By Richard Temtchine
It is good to have friends everywhere.
~French Proverb
Sammy is a mutt. He is also a rescue dog. My daughter was eight years old when she saw him at the Blessing of the Animals at the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine in New York, which takes place every year on the first Sunday in October. His owner was looking for someone to adopt him.
It is good to have friends everywhere.
~French Proverb
Sammy is a mutt. He is also a rescue dog. My daughter was eight years old when she saw him at the Blessing of the Animals at the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine in New York, which takes place every year on the first Sunday in October. His owner was looking for someone to adopt him.
Sammy is primarily my daughter's dog, but as is often the case when you live in New York City and your eight-year-old has a dog, who ends up taking it out for walk? Mom or Dad.
You should also know that I am French, and my other half, Jill, speaks the language fluently, as does our daughter. At home we usually speak French.
Sammy is cute but weird looking, and weird is putting it mildly. He's some sort of small, skinny Terrier, mixed with some other kind of animal, like one of those wading birds that stands on one leg.
Sammy has four very skinny long legs and a spider-monkey face. Almost everyone who looked at him when we first got him asked in astonishment, "Excuse me, but what kind of dog is that?"
I got so tired of answering the same question that I said, "He is a German Shepherd who had a sex change."
Not long after our family adopted this strange creature and poured love on him, he became another kind of dog. Love works miracles. Now strangers would stop us and say, "I love your dog. He is beautiful. What kind is it?"
But my answer remains the same because I love to watch people's reactions.
Apart from being really cuddly and very smart, one of Sammy's unique characteristics is his speed. In spite of being small, with his long legs and slight frame he can outrun any dog in Central Park. And every morning I take Sammy to Central Park. Jill walks him in the afternoon, and at night it's yours truly back on the street, rain or snow, with Sammy.
When I am with Sammy I always enter Central Park on 79th Street and Fifth Avenue, and as soon as we hit the park, I take off his leash. Our route is always the same. We cross over to the west side, walk inside the park to 110th Street, head back to the east side, and back down again to 79th Street and Fifth Avenue. Then we walk home. Most of the time, while we're in the park, I have no idea where Sammy is; he simply appears, disappears and reappears.
But one morning, disaster struck. At around 9:00, as we reached 110th Street on the west side, a huge, scary dog — I think it was a Doberman Pinscher — also off the leash, went for Sammy.
Although I tried to block the Doberman's way by standing in front of Sammy, who was behind me, the Doberman went around me at full speed. When I turned around to find Sammy, there was no Sammy. He had bolted so fast that all I saw was the end of his tail disappearing into thin air. Sammy was gone; the big dog had stopped in its tracks. Its owner apologized and left.
I was left with a leash and no dog.
I alerted the park rangers and the police. Fortunately Sammy had on a collar with a tag that had our telephone number on it and the inscription: "If I am lost, please call this number."
On my way home, I told every doorman from Fifth Avenue to Third Avenue about Sammy's disappearance. They all knew us, and I learned quickly that among the doormen Sammy was a favorite dog.
Short of broadcasting Sammy's disappearance on TV, every effort was made to try to find him — and before my daughter got out of school at 3:30 that afternoon.
Pressure, stress, fear, frustration... all of these emotions grew with the passing of time. At 2:00, Sammy was still nowhere to be found. The adult world was searching. The child would soon be out of school. At 3:00, still nothing.
Jill and I were on the lookout in the park, believing that at any moment we would see the familiar face or the familiar tail. Nothing. A friend of ours stayed home just in case someone called to report that they had found the dog.
Which fortunately is exactly what happened, and not a minute too soon. Sammy had been found, and by 3:15 our friend had returned home with both Sammy and the telephone number of the person who had found our dog.
At 3:30, Jill went to pick up our daughter while I called the number to thank the Good Samaritan who had found our beloved Sammy.
I dialed the number and the person who answered said, "Ambassade de France, bonjour!"
Why had I dialed the French Embassy? Obviously I had made a mistake. I hung up and dialed again.
"Ambassade de France, bonjour!" I heard again. It was not a mistake.
Had someone at the French Embassy found our dog? I spoke to a man in French and, yes, he had found Sammy. Where had he been found, I asked? The man found Sammy sitting in the garden of the French Cultural Embassy on 79th Street and Fifth Avenue.
It appeared that Sammy had taken off, had followed the equivalent of a thirty-block route with which he was familiar, and ended up at the 79th Street entrance to Central Park. There he must have heard someone speaking French, a language he recognized, and followed that person across the street to the Embassy where he sat and waited to be rescued.
From that day on, Sammy the bilingual dog, Sammy the best of dogs, was considered worthy of becoming a French citizen.
You should also know that I am French, and my other half, Jill, speaks the language fluently, as does our daughter. At home we usually speak French.
Sammy is cute but weird looking, and weird is putting it mildly. He's some sort of small, skinny Terrier, mixed with some other kind of animal, like one of those wading birds that stands on one leg.
Sammy has four very skinny long legs and a spider-monkey face. Almost everyone who looked at him when we first got him asked in astonishment, "Excuse me, but what kind of dog is that?"
I got so tired of answering the same question that I said, "He is a German Shepherd who had a sex change."
Not long after our family adopted this strange creature and poured love on him, he became another kind of dog. Love works miracles. Now strangers would stop us and say, "I love your dog. He is beautiful. What kind is it?"
But my answer remains the same because I love to watch people's reactions.
Apart from being really cuddly and very smart, one of Sammy's unique characteristics is his speed. In spite of being small, with his long legs and slight frame he can outrun any dog in Central Park. And every morning I take Sammy to Central Park. Jill walks him in the afternoon, and at night it's yours truly back on the street, rain or snow, with Sammy.
When I am with Sammy I always enter Central Park on 79th Street and Fifth Avenue, and as soon as we hit the park, I take off his leash. Our route is always the same. We cross over to the west side, walk inside the park to 110th Street, head back to the east side, and back down again to 79th Street and Fifth Avenue. Then we walk home. Most of the time, while we're in the park, I have no idea where Sammy is; he simply appears, disappears and reappears.
But one morning, disaster struck. At around 9:00, as we reached 110th Street on the west side, a huge, scary dog — I think it was a Doberman Pinscher — also off the leash, went for Sammy.
Although I tried to block the Doberman's way by standing in front of Sammy, who was behind me, the Doberman went around me at full speed. When I turned around to find Sammy, there was no Sammy. He had bolted so fast that all I saw was the end of his tail disappearing into thin air. Sammy was gone; the big dog had stopped in its tracks. Its owner apologized and left.
I was left with a leash and no dog.
I alerted the park rangers and the police. Fortunately Sammy had on a collar with a tag that had our telephone number on it and the inscription: "If I am lost, please call this number."
On my way home, I told every doorman from Fifth Avenue to Third Avenue about Sammy's disappearance. They all knew us, and I learned quickly that among the doormen Sammy was a favorite dog.
Short of broadcasting Sammy's disappearance on TV, every effort was made to try to find him — and before my daughter got out of school at 3:30 that afternoon.
Pressure, stress, fear, frustration... all of these emotions grew with the passing of time. At 2:00, Sammy was still nowhere to be found. The adult world was searching. The child would soon be out of school. At 3:00, still nothing.
Jill and I were on the lookout in the park, believing that at any moment we would see the familiar face or the familiar tail. Nothing. A friend of ours stayed home just in case someone called to report that they had found the dog.
Which fortunately is exactly what happened, and not a minute too soon. Sammy had been found, and by 3:15 our friend had returned home with both Sammy and the telephone number of the person who had found our dog.
At 3:30, Jill went to pick up our daughter while I called the number to thank the Good Samaritan who had found our beloved Sammy.
I dialed the number and the person who answered said, "Ambassade de France, bonjour!"
Why had I dialed the French Embassy? Obviously I had made a mistake. I hung up and dialed again.
"Ambassade de France, bonjour!" I heard again. It was not a mistake.
Had someone at the French Embassy found our dog? I spoke to a man in French and, yes, he had found Sammy. Where had he been found, I asked? The man found Sammy sitting in the garden of the French Cultural Embassy on 79th Street and Fifth Avenue.
It appeared that Sammy had taken off, had followed the equivalent of a thirty-block route with which he was familiar, and ended up at the 79th Street entrance to Central Park. There he must have heard someone speaking French, a language he recognized, and followed that person across the street to the Embassy where he sat and waited to be rescued.
From that day on, Sammy the bilingual dog, Sammy the best of dogs, was considered worthy of becoming a French citizen.
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