Cops & Dogs

Blue Rock Station,
1190 Virginia Ridge Rd.
Philo Ohio 43771 USA
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In France, brakes are for amateurs and tourists.

We live on the corner of a fairly busy street in a relatively small town. In the two months that we have lived here, there have been about 15 accidents on that corner. And I have yet to hear the squeal of brakes.

I’ve heard the garage-door slamming sound of metal striking metal, followed by angry shouts assigning blame. I’ve heard horns honking and sirens blaring… but never that near-miss squeal of rubber on pavement.

There is an interesting custom or law or tradition (most laws here seem to be a bit fuzzy around the edges, largely dependant upon whether you agree with them or not) that at any intersection you give the right-of-way to the person on your right. This priorité à droite might have been fine when the feather-capped courtiers upon their noble mount bowed graciously and with a wave of the arm, gave safe passage to fellow travelers. But it doesn’t do much for your stress level when some guy in a little Fiat pulls out into traffic without looking.

The practice is so dangerous that the French government has been running around the country putting up signs telling people that they really should stop when they come to another road. Most of the time these warnings are read, understood, and obeyed. But nine times out of ten just doesn’t cut it where speeding cars and intersections are concerned. So there have been 15 wrecks outside our house in the two months since we have been here.

The most spectacular happened just the other night. A police car was rushing full speed down the main road (I won’t even speculate where he was going in such a hurry, as it was 11:00 p.m. and all the baguette shops were closed). At the intersection a car pulled out (on his right) without a care in the world. The police car swerved into the left lane, careened off a parked car, spun around several times before smashing into the stone wall on the opposite side of the road. I heard the crush of metal (no brakes, of course) and rushed to the window.

Within a minute – no more – another police car rolled up and the cop jumped from his car and raced to the still smoldering wreck. He then opened the back door of the wrecked vehicle and led a large German Shepard dog away. He knelt and petted it, inspecting every inch to see if it was okay. He was joined quickly by another cop, both kneeling in the middle of the road, affectionately ensuring the dog was okay.

In the meantime, the bloodied (and ignored) driver of the car staggered out of his seat and fell to the ground. Soon another cop arrived, and after checking to see that the dog was still okay, he decided to attend to the fellow passed out in the road. At least they have their priorities in their proper place (a le droite, no doubt).

For the next few hours, the place was humming with activity. They came and towed away the wrecked police car. The wrecked policeman was eventually carted away as well. Street cleaners came, swept up the mess, picked up bits of unfortunate parked car (the one the policeman careened into) and leaned them up against it.

The next morning the place was back to normal and ready for the next accident, restored that is except for the parked car that was twisted sideways, damaged beyond recognition, with its bumper and other bits leaning against it as if waiting for a lift. And there it sat for several days.

It soon became clear that this wreck was nobody’s priority. Obviously the police were having difficulty tracing the owner… that must be it. How else could you explain it? Clearly the fact that it was a commercial vehicle and the phone number of the owner was painted on its side was of no help at all. We eventually got tired of it and called the number. The poor guy was astonished when he heard his car was pretty much a pile of scrap iron. He was a bit more disturbed when we told him it was the police that left it that way.

We were told at first that the police denied any involvement… but there were witnesses (I think the dog talked) so the eventually had to fess up. That car too was hauled away, replaced quickly by another likely victim.

And so it goes on our little corner of France. The players may change but the play remains the same. Old habits die hard.

So on a warm summer’s evening, you may find us, sitting in our garden, popcorn in hand… waiting for the evening show to begin.

written by Jay Warmke - May, 2002

Les Flics et les chiens (Cops and Dogs)