dawn of france

I met the crazy cat lady today. No seriously, the real crazy cat lady. And she calls it her job. Well she gets paid for it, allegedly. Maybe this just adds to her craziness or maybe the concept of someone being that selfless just seems crazy to us selfish gen Y’ers.

She has a sweet and proper English accent, and thinks that the lady who’s babies were attacked by the fox in England was her neighbor. Her grey hair, cut up eye and wrinkles are deceiving as to what age she is; or maybe she just went on holidays with her parents.

But she’s kind natured and works for some cat protection service which involves feeding the stray cats at night, protecting them from the evils of the dark and treating ones with cat aids. That came from the crazy cat lady’s mouth, not mine. I’m just relaying the story.

I met the crazy cat lady, Dawn, because her local “Mon Bar” is right below our apartment we are renting. She reserves her little corner for writing and probably thinking up new strategies of curing cat aids.

Due to her friendly disposition and the ‘locals’ environment that Avignon has, Emanuel is not bothered by her lack of beer or coffee drinking as Dawn resides in her corner.

But my thoughts were changed when this morning Dawn spotted Emanuel, jumped on her hotted up scooter (no a children’s scooter) and raced up the back street, not even slowing or turning to acknowledge Emanuel screaming at her down the street.

After I saw Dawn in action on her razor 3000, something I had noticed about her shoes started to make sense. Previously I had thought that she had inherited her beautifully carved wooden platform boots from someone with a slightly longer leg than the other. Or a mobility impediment, due to one shoe being completely worn down to the flower carvings edge, and the other in good nick. I was wrong, she’s just serious about scooting. Maybe it’s so she can chase the naughty cats, or for a quick get away when it comes to paying the bill. Or maybe she’s just afraid of foxes.