by Peter Mayle
PETER MAYLE
A Dog’s Life
Peter Mayle’s previous books include A Year in Provence, Toujours Provence, Hotel Pastis, and Anything Considered. His most recent book is Chasing Cézanne.
Boy was found abandoned on the outskirts of a village in Provence. Having landed on his feet, he now divides his time between the kitchen and the forest.
BOOKS BY PETER MAYLE
Chasing Cézanne
Anything Considered
A Dog’s Life
Hotel Pastis
Toujours Provence
A Year in Provence
FIRST VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, JUNE 1996
Copyright © 1995 by Escargot Productions, Ltd.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., New York, in 1995.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the Knopf edition as follows:
Mayle, Peter.
A dog’s life / by Peter Mayle;
with drawings by Edward Koren.—1st ed.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-79192-4
1. Dogs—France—Provence—Fiction.
2. Human-animal relationships—France—Provence—Fiction.
3. Provence (France)—Fiction. I. Title.
PT6063.A8875D64 1995
823′.914—dc20 94-42590
Author photograph © Jennie Mayle
Random House Web address: http://www.randomhouse.com/
Cover illustration by Edward Koren
Cover design by Carol Devine Carson
v3.1
To Jean-Claude Ageneau,
Dominique Roizard, and Jonathan Turetsky,
three princes among vets
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
Destiny, Celebrity, Proust, and Me
In Trouble
In Limbo
Night Maneuvers, and a Confrontation with Hygiene
Name of a Dog
A Balanced Education
The Art of Communication
Mano a Mano with the Cat in the Garage
The Tasting
Ordeal by Chicken
The Joy of Balls
The Girl Next Door
By Their Smell Shall You Know Them
The Sitting
Notes on the Human Species
AUTHOR’S NOTE
My story is based on actual events. However, following the current autobiographical custom adopted by politicians in their memoirs, I have adjusted the truth wherever it might reflect unfavorably on myself.
Destiny, Celebrity, Proust, and Me
Life is unfair, as we all know, and a good thing, too. If it had gone according to plan, I would still be chained up outside some farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, living on short rations and barking at the wind. But fortunately, some of us are marked by fate to overcome humble beginnings and succeed in a competitive world. Lassie comes to mind, for instance, and that small creature who seems to spend his entire life with his head at an unnatural angle, listening to an antique gramophone. Rather him than me, but I suppose there’s not a great choice for terriers—noisy little brutes with limited intelligence, in my experience.
As my memoirs unfold, I shall describe my progress through life in more detail—all the way from birth to my present eminence, not forgetting the times of struggle, the months in the wilderness, house hunting, curious encounters, milestones, turning points, and so on. But for the moment, let us put these aside and turn to more fundamental matters: my emergence as a celebrity and my decision to air my views in print.
It started, as these things often do, by chance. A photographer had come to the house, looking for a free drink under the pretext of doing artistic studies of the lavender patch. I didn’t pay him too much attention, apart from a cursory sniff, but he put down his glass long enough to take a few informal portraits. I was in silhouette, I remember, with the sun behind me—contre-jour, as we say in France—and I heard him muttering something about the noble savage as I stopped to water a geranium.
At the time, I thought no more of it. Some of us are photogenic, and some aren’t. But a few weeks later, there I was in a magazine: full color, whiskers bristling, tail upthrust—the living essence of the fearless guard dog. And they say the camera never lies. Little do they know.
A chance encounter
Star quality
After that, it never stopped. Other magazines, or at least, those with the wit to recognize star quality, came to seek me out. Newspapers, television crews, various admirers from near and far and a furtive couple trying to sell out-of-date dog food—they all turned up, and I did my best to fit them in. And then the letters started to arrive.
I don’t know if you’ve ever received a letter from a complete stranger asking about your personal habits; I must have had hundreds of them, and quite impertinent some of them were, too. I was even offered safe sex with a rottweiler (no such thing, if you ask me, not with those jaws). Anyway, it soon became obvious that the world was waiting for some kind of message from me—a statement of principles, perhaps, or what is known nowadays as a “lifestyle guide.” I brooded on this.
Now, over the years, I have developed a soft spot for Proust. He tends to go on a bit for my taste, but we do have several characteristics in common. Both French, of course. Both with a reflective nature. Both keen admirers of the biscuit—madeleines for him, and the calcium-enriched, bone-shaped, extra-crunchy model for me. And so, I thought to myself, if he can share his opinions about life, love, his mother, teatime treats, and the pursuit of happiness, why can’t I? Not that I remember my mother too well, actually, because she left very shortly after having me and the other twelve. Given the circumstances, I can’t say I blame her, although it put quite a strain on my faith in the maternal instinct at the time. Those were dark and thirsty days indeed, as you’ll see.
But I digress. Literature beckons, and I must try to arrange my thoughts. On the whole, it has been a charmed life, despite my underprivileged beginnings. The patron saint of dogs—St. Bernard, for those of you who don’t know—has been good to me. Even so, experience has caused me to form certain opinions, and readers of a sensitive disposition may be offended by the odd remarks about babies, cats, hygiene, poodles, and vets who insist on taking one’s temperature the old-fashioned way. For these candid comments, I offer no apologies. What use are journals such as this if they don’t reveal the author, warts and all?
Literature beckons
In Trouble
There were far too many at my birthday party, and I wouldn’t have invited any of them. I couldn’t see them at first, because it takes a few days for the eyes to open, but they made their presence felt. Try having breakfast with a football team, all of them fighting to get hold of the same piece of toast, and you’ll know what I went through. Pandemonium, every man for himself, elbows everywhere, and to hell with table manners. Being young at the time, of course, I couldn’t imagine that it would cause problems, apart from some bumping and boring at mealtimes. How wrong I was.
There were thirteen of us altogether, and limited outlets at the maternal bosom. The trouble was that mother had been taken by surprise—first by my father behind the barn and then by our arrival in such numbers, when she was only equipped to cater for half a dozen at a time. Obviously, this meant separate sittings every few hours. She was always complaining about lack of sleep, puppy rash, a
nd postnatal depression. Looking back, I’m not surprised.
You hear all kinds of nonsense these days about the plight of the only child. People prattle on in their concerned way about loneliness, lack of sibling contact, too much attention from the parents, quiet and solitary meals, and all the rest of it. Sounds like heaven to me, absolute heaven. Rather that any day than having to go ten rounds against a dozen opponents with chronic milk lust every time you feel peckish. It wears you out, and plays havoc with the digestion. Large families should be restricted to rabbits. I feel sure Proust would agree with me here.
And that’s what my poor, weary mother must have felt, too, because no sooner were we all more or less on our feet and blinking at the world than she disappeared. Just like that. I remember the moment well. Dead of night, it was, and I was half-asleep. I rolled over for a little sustenance, as one does, and woke up sucking hard on my brother’s ear. It gave us both quite a shock, as a matter of fact, and he looked at me sideways for some time afterward. I’d be interested to know what the sibling-contact enthusiasts would have recommended in that situation; group therapy, no doubt, with a session of self-awareness training and a stiff shot of antibiotics for the injured party.
None of us got much sleep for the rest of that night, as you can imagine, and by morning stomachs were rumbling, with the weaker brethren starting to wail. Being an optimist, I felt sure that mother dear had just slipped out for a little adult company behind the barn and would be back with a smirk on her face in time for breakfast.
But not a bit of it. The hours passed, the rumbling and wailing grew louder, and even I began to fear the worst. Motherless, surrounded by a bunch of ninnies, still with the faint taste of the fraternal ear in my mouth and no immediate prospect of anything more nourishing, it was my first experience of the darker side of life.
I’ve often wondered how we scraped through the next few weeks. The lord and lady of the household distributed the odd bowl of thin milk and some decidedly secondhand scraps (to this day, I can’t work up any interest in cold noodles), but it was poor, unsatisfactory stuff. Even so, you’d think they were giving us top-grade sirloin, from the fuss they made. Each day, I’d see them arguing outside the barn door, she in her carpet slippers and he wearing boots. Some of it escaped me, but I didn’t care much for the general drift. Too many mouths to feed, money down the drain, it can’t go on like this; something must be done; it’s all your fault for letting her out of the house at full moon—I’ve never heard so much heated debate about the distribution of a few old chicken bones and half a baguette that had seen better days. But it was that or nothing, so we made do.
Then we began to receive visitors, and the old hypocrite in the boots changed his tune. He’d bring his friends in to look at us, and he would talk about us as though we were family heirlooms. “Prime hunting stock,” he’d say, “from a long line of champions. Impeccable genes. You can tell from the shape of the head and the beautifully turned withers.” Needless to say, he was making it all up. I’d lay odds he hadn’t even seen my father; I never had. But on and on he went, tossing in comments about distinguished pedigrees and bloodlines that went back to the days of Louis XIV. It was a performance that would have brought a blush to the cheek of a used-car salesman.
Most of his friends saw through it, but there are always a few simpletons around, and one by one my siblings were bundled off to new homes, passed off as purebred hunting dogs. It just goes to show what you can get away with if you’re a shameless bluffer. It’s a lesson I took to heart, and it has served me well many times. I remember the day I met a family of wild boar in the forest, for instance, but that’s another story.
You may wonder how I felt as I watched those near and dear to me leaving the ancestral home. Bereft, perhaps? Lonely and glum? Not exactly. There’s good and bad in every situation, and it didn’t take me long to work out that fewer mouths to feed means more for those who remain. Heartless and self-centered, you may say, but an empty stomach changes your view of life. Besides, I always considered myself to be the pick of the litter—if you had seen the others you would understand why—and so I was confident that I would one day assume my rightful role in the scheme of things, with three square meals a day and a comfortable bunk indoors. We can all make mistakes.
I started to pay closer attention to the one in the boots, as he was clearly in charge, and I used to flatter the miserable scoundrel every time he came within range. My technique wasn’t as polished then as it is now, but I did as best I could with the agitated tail and the squeals of delight, and I was misguided enough to feel that I was making headway. Somewhere beneath that unattractive exterior, I thought, was a kindly soul who would eventually warm to me. Alas, there was less to him than met the eye. You’ve probably heard that description of life as being nasty, brutish, and short. Well, there you have him. Too free with his boots, even then, which is why I’ve had a profound distrust of feet ever since.
But one day, he let me out of the barn, and I thought that life was taking a turn for the better. I anticipated an outing at the very least, and maybe a tour of inspection of my new lodgings, with a decent meal to celebrate my arrival in the family home. Ah, the foolish optimism of youth.
He took me over to a scruffy patch of garden, planted with weeds and rusty oil cans and a couple of ancient tractor tires, slipped a noose over my head, looped the other end of the rope around the trunk of a plane tree, and then stood back and studied me. I don’t know if you’ve ever watched people trying to decide between the lamb and the beef in a butcher’s shop, but that’s how he looked—thoughtful and calculating. I jumped up and down and performed a modest frolic, almost throttling myself in the noose, and then gave up and sat in the dust. We stared at each other. He sucked his mustache. I tried a piteous whimper. He grunted and went back into the house. So much for the mystical communion between man and dog.
And there I was for the duration of the summer—tied up, bored, and badly fed, taking what comfort I could from the shade of the plane tree. From time to time, he’d come over and look me up and down in that thoughtful way, but apart from that there was very little in the way of diversion. I barked a great deal, just for something to do, and watched ants. Busy little fellows, ants. They still fascinate me, rushing hither and yon, eyes front, in lines of three abreast. Big cities are like that, so I hear, millions of people going from one hole to another and then back again. Odd way to live your life, but there it is.
I had taken to spending the night curled up in one of the tractor tires, and one morning I woke up to find a definite change in the air. It had the smell of a different season about it, and there was a heavy dew on the rubber. Summer was over.
I know now, although I didn’t then, that the start of autumn brings out the primitive urge that lurks in the breast of mankind, particularly in my part of the world. Men get together, arm themselves to the teeth, and go forth to do battle with thrushes, rabbits, snipe, or anything else that makes a suspicious sound in the bushes. It has been known for them to shoot each other, which is understandable if you’ve had a disappointing day with the rabbits and want something to take home to the wife. But I digress.
I had emerged from my tire, had a stretch, sniffed the breeze, and was expecting another dull day like any other when what I can only describe as an apparition came marching out of the house. It was the one in boots, and instead of his usual vest and moth-eaten trousers, he was arrayed in full jungle camouflage—mottled brown-and-green cap and matching jacket, bandolier of cartridges, a bag slung over one shoulder, a gun over the other, Nimrod the hunter in fancy dress.
As he came closer, I caught a whiff of stale blood from his bag—a great improvement, I may say, over the familiar bouquet of garlic, tobacco, and sweat—and I sensed that something was up. Sure enough, he untied me and indicated with his boot that I should join him in his van. I realize that this may not sound like the start of a perfect day to you, but I’d been on the end of that rope for months, and so you can i
magine that I treated this as a great adventure. There’s a limit to one’s interest in ants, after all.
So off we went, leaving the road after a while to bump up a rough track before stopping. Nimrod got out but made me stay in the van. I heard barking and poked my nose through the window.
Three or four other vans, each with a dog inside, from the sound of it, were parked in a clearing of the forest. Nimrod and his friends were strutting about, clapping each other on the back in manly fashion and comparing armaments and military regalia. A bottle of something was produced and passed around, and one of the warriors took out a sausage, which was hacked up with a knife big enough to have gutted a whale and then consumed as if none of them had seen food for days. They’d only just had breakfast, too. Then there was more activity with the bottle, the barking died down, and I must have dozed off.
Next thing I remember was being pulled out of the van by my scruff and ordered into the forest. The other dogs seemed to know what to do, so I did the same. We put our noses to the ground and ran around in a purposeful way, with the armored division bringing up the rear. They were making enough noise to scare off anything that wasn’t stone-deaf, and any bird with half a brain (your pheasant, for instance) would have taken off for a safe perch on the roof of the gendarmerie long before our arrival.
But you can never account for the behavior of rabbits. One of the other dogs suddenly stopped and adopted the pose that you see occasionally in paintings of the rustic school—head thrust forward, neck, spine, and tail in a perfect straight line, one front paw raised as if he’d stepped in something unpleasant. I think the technical term is at point Anyway, I trotted over to see what was going on, and there, cowering under a bush, was bunny, shaking like jelly and clearly at a loss to know whether to roll over and play dead, put up the white flag, or make a run for it.
