dog that acted like a real dog and needed no space (or maintenance).
Joe’s plaintive request for a sister continued. One of his favourite stories was The Little Match Girl and he would get so sad at the plight of the little girl. He wanted to bring her home and make a little bed for her in his room so he could protect her. He was obviously ready for the care and feeding of a living creature. We continued to mull over the dog idea until we finally decided that was what we would do. It would be Joe’s ‘little match girl’, his sibling.
Joe was ecstatic and promised to do his share of taking care of the dog. I was clear from the start that, while I would go along with the idea, I wouldn’t take care of it full-time. We all agreed the dog would be a family project. Knowing that the best way to find a great dog was de bouche à oreille, by word of mouth, I mentioned it to our neighbours the florists. The very next day there was a knock on the door. Michael opened it to a rotund boy of about eleven with the thickest, most lush crew-cut I’d ever seen. ‘Bonjour Monsieur, Madame,’ he said, politely. ‘I believe that you are looking for a dog. The florists sent me over here.’ That was fast, I thought. He went on to explain, in very adult language, about a dog he had found and that he loved, but that his father, a fireman, insisted he get rid of because their apartment was too small. Tears welled up in his eyes. ‘I love this dog,’ he admitted, hiccuping a sob back into his throat. ‘My mother loves it, too, but my father says no, we must not keep it.’ He closed his eyes and two little tears popped out.
We were taken in by the drama, and told him we would think about his offer and call him. We were only vaguely interested, though, since we didn’t want a fully grown dog with someone else’s bad training habits. The boy, whose name was Anthony, turned away, shoulders sagging, and slowly walked out through the courtyard door. Not two hours later he was back, dog and mother in tow. This time, when Michael answered the door, Joe was right behind him.
‘Monsieur, – dame,’ he said brightly. ‘You seem like such nice people, I just had to bring this little dog over to meet you.’
The dog turned out to be an abricot caniche, a mid-sized, full-grown, fuzzy poodle the colour of dirty reddish straw, or unripe apricots. A male, his eyes were invisible under his unruly curls, and he wiggled all over, obviously delighted to be around people. Anthony, the boy, was holding him by a leash. ‘He is so adorable I know you’ll love him immediately,’ he said artlessly, and with a slight quaver in his voice.
‘Oh brother,’ I thought. Deciding to get a dog was one thing. Being presented with a warm and full-grown one that wiggled was another. We had never imagined getting a poodle – they are reputed to be as silly as they look. To prove our point the dog, held firmly by the strong Anthony, began little arcing jumps to nowhere, nearly choking himself and pulling over Anthony simultaneously. He wanted to get away, to move, to be free. He finally arced so hard that Anthony let go of the leash and he bounded into our front yard as though shot out of a cannon. He ran stupidly around the apple tree a couple of times, then back through the gravel, spraying pieces everywhere, until he stopped right at Joe’s feet. Well, he sort of stopped. He actually bashed right into Joe’s leg, startling Joe, and hurting his own nose.
Michael bent down and beckoned, and the dog plastered himself against Michael’s leg. Joe, who likes dogs in theory but is afraid of them, stood behind Michael and bent over to stroke the dog’s back. He and Michael had turned into pools of melted butter in the face of this dog.
Like a horse-whisperer with horses, Michael knows just how to get a dog to respond, where to scratch, pat, tickle and rub. This dog responded by lying flat on his back on the bricks, and shaking all over. Joe crouched over him. I stood by, watching the scene. Anthony and his mother were in a half-embrace, tears running down their faces. Joe and Michael were rapt. Molière couldn’t have written a better farce.
I was lukewarm about the dog. He was a little messy for me, a little too rambunctious, a little too – well – dog-like. I’d imagined something smaller, cuter, calmer; something that resembled a stuffed dog a little more. The more Michael teased him, the more the dog slobbered all over him and the closer Joe got to him. I knew he would soon be moving in.
Michael released the dog. Anthony called him, and the dog responded. We formed a family huddle while Anthony and his mother mooned over the dog. ‘Oh mama and papa, he’s so cute,’ Joe said.
‘He really is cute,’ Michael said. ‘And he seems really nice and not too wild.’
We agreed to give the dog a try, but on a trial basis. If the dog turned out to be awful, we’d return it to Anthony and his mother. We looked at Joe. ‘Does this make sense to you?’ we asked him. He nodded, eyeing the dog with desire. ‘OK,’ Michael repeated. ‘We take the dog on a trial basis. If he’s perfect, we keep him. If he’s not, out he goes.’ I looked at Michael, the animal-lover. I don’t think he’s ever met an animal he doesn’t like, and he has infinite patience with them. I doubted that if the dog got into our home and life it would ever leave.
We told Anthony and his mother our conditions, and they just stared at us. ‘Oh monsieur, – dame, and you, little boy, you will love this dog so much you’ll never want to get rid of him,’ Anthony said. ‘The one thing I do ask you is that I be able to visit him once in a while. The transition will be hard on him, and I will miss him so.’
Who was this boy who spoke like a French politician? We agreed, of course, to regular visits for as long as he liked, and he handed over the leash to Joe. He turned to kiss the dog, but as far as the dog was concerned, Anthony and his mother were history. Of much more interest was our garden, our apple tree, our dahlias. Anthony began crying his eyes out and he and his mother, who held him around the shoulders, sobbed their way out through the door.
I was exhausted by all the emotion. I looked at Michael, who shrugged. ‘We’ll see,’ was all he said.
The dog bounded over to us and Joe leapt out of the way. Michael scratched the dog’s ears and he lay down, calmed. Joe eased in; I patted him, too. He was awfully cute, and he seemed very sweet, just like Anthony and his mother had said. They had assured us he was house-trained, had no bad habits, didn’t sleep in their beds – one thing I deplore – and that he was very calm. This all sounded good to me.
I went into the house to cook. I was working on recipes and the menu included avocado with pistachio oil and shallots, braised oxtail with cinnamon, baked potatoes with bay leaves and ginger madeleines with allspice ice cream. With all this dog business, I was behind schedule.
Several hours later Anthony returned with a dog dish, some dog toys, and another leash, this one bright red leather. The dog was all over him, and he all over the dog, and they played for a moment. Then the waterworks began again. ‘You can come visit him whenever you want,’ I reassured Anthony, who seemed close to a nervous break-down. ‘I will do that, Madame, merci,’ he sniffed, backing out of the courtyard.
We went about finding a place for the dog to sleep, and a place to set his bowls. We had decided the dog would eat leftovers and dry food, since both Michael and I are morally opposed to feeding dogs food that could logically be given to hungry humans, and most canned dog food fits into that category. So, Michael and Joe went off to buy him some dry food.
We got the dog set up. He was asleep by this time, on the entranceway rug, right in the middle of the traffic pattern. We all stood there and looked at him. He was pretty darn cute.
He needed a name. I wanted to give him a literary French name, like Aristide or Gionot, since he was a French poodle. Michael and Joe settled on calling him LD, for Little Dog. I’d renounced responsibility for the dog – how could I intervene?
Dinner that
