Through the shuttered windows I watch the sky begin to brighten. I am seldom awake before either the alarm clock or the dog sounds that the day has begun. This morning, however, I have been awake long enough to reverse-engineer the intricate stucco pattern on the ceiling. I have determined that it took two men, two days with two hundred pounds of stucco to complete. Restless Leg Syndrome is a walk in the park compared to a restless mind when it comes to lost sleep.
At 7:00 AM the alarm sounds and at 7:01, Milou is by the bed with his leash between his teeth, whining for his morning exercise. He apparently has a lot to do today and can hardly wait to get started. I can barely get my feet to the floor before he has darted the 20 feet to the front door of our one room flat in the 8th Arrondissement. The entire apartment is roughly the size of the very American-sized kitchen that we had back in the states. I have to repeatedly convince myself that whatever we lost in size and luxury, we gained in utility and character. Utility came in the form of the two out of four working stove burners and character came in the form of the 19th century antique piano that the previous tenant determined was easier to abandon than relocate. In Europe, less really does mean more. In America, I repeated the “less is more” mantra as I continued to accumulate more of less.
Like any good personal trainer, Milou’s systematic barking instructs me to pick up the pace. The only thing that will quiet him now is getting out for our morning run. He is fully aware that unless I want to incur the wrath of our neighbors at this early hour, we best get moving. He was not only mon fidele ami, but also the most affordable coach in Paris. Food, bones, water and the occasional plush toy to destroy was all he required. We run along La Seine until we reach Madame Dutertre’s Patisserie du Chiens. Milou won’t move an inch before Madame gives him his treat. He inhales his doggie energy bar and off he goes. I’m left exchanging pleasantries with Madame as she attempts to improve my poor French pronunciation. He must cross La Seine at Pont Des Invalides at approximately 7:25 AM so he can exchange sniffs with his girlfriend, Anjou, on the Esplanade before heading home. Once we’re home, he demands his breakfast and recital. After devouring his café et croissant, he settles in to the chair by the piano and signals that the performance can begin. I play my usual repertoire and then whatever popular music that comes to mind. The performance is barely over before it’s back to bed for him, it’s as simple as that. All that whining and barking to get started was just so he could get right back to where he began a mere two hours earlier. Every day we would obsessively complete this two-hour routine. He seemed to be acutely aware of the importance of it and understood his role in it. It would take me years to identify and accept that pattern in my own life…
