Le Coq

Do I really need to write about the dog shit problem again? I know it seems like an obsession, but if I just come up with a couple likely theories for why there is so much, then maybe I can assuage my resentment.

Where I live, 90% of my time is consecrated to watching where I step. In my neighborhood, there are some sidewalks I have actually written off as not fit for pedestrians and I prefer to walk at-risk in the street. (Does this mean I’d rather get hit by a car then step in shit? Hmmm, an interesting thought to ponder) Our neighborhood is “nice,” but still, someone’s dog shat in front of our door the other morning. My husband luckily avoided it, then got our hose and sprayed it off onto the street. He was livid. “This means our neighbor walked his dog this morning and actually let his dog stop and shit right in front of our door,” he shook his head trying to wrap his mind around the neighborly love.

My neighbor (not the one who owns the dog), owns her house and takes vacations often to ski in the Alpes or swim in the warm seas off of Sardinia with her husband and two children. Recently she said to me, “You know, this neighborhood has a lot of money. It is very sought after.” But she said it as if she was somehow not one of them because she is a teacher (and in France, it is a wide belief that it is much better to be a civil servant than some private corporate money-making fuck face).

That being said, I was trying to come up with a theory regarding the “shit = nice neighborhood” equation and figured maybe if our neighborhood looked neat and clean, the neighbors would feel guilty since nice and neat = money = bad person. So, it’s better to cover the wealth with shit…dress it down a little, you know? Then we’ll feel okay about it. Although the “we’re not worthy” idea is not very French, pretending to be poor when you have money is very French so this theory is plausible.

There is the Emperor’s New Clothes theory. If no one talks about the shit, there is no shit unless someone with balls says there is and then the rest of us can agree. But, I think there has to be some deeper connection, a type of Utopian poop harmony. A deep rooted almost sacred belief we might never fully understand, like the holy Indian cows and the joy their people get in lighting the dung on fire and then using their hands to waft the fumes into their faces.

Yesterday, my English friend, Jeeves and I were walking down the street, garbage whirling around our feet, poop smudged here and there on the sidewalks. In an attempt to throw away a candy wrapper, Jeeves missed the garbage bin. His wrapper began to merrily roll down the street. I think I even heard it singing a tune.

“Oh, damn!” said Jeeves.

”I don’t think it’ll make much a difference if you leave it there,” I said.

“I’m not going to pick it up,“ he explained, “I don’t want to look silly.” He said something to this effect. But, you could tell it did play a little on his conscious.

A French person would have enjoyed haphazardly chucking his wrapper into the land of “someone else.”

Getting back to my neighborhood, the other day as I was pushing Claire in her stroller, uphill during le mistral (super strong winds) and Eva held my hand and the two of us dodged poop together, a gust of wind blew some plastic bags into our faces and then the bags wrapped themselves around the stroller wheels. I cursed the garbage while Eva and I tried to free the wheels. And then that remark from my neighbor popped into my head again, “This is a very sought after neighborhood.”

So, I couldn’t help but raise this topic while my husband sprayed the shit off the sidewalk in front of our door the other morning. “Is this a rich neighborhood?” I asked. “Marie said people here have loads of money. Is this supposed to be a nice neighborhood?”

“This is not a fancy area. It is nice and affordable for middle-class families. That is why it is sought after. God, I hate when people make comments like your friend. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. You know where the fancy areas are, we visited them.”

“I know, but, I’m just wondering what a French person’s standard of nice is. Sometimes this feels like fucking third world,” I said. After living in shiny Orange County and clean Scottsdale, my standards are nothing like a French person but still, could it be that contrasted? I mean is this it? Is this “as good as it gets”?

So, I need to keep searching for some explanation to calm my nerves. I want an answer that will let me say, “Yes! Now I get it. That’s why it’s like this.” So, I have one last theory and it is related to the French mascot, le coq, the rooster. First, let’s look at how France chose le coq. Who came up with this mascot? Was it a round table full of noblemen preparing their soldiers for a battle?

“Beloved knights and warriors, we have a battle to fight. Our colored flag is no longer enough. We need a mascot like the other territories! The English have the bulldog. The Welsh have…the leek! Let’s choose something fitting for us.”

“Here! Here!,” agree the men.

“No matter what happens, we will remain impervious. No matter how many bloody bodies of our own we shall be standing amongst, we shall persevere. No matter how much human feces and waste are left in our path, we shall stand proud!”

“Yeah!Yeah!” scream the men.

“I anoint each one of you in oil…and his highness’ feces,” he holds up a golden platter with a mound of crap. “We shall sing even while standing in our own shit!”

The men whistle and cheer!

“Therefore, we choose le coq, the rooster, because the rooster is the only animal who still sings while standing in his own shit.”

“Here! Here!”

And voilà! I think I cracked the case. I feel better.