him, but they weren’t bonding. In fact, none of us were bonding with LD. Poor thing – he was a travelling dog with bonding issues, not a family dog.
Two months had gone by, and we were sure the statute of limitations on dog borrowing dictated that we had owned him too long to return him to the emotionally distraught Anthony. In fact, we now wondered if Anthony and his mother hadn’t been rehearsing for a drama project with their Oscar-winning sobfest, as neither of them ever came to visit the dog.
Now and then, I would take LD on a walk in town, thinking perhaps he and I would bond. Besides, I figured that I would look really French if I had a caniche on a leash. I’m taller than most French woman, have reddish hair, freckles, blue eyes and blonde eyebrows, which means I don’t look French in the least, so maybe LD would be my ticket to Frenchness. But it didn’t work. Friends and acquaintances stooped to give him a pat but mentioned nothing different about me. Their only reaction was a certain sympathy when I explained why I was walking LD down the pavement. I guess I didn’t look any more French than usual as I struggled to keep him from running into every shop we passed, and from stopping to sniff every tiny little thing.
Then there were those terribly embarrassing moments when LD had to ‘fait ses besoins’. I gently tugged him to the gutter, but he resisted, so I had to pick him up and deposit him there, then stand on the other end of the leash, waiting. It was excruciating. Where was I supposed to look? How was I supposed to act if someone I knew came up to greet me?
I love to bicycle, and I go for a ride through the fields several times a week. Invariably, LD would wind up flapping along behind me and I would stop, grab him, go home and lock him up, then start again. This happened so many times it became part of my bicycle ride. I would have loved his company on my rides, but he was too undisciplined: at the first opportunity he’d run into someone’s house, or jump over a fence into a yard full of chickens, or make a mess on someone’s front path, or knock over an elderly lady; it was impossible to let him run free.
The more we had LD, the less we all liked him, but no one wanted to admit it. It was nearing summer and the French government had launched its yearly pre-holiday campaign to discourage the French from abandoning their dogs, which they do in huge numbers each year. Plaintive doggies looked out from posters everywhere, while the words, ‘You wouldn’t be able to abandon him?’ stretched like a reproach above his head. It was as if they were reading our minds, though we certainly weren’t the kind of people to abandon a dog, even a tramp dog, rubbish-eating, meat mercenary like LD.
Michael, the lover of all animals, agreed that he was a sorry excuse for a pet. ‘This dog is an apartment dog,’ he said, the worst judgement he could lay on an animal. ‘He should sit on a chair all day and be fed with a silver spoon.’ Joe liked him but didn’t really want to be around him much, either, but we were stuck with him and we were attached, sort of. So we settled into accepting him, the way one does dopey neighbours or quirky plumbing. He didn’t chew up things, he wasn’t mean, he didn’t wet in the house, he wasn’t ruining anything but the peace and quiet of the neighbourhood. But he certainly wasn’t the playmate Joe had envisioned.
We’d had LD for about two months when I discovered I was pregnant. I couldn’t believe it, and Michael’s disbelief surpassed mine. I looked at LD, long and hard, perplexed. I try for three years to get pregnant, then decide it’s impossible. We decide to get a dog, get one within moments of our decision, and within two months of its acquisition I’m pregnant? What did it all mean? If we’d known pregnancy was imminent, we wouldn’t have had to go through this dog thing. On the other hand … I couldn’t entertain that thought: the same one which holds that couples who want to get pregnant and can’t suddenly manage to do so the minute they decided to adopt a child.
I was determined to stay fit and healthy during this pregnancy, and stepped up my regular bike rides. One day I set off to ride to the supermarket. For once, LD was nowhere to be seen, until I began to go around the roundabout several blocks from the house. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spied him behind me. I felt as if I could just let him keep running behind me until he lost me and was too far away from home to find his way back. This seemed a rather heartless way to end our relationship, but it showed me that LD needed a new home.
Michael, Joe and I later had a family discussion about LD as the dog snuggled under our feet until its head was resting in its accustomed place. We all agreed that we really liked him, but that he wasn’t the right dog for us. We all knew that lots of people would love him, but that being part of our family must have been like reform school for him: he had rules to follow, regular baths, no fresh meat and was prevented from rampaging around the neighbourhood. ‘What kind of a life is this?’ he must have asked himself. The animal shelter seemed like the best solution, so we took him there
One day, not two weeks later, I was walking to pick up Joe from school when I saw a caniche not far ahead, running in a funny, familiar, gimpy way. I gained on him and looked him in the face. It was LD, sticking close to the walls, stopping every five seconds to sniff, fat and happy. He’d been adopted by a new owner who was walking some way in front of him: a middle-aged, nicely dressed woman. They looked good together.
Since then we’ve seen him often. He’s a lot fatter than he was with us, and he’s clipped now, an uptown dog. But it is obvious that his heart and soul are still free and on the run. Old LD is having the best of it all!
CHICKEN WITH SORREL
Poulet à L’Oseille
This recipe is a family favourite, and perfect in spring or fall when sorrel is at its lemony best.
1 tbs extra-virgin olive oil – optional
5 oz (150 g) slab bacon, cut into 1 x 1/2-inch (2.5 x 1.3cm) pieces
1 medium free range chicken (31/2 pounds; 13/4 kg), cut into
6 pieces (2 wing/breast pieces, 2 thighs, 2 legs)
Fine sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 lb (500 g) onions, peeled, cut in half, and
sliced paper-thin
1 cup (250 ml) dry white wine, such as a Sauvignon Blanc
2 imported bay leaves
4 cups (loosely packed) sorrel leaves, rinsed and patted dry
1 cup (250 ml) crème fraîche, or heavy, non ultra-pasteurized cream
1. If your bacon is very lean, you will need to use the olive oil. Heat the oil, if using, in a large heavy skillet over medium-high heat. When it is hot, add the bacon and sauté until it is just golden on all sides, 3 to 5 minutes. Remove the bacon from the skillet with a slotted spoon and set it aside on a plate. Drain all but 1 tablespoon of the fat from the skillet.
2. Add as many pieces of the chicken as will comfortably fit in the skillet without being overcrowded. Sprinkle them with salt and pepper and brown until golden, about 5 minutes. Turn, sprinkle with more salt and pepper, and brown the other side, 5 minutes. Repeat until all of the pieces are browned. Remove the chicken from the pan and reserve.
3. Add the onions to the skillet and cook, stirring, until they are softened, about 8 minutes. Then add the wine and scrape any browned juices from the bottom of the skillet. Return the chicken and the bacon to the skillet, along with the bay leaves, pushing the chicken down among the onions. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to medium. Cover and cook at a simmer until the chicken is tender and nearly cooked
