

Thanksgiving, and I arrive with my lady in Paris a l’Hotel Bourgogne et Montana.
Very pet-friendly, naturally . . . Left Bank, in the square with the Palais Bourbon/National Assembly.
I was removed from my crate at a place called the Charles DeGaulle Airport.
People spoke a foreign language. Luckily, "cute" translates, if only by the look on the faces of people the world over.
My driver invited me to sit beside him, but the lady declined his kind gesture.
The driver understood that I likely wanted to remain out of my crate after the lengthy plane ride. Oddly enough, the lady didn't seem to agree.
And so I returned to my crate and lounged all the way to the hotel, only to find that my room wasn’t ready in time for my late-morning nap.

With total nonchalance, as if I’d been abroad every year of my life, I sat in a chair in the hotel’s bar and received much petting from a couple on their way to Cairo.
I enjoyed a wee sip of gin & tonic. My cocktail and so much petting took its toll, so eventually I curled in a ball in the comfy chair.
I was perfectly behaved until . . . I smelled a mouse behind the closet door beside the bar. We decide not to mention this to the nice staff.
Understandably, I had to dismount and quietly sniff for the mouse at the closet.
Discretion was required. Not a word to the staff, and indeed, no need to alarm the nice couple on their way to Cairo –
they merely thought I was stretching my legs after such a lengthy flight.

An Orvis™ pet-ometer was strapped to my collar. I have no idea what that means.
We strolled the little street outside the hotel, window-shopped, then visited the park where I could see that Eiffel Tower thing.
We returned to the hotel for the announcement that my room ready, equipped with bowls and biscuits . . . something about a stocked mini-bar for the lady.
All too soon I was introduced to an elevator from 1924.
Charming, she said; but this elevator, if it can be called that, sunk four inches whenever anyone stepped inside . . . even a 15-pound Lakeland Terrier.
In reality this was no elevator . . . merely a placemat-size platform on a pulley. Too small for a dog with a lady and a suitcase.
The contraption would transport a dog and a lady, or two small adults, or a dog and a suitcase, but no more.
I entered. I am fearless.
The valet toted my transporter (known in the U.S. as my crate), her suitcase, and my sherpa bag filled with my toys and sweaters up six flights of narrow, circular stairs. Big tip in order here.
She says that for an extra 10 Euro they’ll bring ice to the room . . . for 30 they’ll "hide the body."
Off to my room we went.

I have a balcony! And it is enormous!
The marvelous balcony runs the length of my side of the building on the sixth floor.
I may access my balcony via two (2) sets of French doors from both the bedroom or the bathroom.
No . . . wait . . . said balcony contains a rail dividing my lengthy balcony from a small portion of the balcony belonging to a room down the way.
I visit the next room only to be called home with that glorious word: "DINNER!"
A vanity stool from my bathroom is placed in front of the dividing rail.
Dauntless, I begin to scheme. I know that the other hotel guests want to meet me . . . I’ve come all the way from Texas.
Incidentally, what's wrong with this picture? It's my leg! What happened to the furnshings on my leg? Come back soon for that sad tale.

It’s raining as we unpack.
In reality, I did very little of the unpacking, but I did remove pink pig and the fox from my transporter and place them strategically on the bed, behind pillows.
Can't see 'em, can you?

Shades of Yellow. 
Walk-time, and we make our way a short distance in the rain to the park of Des Invalides.
Yellow frothy vomit, yellow-hooded dog rain slicker, yellow fallen Chestnut leaves (hey, remember, I’d been sick before we left Dallas).
Was that too much information?
I did, however, feel well enough to bark at two Yorkies who walked off-leash with their lady. They had no rain slickers.

Different continent, same tub game.
Back to my room and more balcony romping. I hear bath water.
After a great deal of barking and screaming (mine, not hers), which I’m certain may be heard to the Sacre Couer, I bolt into the tub to bite French bubbles . . .
I become acquainted with the hand-held douche. Grooming ensues; but I’m clean and fresh and frisky. Yet still it rains.

Jill & 1664.
A Seize Cent Soixante Quatre is discovered in the minibar. I suggest that it be consumed tout de suite.
The lady informs me that I am unfamiliar with the Euro and, indeed, with mini-bar commerce, in general.
We depart for dinner, very tired, but extraordinarily clean.
We visit the world famous patisserie directly across the street. In I march. I am petted and adored. A brioche is offered.
The nice, brioche-offering staff pack our dinner and, of course, dessert, and I am trotted in the rain back to the hotel for dinner en suite.


By the time we curl into bed with my fox and my rug from home, I’m feeling at the top of my game. Must have been the brioche.

Friday, 24 November
J’ai une mal estomac,
and 4:00 a.m. brings yellow froth, and what’s worse, it’s on blue polka-dot carpet.
When will it end? When will it end?!
After much cleaning, the carpet is not a catastrophe, but neither is the product of my tummy completely indiscernible.
Must have been the brioche.
Quelle dommage. Such is the life of a hotelier that accepts Lakeland Terriers.

Worldwide, birds are the enemy.
In the morning we returns to the park at Des Invalides only to encounters birds.
On my short, black and gold Greek-key leash, my progress is impeded. Oh, how I long for my 30-foot line.

Mass transit, Paris style.
My premier experience on the Metro, from Des Invalides to Commerce.
Impressing the lady, and in truth impressing myself, I beautifully navigate a dozen stairways and escalators.
True, I am somewhat cautious on the platform with the noise of the trains, but I sit politely on the train and am admired.
Très mignon, everyone says.
We exit the Metro into absolutely pouring rain and must navigate to rue Mademoiselle and Mon Bon Chien.
I’m sporting my winter-white quilted jacket, black fur collar, but my rain slicker would be so much more appropriate.
A 1664 is required to fortify our resolve for gourmet biscuits.
We stop at a café and watch rain.
I’m told that this is a very Parisian experience; but this ambiance, the je ne sais quois is lost on this provincial Lakeland Terrier.

I arrive at Mon Bon Chien, ready to be introduced to the gracious Harriet "Hat" Sternstein, and I smell homemade, gourmet biscuits.
But wait, I also smell other dogs and I promptly pee on the doggie divan that was oh-so beautifully draped with layers and layers of fancy damask
placed in the doggy salon area of the shop.

The lady is mortified; but with a wave of her hand Madame Sternstein instructs her assistant to whisk away a layer of damask, slightly dampened by yours truly.
Our hostess casually dismisses the incident, "it happens all the time," and graciously chats about the States.
Darn right, it happens all the time – my nose knows that! Still, no amount of apologies can undo our shame.
We arrived as Madame Sternstein was concluding a radio interview. Do you suppose she mentioned me and the incident with the divan?
No matter. It’s shopping time. But wait! No sweaters fit me! They're all either small enough for members of the snack group, or large enough for the hunting group.
Evidently it's not my day to be a famous French model.
Most sweaters are custom-tailored with a one week wait. Oh no! I cannot wait a week for a French sweater.
Biscuits are fed.
Vast amounts of homemade biscuits are purchased, along with a coin purse in the shape of a terrier with a bone in its mouth, which does not remotely resemble me.
Go ahead, lady. Throw money to erase the shame of the incident on the divan. That’s the answer in all cultures, isn’t it?
Cider calls to us, and so we bid au revoir to the divine "Hat" Sternstein.

I visit a Tabac, soaked through by rain.
Enter into the Tabac, which looks to me essentially to be a French version of a 7-11, but with a bar and a few little tables.
The bar is occupied with standing gentlemen who must be at lunch or on a break from their workday.
Don't these folks have anything better to do than to stand at a bar at noon on a Friday? And where are their terriers?
We take a table across from the crowded bar. I stand quietly under the tiny table, feigning humility . . . and it works.
The nice gentlemen and the proprietors believe that I know my place in the world of the Tabac.
I am so very well behaved – must be culture shock, or the supreme disappointment of not modeling sweaters at Mon Bon Chien.
A 1664 is ordered . . . but evidently the waiter has never heard of it. Inconceivable!
As questionable as her French may be, the four words that she can pronounce flawlessly are Seize Cent Soixante Quatre.
OK, a cider. "A what?" says the waiter.
OK, any biere.

A Leffe? Sure, whatever that may be.
The Leffe Blond arrives. Mmmm. Add two words to her vocabulary. Shades of Chimay, but a bit lighter, she says.
I’m provided with a bowl of water, which is rather superfluous given the fact that I’m drenched from nose to tip of tail from the rain.
Just a slight wag of the tail advises that I’m the sweetest Lakeland that ever lived. Still, we are on a mission for a cider. Time to go.
After what will be eternally known as the Paris divan-incident, no chances will be taken with my "hurry up" breaks today. We head for the ever-elusive grass of Paris.

I visit a market – a grocer, with fresh fruits and vegetables outdoors on the sidewalk.
Does that sign say no dogs?! Not in Paris! No dogs!? Unthinkable! Will I be turned away?
True, I am soaked. But turned away?!
The world’s best Lakeland Terrier in the winter-white quilted jacket with black faux fur collar?
I think not . . . and in we go.
Ah, France. This tiny, hole-in-the-wall grocer has a lovely selection of wines, even good Champagne, Pims (of course), and cider.
I’m offered a slice of apple. Cider is purchased for the hotel room. Merci, monsieur.

Dejection!
Déjection (my spelling is questionable) is evidently what comes from the derriere of le pooch;
and when you think about it, the poop does indeed, if one is lucky, deject from one’s rump region.
And so in light of recent health issues and the biscuits proffered at Mon Bon Chien, it’s back on the Metro bound for a very fast-paced walk to the park at Des Invalides.
Ah, a stroll in those lovely yellow, sodden Chestnut leaves that cover the ground . . .
. . . the ground, not the grass. Grass is Paris is a myth, or so often it seems.
According to the lady who has visited many times, no one is allowed on grass in Paris; certainly not Lakeland Terriers.
And for this terrier who knows exactly what to do on grass, when commanded, this elusive and/or forbidden grass is going to be anguish.
Thank the Maker for leaves, which are not totally unfamiliar and which, at least, have a natural scent, and the scent of hundreds of other dogs and their déjection .
And thus I "make poop" (versus my "hurry up" posture). Now ordinarily, a pooping Lakeland is nothing to write home about.
However, in Paris, where a vigilant, bicycle patrol hands-out fines, the pick-up and removal of déjection is de rigueur.
And herein lies the beauty of the yellow leaves.
That clever lady, bearing a magic-bag holder on my leash, merely grabs a handful of leaves in the poop-removal-bag,
simultaneously trapping le poop, thus avoiding the feel of the product itself.
Voilá. Off to one of myriad waste receptacles. (Again, I ponder . . . was that too much information?)

Naptime for the baby, no we don’t mean maybe.
She sings that song all the time, at home and abroad. Let’s hear her translate that to French.
A two-hour nap provides us travelers with our beauty rest. I am completely at the top of my game.

I become overly comfortable with my balcony.
The ubiquitous Parisian Yorkshire Terrier barks on the street below.
I am repeatedly and sternly warned not to leap through the wide rails to an untimely death.

A walk down Sainte Germain.
I admit, I am a tad unsure about the busy street and large trucks, and when I’m in tow (or leading the way) so is the lady.
A quick stop into the heated, vinyl-enshrouded terrace of a brasserie yields two 1664s and three young students vacationing in Paris from London.
I sit in a chair and the three British students are astounded at my good behavior, though no more so than I.
Don’t they have good Lakelands in London? I know they exist in Scotland - my daddy came from the land of the tartan.
We visit with the British students, and our dinner in the brasserie is followed by a stop at a patisserie for a tarte au fraises.
Then, before our very eyes, the sign: Les Beaujolais nouveaux sont arrive.
She explains that, " ‘tis the season for this young but delicious wine."
I know nothing of young wines. Bring me a young mouse!
A quick stop in the marchand du vin is in order. No dog refused yet.


I visit the Eiffel Tower after dark.
As promised by our driver from the airport, on the hour, every hour after dark,
the Eiffel Tower is illuminated, in addition to its continual night lights, with thousands of tiny, sparkling white lights.
It looks like an old-fashion sparkler, with which I am familiar from July 4 and birthday celebrations.
The vision is entirely lost on the lady, who evidently prefers the continuously-lighted tower from days of yore and prior visits.
I, however, appreciate the occasionally dim light and take the opportunity, after dark, to run on my 30-foot lead in the forbidden grass of the Champs de Mars.
Day’s end reflects over 1500 steps on the pet-ometer. What does that mean?

Saturday, November 25

I visit the Tuilleries on a windy day.
In my most beautiful, pink, bejeweled collar and matching lead, with no sweater, I venture forth on a relatively warm but very, very windy day.
Back onto that Metro thing.
I go only one stop to Concorde, suddenly canceling the lady’s plans to change trains at Concorde and continue on another line to Tuilleries or even the Louvre.
I am absolutely bonkers, pulling and straining. No, I cannot explain myself. Sometimes Lakelands must act like terriers.
We exit the Metro and walk the Rue de Rivoli, passing Angelina, where I am promised we will take tea later . . . if only I’ll walk nicely.
On to the Tuilleries, where, despite rumors to the contrary, it appears that dogs are not allowed on the north side of the gardens.
Wind gusts are so strong that one literally has to lean into the wind to keep from stumbling.
Hold on to your hat. My ears are flying backward.

A quick trip toward the Pyramide de Louvre.
Past the Tuilleries, we camp in a small grassy area with benches beside the Arc du Carousel and attempt to take photos.
She changes camera lenses, while I lunge for pigeons. This will never do, she announces.
I’m wild. I pull toward the shrubberies. I strain on the lead.
Heretofore, this behavior is only observed in the presence of rodents. Hmm.
"Starting to get the real picture, Lady?" More Parisian mouses.
She sings some silly French song about a mouse tatting lace in Sainte Chappelle. I am stunned that she knows these French songs.
Photography is impossible with a frantic terrier and mice in the area.
Enough culture.

A much needed fortification.
Please, quick, a glass of Beaujolais at a sidewalk table on the Rue de Rivoli.
The wind is so strong that the glass of wine may blow over.
Drink fast, lady; I’m going to whine.
Let’s go back to the "cultured" mouses of the Louvre.

Ah, the dog area of the Tuilleries. It’s not a Parisian myth!
Indeed, along the north side of the Tuilleries, parallel to the gardens and to the Rue de Rivoli,
exists a lengthy swath of the park, albeit sans grass, where dogs are welcome.
I take the opportunity to hurry up, and with this business out of the way, it seems to be a good time to make my Lakeland presence known at Angelina.

The promise fulfilled.
Since I was a few months old I’ve been told about the dogs at Angelina in Paris.
Dogs in a world-class tea room? The grand dame of tea rooms?! And here I am about to enter Angelina – a mere three-year-old.
So why this wild canine behavior today? She wonders, "Is there something about sporting a sweater that calms-down this dog?"
She takes no chances and turns onto a side street, out of the wind, for us to don our matching pink-with-black-boucle-fringe sweater, hat, and scarf.
Her hat and scarf! Me in sweater only. Yes, the pink matches my pink bejeweled collar.
I visit Angelina, which has a line from the front door to the maitre d’.
Now a promise is a promise, and after all, I’ve been to the dog park, and we don’t want a scene; so I am suddenly perfectly behaved.
The nice ladies behind us ask my name, in French, of course.
Jill!
Jill the Pill.
They do not understand the part about the pill, particularly when yours truly is standing there as if I’m utterly bored
and as if a visit to a French tea room is an everyday occurrence.
Slowly the line moves forward and we are now standing next to a large sideboard containing hundreds of pastries, all varieties.
The largest sideboard ever made, glass-encased top, with every pastry ever invented.
Sssh . . . a mouse! Quietly, with utter stealth, I flatten myself and scoot underneath the sideboard.
The sudden disappearance of the pink sweater is so subtle that it’s actually charming. Ask anyone.
More importantly, my disappearance is completely undetected. The lady is talking chiens with some other lady.
Where her Lakeland Terrier was is now merely a pink leash leading underneath the sideboard.
From my spot under the sideboard I can see the people.
The crowded line seems to believe that I’m after some tasty morsel . . . merely some pastry morsel overlooked by the efficient cleaning crew at Angelina.
Little do they realize that I’m after a mouse -- a mouse that has undoubtedly been in the same area as the overlooked morsel.
My disappearance is detected.
Slowly, with utter discretion on the part of the lady, I am reeled-in; and she doesn’t miss a beat in speaking French to that other lady.
How does one explain to these French:  they have more mouses than they ever suspect?

At the table at Angelina.
Am I happy, or what? I’m at this place that clearly makes the lady happy . . . the place promised since I was a pup.
The place with the best hot chocolate in the entire world, not that I’d know what chocolate is.
The place with the chocolate so thick that a spoon will stand in it.
The place with a pastry so yummy that all the regulars know to ask for it, even if it’s not on the menu.
We’re here, and all she can think of is wine! No, not the chocolat chaud, and no Mont Blanc.
This long-foretold tradition is tossed out like yesterday’s puppy chow.
We need alcohol, and a brioche to keep me settled.
The brioche arrives quickly. Groovy. Is it completely evident that a Lakeland deserves speedier service than its owner? And no Beaujolais? What’s up with that?!
Ah, but soon enough arrives the Pouilly Fume, and it is yummy. I know because a teeny morsel of my brioche is drizzled with a drop from her finger.
I sit politely on the floor beside the chair, though the facing chair at our two-top table is vacant.
Yes, you read correctly: ON THE FLOOR!
I wag my tail ever so slightly . . . oh-so alluring. Tick-tock. She’ll never resist.
It’s just a matter of seconds. She’ll never resist luring me up into that empty chair with a piece of brioche.

The couple from Conroe, Texas.
To our left, a perfect, model-gorgeous French couple at the table beside me.
She, in her size 0 ensemble, eating gorgeous toast and jam (this, from the toast connoisseur). He: off the cover of GQ.
To our right, some couple about to depart.
There we are, Lakeland Terrier and lady, in such close quarters with me on the floor . . .
. . . little me, though sitting nicely, touching the John Phillips trousers of the gentleman to our left.
Oh-so-tiny morsels of brioche are offered, and I am splendid indeed.
As the table to our right is cleaned, a nice new couple is seated there.
And they speak English.
And they see me.
And of course they want me.
They want me in the chair, and the lady explains that, indeed, that was the original idea of the entire trip.
But where are the other dogs in chairs on this fine albeit blustery Saturday?
Where are the poodles whose dyed fur matches the dyed hair of their little-old-lady owners? Hmmm? Where is this promised scene?

Visit again for the tale of:

The photo op and the overturned chair at Angelina.

I  visit the Eiffel tower and run on forbidden grass.

Then I am offered a plate of sausages.

I visit the Sacre Couer, or at least I try.

I am asked to leave a taxi. I staunchly refuse.


I have dinner in a posh restaurant, and the lady is invited, too.

Read more in this charming book by Barnaby Conrad III