by Jamie Ivey
In fact, it was not really a question of whether we wanted the dog, of course we did, rather whether Veronique would allow Snuffle to come and live with us. What type of people were we? Could she see photos of our house and the room where Snuffle would sleep? Would we agree to send her photos of Snuffle every six months? Would we update her website with a blog about Snuffle's life? If the accommodation was suitable and the answer to all these questions was yes, then she would consider selling him to us. However, before taking her final decision she would have to sleep on it.
Veronique phoned again the next morning. She'd looked at the photos of our apartment and felt that it was a little small for a dog such as Snuffle. However, she'd also examined the designs for the place we were building and noticed a little corner under the staircase that could be adapted just for Snuffle. No major structural alterations were necessary and it would provide the perfect refuge for him when he needed some peace and quiet.
Had this been any normal transaction I would have politely told Veronique where to go, but I already felt out of my comfort zone. This was the doggie world, about which I knew so little. Perhaps such overbearing concern for the welfare of puppies was normal. I was reluctant to contradict Veronique: she was the expert and I was the novice, and to object to her suggestions would be to show a callous disregard to the needs of Snuffle. And so instead I agreed a pick-up time the following morning and was reassured that Veronique would sell me, at what she insisted was a large discount, everything one could ever need for the health and happiness of a dog. Apart, that is, from the pick-up truck to bring it all home.
Cassis out of season is a gem of a seaside town. Pastel buildings surround a crescent-shaped bay. Boats gently rock at anchor and stairs wind away into pretty cobbled backstreets. The port is fringed by endless restaurants offering carnivals of coquillage piled high on mountains of crushed ice. Our favourite was a cafe which allowed its customers to purchase direct from the fisherman. Sea urchins were heaped in the corner of an old wooden boat. As the orders came in, a man wearing oily yellow gloves shovelled the spiky balls into bags and handed them to his partner, who split open the urchins and placed them on a paper plate. It was the freshest seafood available and once the purchase was made diners retired to the cafe, where for a cover charge of a couple of euros they were provided with bread, napkins and an accompanying glass of sharp white wine. Our plan was to pick up Snuffle at around 11 a.m. and then head to the seafront and lunch under the arching cliffs of the port.
Veronique's domaine (estate) was in the hinterland behind Cassis on the way to Roquefort-La-Bédoule. The countryside was dominated by vineyards making the sophisticated white for which Cassis is famed and also heavier, tannin-laden reds that echo their more illustrious neighbours from Bandol. As a result I'd assumed Veronique was a vigneron with a sideline in dog raising. The domaine I'd visualised was pine fringed, with rows of vines falling away from a country mas. The marketing symbol Veronique used on the Internet was the silhouette of a dog under a palm tree, and so my mental image also contained a long drive guarded by two ancient palms, forming a natural bridge over the road. It was all rather idyllic and peaceful. Perhaps we would share a coffee in the shade of some ancient stone walls, and the trickle of a fountain would provide the background music to our first meeting with Snuffle.
Instead, the directions took us to a piece of scrubland sandwiched between the autoroute and the route nationale. As our car rattled up the track, Veronique emerged from one of a number of portable buildings. She was wearing riding boots and jodhpurs, a ragged shirt and a dirt-stained body warmer. Her hair was tied back, although a couple of strands had escaped and dangled in front of her eyes. A loose horse ambled over and nuzzled her face and she reached into her coat and produced half an apple that had gone brown in her pocket.
We waved apprehensively and got out of the car. My shoes disappeared into mud and water soaked through the thin leather, drenching my socks. The sound of cars and juggernauts rumbled in the background and the smell of manure and heavy animal rugs brought back memories of the riding stables my mother had insisted we visit when we were young. Lifting Elodie from her car seat, we crossed the boggy land to Veronique.
'Venez, venez!' She beckoned us over to the far side of the field, where a series of gates led through to a large enclosed pen with another Portakabin in the corner. Our arrival prompted a cacophony of barking and the cabin shook with the combined might of all the dogs throwing their weight against the door.
'Wait here. I'll go and search for the babies,' she said, paying not the slightest attention to our baby. Without thinking, I set Elodie down. She'd just started walking and at every opportunity we were encouraging her to take wobbly steps. I glanced at Tanya, aware that she was as uncomfortable as I was in this environment. At that precise moment Veronique opened the door to the cabin and unleashed a ferocious torrent of yapping, jumping dogs that came tumbling out, devouring the distance between us in seconds.
The dogs noticed Elodie and like a school of piranhas honed in on her in a slathering, over-excited mass. I was only metres away but before I could hook my arm around my daughter she was enveloped by the lion dogs. Her screams for help were drowned by the barking.
Plucking Elodie from the melee I held her aloft to check she was OK.
'Mais alors!' I protested.
Veronique was unperturbed and called over and kissed each of her babies.
'Micha, bisous… Arthur, bisous.'
I was overcome by a strong urge to leave, with or without our new puppy.
'Play with my babies,' said Veronique, unaware that I would have rather put my hand in a cage full of tarantulas than once more expose my daughter to the crazed rabble. An uncomfortable five minutes of growling, barking and licking followed as Tanya and I tried to simulate enjoyment while continuing to hoist Elodie into the air to avoid the fangs of the yelping pack. Was it too late to confess that the whole idea had been a terrible mistake?
'And now let's introduce you to Snuffle.' Veronique ushered the dogs back into the cabin, which once more rocked like a fairground ride. 'I'll be back in a moment.' She headed out of the enclosure towards another temporary building.
Tanya and I looked at each other with panic in our eyes.
'It's only because there are so many of them,' I said reassuringly.
'Exactly, it's pack behaviour.'
'The book said they were fantastic with kids.' I tried to soothe the disquiet we both felt. 'Still, if we are going to leave, now's the time.'
Tanya shook her head. 'Think of the truffles.'
Veronique was on her way back. Two dogs followed her.
'Sure?'
'Sure.'
'Last chance,' I joked.
'Sure,' said Tanya definitively.
As Veronique approached, I began to have a dreadful feeling. I squinted to make sure my first impression was correct. However, the dogs walked in a tight file behind her and it was difficult to see. The closer they came, though, the more convinced I became. I'd only known Veronique for a few days but already I appreciated that this was a big moment for her and her dogs. So far everything had been stage-managed: meeting the other dogs and then leaving us alone to anticipate the arrival of our new pup. We were part of a pageant, a parade put on to mark Snuffle's departure from the domaine, and of course at parades people always wear their best party outfits. In the case of a petit chien lion, I realised with horror, this meant shaving the hind legs.
Veronique opened the gate to the paddock, and Snuffle's bare bottom and Twiglet legs followed quickly afterwards. It was anything but love at first sight. Snuffle looked like a cross between a cat and a dog. One half of him was scrawny and bare, the other fluffy from a recent blow-dry. Of all the thousands of breeds in the world, we'd ended up buying, at extortionate expense, this mismatched mistake. Unbelievably, I wished we'd got a poodle instead. Following the aggressive pattern of the other dogs, Snuffle's mother, who'd also had her legs shaved for the occasion, b
ared her teeth and let out a deep rumbling growl.
'Ah, she knows he's going, poor darling. Go on, play with your puppy for the last time.'
We sat down at a wooden picnic table and began to fill out the required paperwork. As usual in France this was exhaustive and in triplicate. Fetching one of the other dogs, Veronique showed us how to groom Snuffle properly, demonstrating how to comb the hair away from the eyes and how to clip the nails. Photocopies of the various forms were made, to be sent to a multitude of government agencies. The clock ticked towards midday and thoughts of our planned lunch in Cassis crept into my head. At least Snuffle's shaved legs would be admired by the Marseillais divas who strutted up and down the seafront.
'It's time for Snuffle to say goodbye to all his friends,' announced Veronique, preparing to let loose the dogs which, behind the thin walls that separated us, were baying for our blood.
'A little lunch?' She dropped the question into the conversation with a barely disguised subtext of emotional blackmail – did we want to deny Snuffle the opportunity to say a final farewell to his family? My face is not good at hiding emotions and only a sharp kick from Tanya restored a faux grin to my face.
'Of course we'll stay.'
And so rather than munching on sea urchins and watching the waves roll in, we ate mixed leaves and dry cheese, trying to ignore the overwhelming odour of horse manure. A crisp glass of Cassis winking in the sunshine was replaced with a stained coffee mug filled with tap water. Instead of enjoying the warmth of a blow heater on a sheltered seaside terrace, we endured icy blasts that swept down the slopes of the surrounding hills.
Elodie began to cry but Veronique was oblivious to our discomfort, opening another file from her office. This one contained rosettes and pictures from various dog shows.
'Here's his father in Monaco,' she said, pushing a photo under our noses, 'and in Barcelona,' another photo arrived, 'and Nice.'
We did our best to appear interested, but one photo of a dog show looked very much like another. I couldn't avoid noticing that Snuffle, who was supposed to be saying his tearful goodbyes, spent the whole lunch playing with a football. Still, Veronique was doing her best to make it feel like a wake, telling us how Snuffle was the last of the litter to depart and how because of his adorable character, boundless good looks and charm he held a special place in her heart.
Finally at the end of an interminable lunch, during which Veronique appeared determined to enter the Guinness World Records book for slow eating, it was time to go. With Elodie still in tears, Veronique led me over to her in-house shop. There were three items on my list – a dog cushion, some food, and some bowls – and with Tanya strapping Elodie into the car I was determined to be quick.
Here's the list of items I came out with half an hour later:
• 1 lead
• 1 comb
• 1 tick twister
• 1 bone chew
• 1 waste bag holder
• 2 waste bag refills
• 1 dog seat belt
• 1 Christmas bone chew
• 1 plastic crab toy
• 1 plastic Dalmatian toy
• 1 plastic blue ball
• 1 can of hairspray
• 1 bottle of Oh My Dog shampoo
• 1 dental snack
• 10 chews
• 1 vet bed
• 1 dog house
• 1 exercise harness
At each stage Veronique made me feel I would be betraying Snuffle unless, for example, I bought the very latest chew toy for him to rip apart. There were no farewell gifts from Veronique. Instead, she sat and methodically added up the cost of the whole ridiculous list. A staggering 300 euros. More prolonged goodbyes followed and Veronique walked alongside our car as we bumped away, practically kissing the windscreen.
Two and half hours after we first arrived, we had a dog, and neither of us could quite believe it. His dark eyes were deep and trusting and he trembled on Tanya's lap as we got onto the motorway. He was quite cute really, even if he did have shaven legs, and we couldn't possibly blame him for his lovesick owner. Next week it would be December, and the first of the season's truffles would begin arriving.
Now all we had to do was train our dog.
Chapter 11
Ask anybody: having a puppy is a nightmare. They wee, they poo, they bark, they bite, they hurtle around the house like pinballs. And all this goes on for nearly a year. Yet for the first glorious forty-eight hours we thought all the scare stories had been made up. Snuffle did very little but sleep and eat and he happened to be outside when he needed to wee or poo. Looking after Elodie was far more demanding and sleep depriving than caring for our shaven-legged friend. The new member of our family could not have been less trouble.
Then things changed. Snuffle recovered from the trauma of leaving his mother, regained his strength, and decided to treat each corner of our house as his personal toilet. Veronique, as it turned out, had sold us everything Snuffle could ever need but had omitted to consider our requirements. Hence, we had a puppy with a million and one toys but no cage with which to house-train him.
Desperately we manufactured temporary solutions from toddler playpens but Snuffle invariably escaped and by the time we finally bought a cage a week later, our little puppy was not so malleable. He'd been granted his freedom and he wasn't about to give it up. Advice on the Internet stated that caging puppies was kind and the best way of introducing them to life with humans. Young dogs rarely barked for more than ten minutes when caged, said the website, and yet we endured hour upon hour of an enraged Snuffle.
Driven crazy by the noise we binned the cage and instead kept him on the lead at all times. Wherever we went, Snuffle went. This was fine when Tanya and I were together, but the moment one of us left the house, the balance of power shifted dramatically in Snuffle's favour. Changing a nappy while restraining a dog determined to sniff, lick and yes, even eat the faeces, is a difficult trick to master. Snuffle's nose was almost a thousand times more powerful than ours, and the pack member he associated as his immediate contemporary, Elodie, was busily leaving her scent all over the house. Quite naturally Snuffle simply followed her lead and deposited his own markers.
Meanwhile sleep deprivation began to set in. At night Elodie, teething, screamed and woke the dog. Snuffle in turn barked and fidgeted and demanded to be let outside. A typical night would see Tanya pacing inside with Elodie, while I walked up and down in the garden waiting for Snuffle to empty his bowels. Elodie falling asleep and Snuffle finally obliging didn't often occur at the same time, and so, as we desperately tried to claw our way back to sleep, one or other of our babies inevitably woke the other, and the whole process started again.
After two weeks Tanya and I were so tired we were arguing incessantly with each other. Smug dog owners said that the reason Snuffle was behaving so badly was because he had yet to identify a new head of his pack. Doing my best to right this situation, and on the basis of advice in a dog book, I started growling at Snuffle. The noise I made was deep and guttural and alarming enough to make Elodie toddle away. If Snuffle did an inadvertent pee on the sofa I would bear my fangs and snarl like a geriatric hunting hound.
This new policy worked in a way. Certainly, Snuffle began to fear my displeasure, and so instead of peeing in front of me, he picked his moments, waited until I was distracted and sneaked off to a corner of the house. Meanwhile, all the growling began to have a debilitating effect on me. Naturally I was a happy person – in fact, my nickname from university was Smiley – but the new, growling me, was miserable. And yet it was the only training tip that worked, and so I continued to growl and snarl my way angrily through days.
However, when instead of 'Mama' or 'Dada' Elodie's first words came out as a deep and guttural growl, I realised something was wrong.
'She's becoming like those children raised by wild dogs,' pleaded Tanya.
Yet once I stopped growling I lost the small semblance of control I'd begun to exer
t. I'd devoted hours to walking around outside in the freezing night air, so that my dog had every opportunity to be a good boy. I'd rewarded him liberally with small pieces of cheese, patted and praised him throughout the day and still that most basic of skills – house-training – was beyond our chien. Most people achieved in seven days what still eluded me after a month of ownership. What hope was there of us ever achieving the synchronicity of mind and movement necessary to find truffles?
The sense of despair was heightened by the small size of our farmhouse apartment. When we'd first rented the place, we were a young childless couple. The open-plan living area, with kitchen, dining room and sitting room all crammed in a 30-metre-square space, had echoed the urban flats we were used to, as had the small bedrooms which fed off a narrow corridor. When Elodie arrived we'd had to reorganise our lifestyle but ultimately we'd achieved a balance, where I could work undisturbed and, when needed, Tanya and I could find space from each other.
The addition of Snuffle destroyed this balance. One of us always had to be in the room to check that he wasn't pushing Elodie over, and that Elodie, with her prods and pokes, wasn't inciting him to bite. By early December, with the cold weather returning and all of us cooped up inside the flat, Tanya and I began to suffer from an acute sense of claustrophobia. We had to get out, and yet with the onset of winter there was nowhere to go. Instead, our days were filled with barking, and screaming and rowing. In-between the shouting, the only thing we could agree on was that we should never, ever, have got a dog.
