





Last time, I mentioned a memorable trip that still sends chills down my spine. In fact, it was both a journey I took and one I didn't. But before I go into that, let me explain the title of this post. Don't get me wrong. I don't hate France or the French at all. Dad tells me that many years ago, when he was living in Africa, a young French doctor saved his life with a timely transfusion of penicillin. And everyone knows the French love dogs. I'm sure, if given the chance, they'd love me too. So it's nothing personal. But the thing is, in July 2012, Mom and Dad took me to the doggie hotel and went to Paris, France—the City of Lights, home to the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, the Louvre, the Sein—without me.
It wasn't my first time at the dreaded place. Before I came along, Mom and Dad had committed to attending a vacation club presentation in NYC in return for a dirt cheap weekend at the Midtown Hilton. The two days alone in April passed quickly; just me and a few other dogs in widely separated kennels. But the second time was traumatic, and much longer. Not only had Mom and Dad chosen to leave me for an entire week, but the doggie hotel was completely packed because of a bad storm that cut electric power to various parts of Columbus. Jeez, talk about noisy.
I hate being alone. Us Chihuahuas get separation anxiety; it's in our DNA so there's no stopping it. For some reason, nighttime is worse than daytime. Living in a cage most of the day intensified the feeling, reminding me of my days in the shelter. Going outside at least once a day gave me a taste of freedom. But with all the dogs staying at the hotel, the walks were abbreviated and soon I found myself staring through the bars, battling cabin fever and waiting for someone to bring me to Mom and Dad.
At last, one morning four days later, the attendant came for me. I knew I was being sprung because she packed up my blankets, house, food and dishes before picking me up. I was so excited and whipped my tail. Mom and Dad were back home—
Not.
They'd arranged a homestay for me with our neighbors down the street for the second half of the week. At first, I was disappointed and also a bit confused when they brought me to their house. Where's Mom and Dad? Too busy to pick me up? When my temporary Mom and her daughters took me on a walk, we passed our house but didn't go inside. What's going on? Early that night, Mom and Dad called from Paris to check on me. Usually, I heard Dad's voice over the phone when Mom called him at work. Hearing Mom's voice was a surprise, and it made me cry. To compensate, I licked my temporary Mom's hand over and over. And then I laid down in the foyer, near the front door, waiting and waiting for them to come home, and cried some more.
Our neighbors didn't know to wipe away my tears, and soon the underside of my eyes blackened from staining. The sight gave Mom and Dad a fright when they came for me on Saturday, July 14, known as Bastille Day or National Day in France. Dad tells me they got separation anxiety too, and that day they made a historic pledge to never leave me alone overnight again. Eleven years later, with one unavoidable exception because of surgery, they've kept their word. Vive La France!
Soon things were back to normal at home. Mom had said Adieu to Mona Lisa and was with me all day, every day. And Dad, when he wasn't at Honda, was back to reading his books and playing with me, too. As summer came to an end, we planned our next trip. I'll tell you all about it next time.
See you then,
Tango
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