A Dog's Life

by Peter Mayle

  Cowering under a bush was bunny.

  There was great excitement among the troops behind us, and various instructions were passed on, which I ignored. It was my first rabbit, after all, and I wanted to take a closer look. A decent lunch was in my mind, I remember, as I made a lunge for him, but he must have read my thoughts. He bolted through my legs, and then World War III broke out.

  You must understand that I had never been in combat before, and so I wasn’t prepared for the dreadful din of several guns going off within inches of my head. You have no idea what a shock it was to the system, and so I make no excuses for my actions. Instinct took over, and I got out of the firing line faster than the rabbit. In fact, I think I may have overtaken him on the way back to the safety of the van.

  I couldn’t get in, so I dived underneath, and I was just getting my breath back and congratulating myself on a successful escape from the jaws of death when I became aware that I was no longer alone. I could hear the sound of laughter, and some ripe language that I recognized was coming from Nimrod. He was the only one who wasn’t laughing.

  He bellowed at me to come out, but I thought it best to stay put for the moment and let him regain his composure. He started kicking the side of the van, amid increased merriment from the other members of the party, and when that didn’t work, he got down on all fours, poked me out with the butt of his gun, opened the door of the van, and helped me in with his boot.

  The trip home wasn’t a great social success. I knew I hadn’t acquitted myself with quite the skill and dexterity expected of me, but it was, after all, my first time out. How was I supposed to know the rules of the game? In the interests of harmony and a quiet life, I tried making a few apologetic overtures, but all I got was the back of his hand and a stream of abuse. What I hadn’t realized, of course, was that I’d made him look like the cretin that he was in front of his peers (who weren’t much better, from the look of them, but at least they had a sense of humor). People are touchy about how they see themselves, I’ve discovered. One tiny crack in the mirror of self-esteem, and they sulk for hours. Or they take out their foul temper on the nearest available object—in this case, me.

  The trip home wasn’t a great social success.

  So it was back on the end of the rope and in disgrace for a few days while Nimrod and I considered our respective positions. He obviously wanted a hunting companion, steady with wing and shot. My ambitions were more in the domestic line, perhaps a little light guard duty and a roof over my head. Not that I object to hunting on moral grounds, you understand. As far as I’m concerned, a dead rabbit is easier to get to grips with than a mobile one. It’s the noise of those guns I can’t abide. I have extremely sensitive ears.

  The final straw came a few days later, when Nimrod decided he would put me through some elementary dressage and field training. He came out of the house brandishing his gun and a shapeless bundle of fur—one of his terrible old vests, I think it was, rolled up, with a rabbit skin tied around it.

  He slipped the rope from my neck and pushed the bundle under my nose for a few seconds, muttering something about the scent of the wild, forgetting that he’d been using the vest to wipe his hands on while he was tinkering with his van. It’s not easy to work up any true excitement over a strong odor of diesel fuel, but I did my best to appear alert and keen, and then the next stage of the farce began.

  He threw the bundle into a clump of high weeds twenty yards away, then put his hand down to prevent me from chasing it. I had no intention of going anywhere near it, in fact, not with a trigger-happy old lunatic behind me, and so I sat there awaiting developments. He seemed to take this as an act of exemplary restraint and field craft, and he leered at me in what I suppose he thought was a smile of approval. “Bieng,” he said (he had an accent like soup), “ça commence bieng.”

  Now what? Were we going to wait for the vest and its fur coat to come out from the weeds and surrender to superior forces? Were we going to creep up on it and catch it unaware? While we were deciding what to do, I lay down, an error of judgment as it turned out, because it inhibits one’s speed off the mark.

  I wasn’t even looking at him, so I never saw him raise the gun. But when it went off, I was away and into one of the tractor tires, head down and paws over ears, before you could say bang.

  Have you ever seen a man completely lose control of himself? It’s not a pretty sight, especially if he’s waving a gun in your direction and gibbering with fury, so I thought I’d better put something solid between the two of us. With one bound, I was out of the tractor tire and behind the plane tree before he could get the rope back over my head. We went around and around the tree trunk several times, him cursing like a man possessed and me doing all I could to look suitably penitent while going backward at top speed. Not easy, I may say, but I thought it was safer than presenting the rear view, although he’d probably have missed that, not being much of a marksman.

  It might have ended eventually in an exhausted truce had it not been for the arrival of one of his friends, who stood there with tears of laughter running down his face at the sight of us playing what must have looked like an energetic game of ring-around-the-tree-trunk. Now that I think of it, I’m sure it was the ridicule that was responsible for my subsequent change of address. You must have found that yourself: There are those among us who can’t take a joke.

  Events then moved quickly and rather painfully. Once he’d managed to corner me, he gave me a couple of stingers with the end of the rope and tossed me in the back of the van. I heard him shouting to his wife—what a cross she had to bear, poor old dear—before getting into the van, growling at me, and driving off as if he was late for his best friend’s funeral and didn’t want to miss the party.

  I kept well out of the way, beyond reach in the back, and brooded. We weren’t going hunting again, I could tell, because he didn’t have his wretched gun and silly hat. It was equally obvious that this wasn’t a pleasure excursion. He had a stiff, angry set to his head and shoulders, and he was driving much too fast for his limited powers of physical coordination, sounding his horn at all and sundry and lurching around corners like a one-legged drunk.

  On and on we went, going uphill most of the time, until we came to a bumpy halt off the road. I braced myself for further unpleasantness, and when he got out and came around to the back of the van, I slipped into the driver’s seat, just in case he had plans of a violent nature in mind. We looked at each other, him through the open rear door of the van, me over the back of the seat.

  We looked at each other.

  I was half-expecting another chorus of bellowing, but instead he reached in his pocket and produced a sizable chunk of sausage, which he held out to me. I should have known that a mean-spirited old villain like him wouldn’t suddenly become afflicted with generosity, but I was hungry, you see, and taken by surprise. So I followed the proferred sausage. He gradually moved backward from the van, and I jumped out and sat in my most appealing position, front paws together, head cocked, and digestive juices at the ready.

  He nodded and grunted, then held the sausage under my nose. It was pork, I remember, with just the right amount of fat and a wonderfully spicy smell. But as I was leaning forward to take it, he turned and threw it into the bushes. A long throw it was, too, for someone who was always whimpering about his arthritis.

  Well, I dare say you can guess what happened. I went after the sausage, thinking that this was exactly my kind of hunting, and dived into the undergrowth, nose working overtime and feeling that maybe things were looking up. The thrill of the chase must have taken over, because I wasn’t conscious of any sound behind me. Also, I’m not what you’d call stealthy, and I was probably making a fair amount of noise getting through the vegetation. In any case, after ten minutes of fruitless casting around, I stopped to get my sense of direction, looked back, and saw that something was missing.

  The landscape was bare: no van, no man. He’d gone while I was otherwise engaged. I never did find
the sausage, either.

  In Limbo

  Abandoned—that was the word that came to mind eventually, after scanning the empty horizon for a glimpse of the van and its devious owner. I took it as a hint that my services were no longer required at Château Despair, and with no pressing appointments, I had plenty of time to take stock and ponder the future.

  It was a turning point, no doubt about it, and what I’ve discovered about turning points is that they are what you make of them. There’s good and bad, sunshine and shade, bitter and sweet, and so forth. Is the glass half-empty or half-full? Does every silver lining have a cloud? That sort of thing.

  As I’ve mentioned, I’m an optimist by nature, and so I started by considering the bright side. I was free to roam wherever my nose took me. There was no immediate threat of a kick in the ribs, or earsplitting expeditions with a group of armed idiots. And my previous lodging and feeding arrangements, as you’ve seen, could hardly have been worse. To leave those behind was no hardship.

  There was a problem, however, which began to intrude, in the way that problems do. Whatever other abilities I possessed, I was not equipped by nature to fend for myself. That’s the difference between dogs and cats. My early experience with Hepzibah, which I’ll describe later, had not endeared me to cats. Throw one of them out in the wilderness (and I have to admit I’d be the first to help), and before you know it he’d be tucking in to a thrush cutlet and making himself free with any nest or rabbit hole that took his fancy. In other words, he would have answered the call of the wild by going native and making a beast of himself. It’s always there with cats, you know, that instinct. They’re not to be trusted, and they have one or two disgusting personal habits, too, in my opinion, but that’s by the way.

  Ruminating on this, my thoughts turned to the position of the dog in what is loosely called “civilized society.” I dare say you’re familiar with the phrase that has been like a collar around our necks for lo these many years, that venerable chestnut about man’s best friend—invented, I’m sure, by some sweet old gent with a weakness for the wet nose and the adoring gaze, and I’m all for it. But what people tend to forget when they become misty-eyed and the vapors overtake them is this: The arrangement between man and dog is partly practical. Friendship is all very well—if it weren’t for friends, I wouldn’t be here, after all—but one can’t deny the importance of a warm bed, copious rations, and the run of a comfortable house.

  One of my more gifted forebears must have realized this several thousand years ago and come to the conclusion that man was his most convenient support system. We dogs have our skills and talents, it’s true, but can we guarantee a regular supply of food? No. Can we construct a snug and weatherproof shelter? No again. (Nor, for all their insufferable arrogance, can cats.)

  And so the wise ancestor made the decision, in those primitive times long before the invention of kennel clubs and poodle parlors, to become a domestic accessory in a human household. Man, being highly susceptible to flattery, chose to take this as a pledge of friendship, brotherhood, true love, and all the rest of it, and so the myth was born. Ever since then, dogs have enjoyed flexible hours, trouble-free board and lodging, and, with a little luck and minimal effort, adulation.

  That’s the theory of it, at any rate, although my short experience up until then had been a little lacking in all respects, from kindly words to creature comforts. And now things had gone from bad to worse. I had a few apprehensive moments, sitting in solitary splendor up there in the hills, and there was even the odd thought about trying to find my way back to the devil I knew, boots and all. Fortunately, the sound of a car distracted me, and I made my way down the track to the road, hope springing eternal.

  The car passed me by without slowing down. So did others in the course of the morning, despite amiable nods and leaps of greeting on my part. I experimented by sitting in the middle of the road, but they just drove around me, horns blowing and drivers showing a marked lack of sympathy. Such events put a strain on one’s faith in human nature after a time. But finally, it occurred to me that my luck might change if I could catch people on foot. You can reason with people on foot, which you can’t when they’re rushing past at fifty miles an hour. There’s no give-and-take with cars, if you know what I mean. And so I decided to find some pedestrians.

  It was easier said than done, because my old hunting companion had chosen to drop me off in a spot that resembled what I’ve heard about New Zealand—trees, bushes, mountains, and very little else. A joy for those who like the unspoiled vista, I suppose, but not encouraging for the lonely traveler in search of company and succor. And so, with the wind in my face, I set off to see if I could find civilization.

  The hours passed, and it must have been midafternoon when I first picked up a faint, familiar whiff of drains and diesel fumes. For you, perhaps, these have no particular significance and even less allure, but to me they spelled people. Sure enough, from the top of the next hill I could see a group of old stone buildings, and as I came closer, I was able to make out signs of activity, hustle and bustle and the sound of voices. Not unlike ants, really, but noisier.

  I set off to see if I could find civilization.

  You must remember that my previous experience of human habitations had been limited to the single shabby ruin where I was born, and so this was a revelation to me—dozens of houses, and presumably hundreds of people. Somewhere among them, I felt sure, was my future soul mate. It is delusions like this that help you put one paw in front of the other at the end of a hard day.

  The village seemed enormous to me, streets leading off in all directions, strange and wonderful aromas on every breeze, people strolling around in that aimless way they do when they have nothing much on their minds except what’s for dinner. A group of them had stopped to jabber at one another on a corner, and this is where I learned a useful lesson in survival. People don’t seem to be able to talk with their hands full. Don’t ask me why, but when two or three of them get together to discuss the problems of the world, down go the bags and baskets on the ground, conveniently placed for those of my height to investigate. (My head would come somewhere between your knee and your waist, and comfortably over the top of any unattended basket.)

  One shouldn’t hesitate when opportunity knocks, and so I rescued a protruding baguette and retired with it to the shelter of a table outside the village café. I had just finished the final crumbs and was considering a return swoop on the basket when a hand came into view. It patted me on the head, disappeared, and came back holding a lump of sugar. I looked up to see a young couple at the next table beaming at me and making those faintly ridiculous sounds that humans always imagine speak volumes to the canine ear. They do the same with babies, too, I’ve noticed. But the tone of voice was welcoming, and a friendly hand is a pleasant change from a booted foot, and so I made myself agreeable.

  Well, you’d have thought they’d never seen a dog before. More cooing, pats on the head, and sugar lumps coming down thick and fast, all the indications of love at first sight. Being a novice at the time, I took this as an invitation to follow them when they left the café, and I trotted along behind them, thinking—I won’t deny it—that a soft bed and a new life were just around the corner. Call me naïve if you like, but since my experience of human behavior had been limited to abuse of one sort or another, I was unused to kindness and assumed more than I should have.

  Trouble often starts, I’ve now learned, when the friendly act is taken at face value. I had reason to believe, or so I thought, that my encounter with these young persons at the café was the beginning of a wonderful relationship. Alas, they didn’t see it like that, and when we reached their car, there was a certain amount of embarrassed shuffling while I attempted to get in with them, ending with a firm shove outward and the door slamming a few inches north of my nose. There’s a moral here somewhere about strangers bearing gifts, and I can be philosophical about it now, but it was a distinct setback at the time.

 
A lesser dog might have despaired. I’ve known spaniels, for instance, who have a tendency to collapse, roll over, and wave their legs in the air at the first hint of adversity. Not me. Resilience, that’s the thing. Onward and upward. And so I decided to cheer myself up—as people frequently do, so I hear—by going shopping.

  Working my way down the street, I was stopped in my tracks by the scent of heaven coming from an open doorway: fresh, raw meat—pork chops, legs of lamb, homemade sausage, tripe and liver, marrowbones, beef—and not a soul to be seen when I followed my nose inside. The drowsy hum of a television came from a room at the back, but apart from that it was as quiet as the grave. I could even hear the scuff of my paws on the sawdust-covered floor as I made my way toward the profusion of delights arranged on a scrubbed wooden table.

  I decided to cheer myself up by going shopping.

  I thought I’d browse for a moment or two before making my final selection, not realizing that the indecisive shopper often misses the best opportunities. But I was limited to what I could carry in my mouth, and I didn’t want to snatch a piece of scrag end off the table if there was a chance of steak. It’s called the exercise of informed choice. A fat lot of good it did me, as events turned out.

  A brace of pig’s trotters had caught my eye, and I was deliberating between them and a handsome cut of veal when there was an almighty bellow from the back of the shop. Enter the butcher, eyes popping with fury as he looked around for reinforcements. Luckily, the first weapon within reach was a broom rather than a bone-saw or a cleaver, and he wasn’t too handy with that, knocking over a row of glass jars—confit of duck, as I recall—in his eagerness to make contact with me. It helped to spoil his aim, and I managed to jump over the debris and make my departure with no more than a glancing whack around the hindquarters. I should never have dithered. He who hesitates stays hungry. I pass this on as something to bear in mind when you’re shopping.