Bretagne Poodle Vignette

Any day the Bretagne sun is as hot as any English

sun, but the stench of poodle piss here at the

riverside where I sit reading is distinctly

cultural: pampered pooches also pee all day on rear

window shelves in dandy old men’s cars, wafts of

perfumed urine wrapped around wrinkled necks

like cravats. There are then preened puppy-dog grins,

this time chauffeured in shoppers’ plaid holdalls

-  brought not bought – with smug peeking over the

fancy-bag rims in their cushioned glide over the

cobbles of Locronan. If only Polanski returned to shoot

Less of the Dogivilles where, Mansonesque, cutesy canines

and sissy men are massacred in 15^th century splendour:

dog-owners cleared away in darkly ironic bodybags.