Sherlock went into crouch position. His back legs trembled much like a cat waiting to attack a mouse. Sherlock had seen his mortal enemy, the white pigeon.
The bird would taunt him, walking back and forth in front of the glass door to our house while Sherlock would bark and scratch at the glass.
Now we were out on the street and there was no glass between him and her. It was early, early, early morning. The sun was still waking up.
Alain was setting up his sausage stand for the day's marché. The egg-onion-garlic-herb lady was already set up on the other side of the narrow street. No one else had ventured out into the cold.
Sherlock lunged. The pigeon flew a few feet out of reach. Sherlock lunged again. The pigeon put just enough space between her and the pup to frustrate him.
He returned to crouch position. The pigeon continued to strut. It was if she had measured his leash and the distance between them and added a meter.
"Il n'a pas de chance," I said to both vendors who were laughing at my puppy.
"Mais il a de l'espoir," the woman said.
The pigeon continued the game three more times then flew onto a nearby ledge. Sherlock sat his eyes following the bird.
I was right -- he had no chance. So was the woman -- he had high hopes.