A Dog's Life

by Peter Mayle

  I thought it worth trying one or two piteous howls, complete with sobbing vibrato at the end, and waited to see if the lights would go on. Sure enough, they did, and out came the management, full of concern in case I’d been savaged in my bed by a militant field mouse. When they found me unscathed and ready to accompany them back to the house, the mood of sympathy changed. Stern words passed, and I was told to settle down.

  There are occasions when argument is fruitless—I’m told that’s the case when dealing with plumbers and lawyers—and I sensed that this was one of them. I heaved a sigh, and although my sighs are works of art, long and wistful and infinitely touching, this one had no effect at all. Two hearts of stone, wrapped in their dressing gowns, left me to my solitary devices. I was still wondering how I could convince them of the error of their ways when I dozed off.

  You know how it is sometimes when you sleep on a problem? The subconscious gets to work, worrying away through the small hours, and in the morning, voilà! The solution presents itself. That’s exactly what happened to me, because I awoke with a plan.

  Two hearts of stone, wrapped in their dressing gowns

  The mistake I had made, obviously, was in overestimating human intelligence. By and large, one cannot deny certain of mankind’s achievements, such as the invention of lamb chops and central heating, but many people are strangely unreceptive to nuance. The hint, the diplomatic nudge, the oblique statement—these very often pass straight over their heads, and man and dog find themselves looking at each other through a fog of incomprehension. Thus it was with the management and myself. Delightful and welcoming, they certainly were, but not, it seemed, too quick on the uptake. Clearer signals were called for, but they needed to be executed with some delicacy. You can be too blunt sometimes, and it can end in tears, as a bullterrier of my acquaintance discovered when he started eating furniture because he felt unloved. No, finesse is the thing, and I think you’ll agree that my scheme was a model of cunning and charm.

  There was a pleasant, crisp feeling to the air as I emerged from my boudoir, with just enough breeze to carry an interesting variety of neighborhood aromas to the nose. I detected other dogs over to the east, mixed with the tantalizing smell of live chickens, and I made a mental note to pay them a visit as soon as domestic matters had been settled. The chicken, you see, is that happy combination of sport and nourishment. She runs and clucks in the most gratifying way when chased, and is also very tasty once the feathers have been dealt with. A useful bird, unlike most of them.

  With plan firmly in place, I went up to the house. It was silent when I put my ear to the door, shutters closed, no hint of activity within. I had decided against barking in favor of less conventional methods, and I started scratching at the base of the door. It took a few minutes, but eventually I succeeded in rousing the two bitches—who should have been up and about anyway by this time, as it was well past dawn—and they raised their heads like a couple of second-rate sopranos and began to howl and carry on in fine style, which was exactly what I wanted. They would incur the full weight of disapproval for waking the household, and I would be sitting outside, lips sealed, good as gold and quiet as a stump.

  It wasn’t long before the door opened, and out rushed the two old girls in a state of high excitement, followed by the management, rubbing their eyes and blinking in the morning sun. Step one successfully completed. Once I was sure I had their full attention, I went back to the outbuilding, collected my blanket, and dragged it up to the door, wagging all the while. There, I thought to myself. If that doesn’t indicate a sincere desire to cross the threshold, I don’t know what will. But to be on the safe side, I shimmied over to madame, caught hold of her wrist gently in my jaws, and pulled her back into the house, making small and persuasive sounds as we went. I let go of her wrist, took up a sitting position under the table—back straight, paws together, head to one side, the docile and well-mannered hound—and awaited developments.

  Both of them squatted down in front of me, and I gave them another short chorus of muted squeals. They were about to melt, I could tell, when I noticed madame wrinkling her nose, and then she used a word that meant nothing to me at the time: toilettage. Well, for all I knew in those days, it could have been an exotic breakfast cereal or the name of her mother-in-law, so I merely sat tight and tried to convey enthusiasm as best I could. In the light of subsequent experience, I might have been better advised to keep my distance until the persistent scent of dead pigeon had worn off, but we can all be wise after the event.

  I noticed madame wrinkling her nose.

  The important thing was that both blanket and I were permitted to stay in the house, and I took this to be a great step forward. I bustled helpfully about the kitchen with the rest of them while breakfast was being prepared and eaten, and I was of two minds as to staying under the table or risking a turn outside in the garden when I was summoned to the car. It appeared that the other half and I were going on an expedition.

  We arrived at a village that I vaguely remembered from my travels and stopped outside a house that, even from a distance, had the noticeably strong and unappealing smell of disinfectant about it. This became worse as we went indoors, and I was instinctively getting into reverse to back out when I was gripped fore and aft by two meaty young women, taken into the chamber of horrors, and lifted bodily into a bath.

  Traumatic is the only word to describe what happened next: drenched with water, smeared with soap, rinsed and soaped and rinsed again, and that was just the overture. There followed an interminable session with a miniature lawn mower, and then an attack by scissors, snipping away at ears, mustache, tail, and other sensitive regions. The final indignity was a dusting with powder that smelled like a mixture of Evening in Paris and weed killer.

  Naked, perfumed, and highly embarrassed, I was at last delivered to the waiting room for collection. A poodle was there, I remember, looking down at me from the confines of her mistress’s handbag and smirking in that way they do when they know they’re safely out of range. You wait, I said to myself. By the time they’ve finished with you, there won’t be anything left but a yap and four paws. I’m not too partial to poodles, as you can probably gather, but I did feel a twinge of sympathy for her.

  So that was toilettage, and as far as I’m concerned, it ranks with kennels, obedience classes, rectal thermometers, and supervised celibacy as one of man’s great mistakes.

  But then, it was time for another surprise. I was driven back to the house and greeted as if I’d won the national lottery—biscuits, endless patting, cries of delight and admiration, photographs, the four-course hero’s welcome, all of which I found rather puzzling. It had only been a shave and a shampoo, after all, even if it had been deeply unpleasant. Did these ecstatic demonstrations take place each morning after ablutions in the management’s bathroom? I wouldn’t rule it out. They have an odd liking for hygiene.

  The morning’s finale almost brought a tear to the eye. The other half went back to the car and returned to the house carrying a large circular basket, which he placed by the kitchen. Into the basket went my blanket, and that’s when it dawned on me. The ghastly ordeal had not been in vain. It was my passport to the joys of indoors. I could take up my position as barker in chief, permanent resident, and defender of the premises against trespassing lizards and things that go bump in the night. No more subsistence living, no more boots in the ribs. A life of privilege—luxe et volupté—stretched before me.

  It was a heady realization, and I thought of celebrating with a quick dive into the remains of the dead pigeon to get rid of the odor of cleanliness that clung to me, but I decided against it. If the management preferred the sanitary me, that’s how I’d stay. Until tomorrow, at any rate. Pigeons always improve with age.

  Name of a Dog

  Experience has taught me that christening a dog is by no means the straightforward business you might imagine it to be. Names last a lifetime, and terrible mistakes are made, usually with humorous intentio
ns. I often think with sympathy of two acquaintances of mine, a pug called Gertrude Stein and Fang the Chihuahua. Very droll, no doubt, from the human viewpoint, but a daily embarrassment to the dogs concerned. It is no joke going through life as an object of ridicule. Fingers are pointed, and there is a great deal of vulgar mirth.

  It’s this warped sense of fun, you see, that carries some people away. Little do they realize the emotional scars they leave. It reached the stage with the long-suffering Fang where, after years of being giggled at, he became an almost total recluse. He took to spending the daylight hours under a bed, emerging only to answer calls of nature or to bite his owner on the lower reaches of the ankle.

  Luckily, the management seemed to have some fairly sound views on names when trying to think of something suitable for me. I was lying in the courtyard on that fateful morning, having my stomach massaged by madame as the suggestions went back and forth, not taking a particularly active part in the proceedings myself, but interested enough to stay awake. In my previous existence, I had been addressed only by grunts, blows, and curses, so the thought of having an official title was something of a novelty.

  An official title

  The question of length, for instance, had never occurred to me until I heard the other half putting forward the case for a single-syllable name. Easier for a dog’s ear to pick up at a distance, he said, and easier for the human voice to cope with. Imagine having to shout Beauregard or Aristotle into the teeth of a howling gale. The lungs couldn’t cope. And besides, he went on, long names become shortened in daily use, anyway. Remember Vercingetorix d’Avignon III, the prize beagle? They always called him Fred.

  Madame was cooing away at me in that infinitely soothing fashion she has, telling me what a good boy I was, and I was responding with tail and upraised paw, when she paused in her ministrations and leaned down toward me.

  “Boy?” she said. “Boy?”

  Well, she clearly wasn’t talking to the other half; it’s common knowledge that his boyhood is a matter of distant history, and so I accelerated the tail and nodded at her politely, as one does when being spoken to. That seemed to do it.

  “You see?” said madame. “He likes it. We’ll call him Boy.”

  To be absolutely truthful, it was all one to me at the time. I’d have answered to Heathcliff or Caesar Augustus or Mitterrand if it meant home cooking, civil treatment, and stomach massage, but they appeared to be pleased with the choice, and I’ve been Boy ever since. I’m obliged to them, really. It’s honest, short, and serviceable. Rather like the better class of dachshund.

  A Balanced Education

  I was a diamond in the rough in those early days, brimming with promise but somewhat deficient in the social graces. I’d never eaten from a bowl before. I had a cavalier attitude toward bodily functions, which caused one or two raised eyebrows with the management. I was unused to navigating around furniture. The world of gastronomy was unknown territory, and I was not at my ease with tradespeople. In other words, I lacked polish. Hardly surprising, really, when you consider that my first few months had been spent in solitary confinement, with occasional visits from a man whose idea of savoir faire was taking off his boots before going to bed.

  However, I won’t dwell on my humble origins, except to say that they had not prepared me for my new life of regular meals, sanitary habits, and harmonious coexistence with two old bitches. I had much to learn.

  I had much to learn.

  Fortunately, I was gifted, even then, with keen powers of observation. There are those in this world who merely look, but take nothing in; Irish setters come to mind here, and I’ve heard the same said about office receptionists, although I’ve never met one. But I do more than look. I watch closely. I absorb. I note and inwardly digest. I like to think of myself as an eternal student of behavior—ants, lizards, other dogs, people, they all fascinate me, and studying their odd little quirks and rituals has greatly helped my intellectual development, worldliness, social composure, and all the rest of those attributes one needs to live in harmony with man.

  To start with, I paid particular attention to my two roommates. These were the Labrador, in her outfit of dusty black bombazine, and the senior bitch, more rug than dog, who has been said by some people with highly suspect judgment to resemble me. The two of them, I assumed, had spent several years learning the ropes, and by using them as role models in matters of routine and general deportment, I would pick up the necessary domestic skills in no time, impress the management, and go to my natural place at the top of the class.

  Have you ever tried living with two elderly females who are settled in their ways? Probably not, and if I were you, I wouldn’t bother. They nag, you know, and tend to take offense at the most trivial things. I’ll give you an example, which happened soon after I arrived, and which made me hobble for a week.

  I told you I’d never eaten from a bowl. There’s a knack to it, because if you’re anxious to get at the rations, you tend to plunge in, and the more eager you are, the more the bowl skids away from you. I’ve since learned to jam it into a corner, where it can’t escape, but at that time my technique was to place a paw in the bowl to keep it firmly anchored. I should also mention that I am not one of those fussy eaters who take an extended stroll between mouthfuls. I don’t leave the bowl until it’s empty, which I consider to be good sense and good manners, and I eat with gusto (some might say unfettered greed, but you have to remember my deprived upbringing).

  In any case, I had finished and was sucking the last of it from my paw when I noticed that the bowl next to mine was unattended and half-full. I can’t abide waste, and so I transferred the paw to the bowl next door and was about to deal with the contents when the senior bitch returned from her travels, found me tidying up what she’d left, and bit me extremely hard on the thigh. Snarls of outrage followed, and I was obliged to hop off smartly on three legs. So much for any sympathy I may have had for the feminist movement. They’re more than capable of taking care of themselves, the gentle sex, and I have the scars to prove it.

  But apart from their possessive attitude toward food, I found them to be reasonably good-natured and a great help in guiding me through the reefs and currents of daily domestic life. These are some of the lessons I learned:

  It is permitted to bark at neighborhood dogs who have wandered off course, at the man who comes once a month trying to sell subscriptions to a yoga magazine, and at strangers at the gate. It is not permitted to bark at the telephone every time it rings, at the electrician on a mission of mercy, or at a centipede you find in your basket at three in the morning. Growling and dental displays are frowned on, as are major excavations in flower beds, the concealing of bones in visitors’ handbags, and romps on the couch.

  It is considered very bad form to break wind, and here I have to say that the Labrador excels. Unfortunately, once you make a name for yourself at this sort of thing, you tend to be treated with automatic suspicion, sometimes unfairly. I remember one winter evening, logs crackling merrily in the hearth, friends around the dinner table, we three dogs minding our own business as the banter flowed back and forth, when the atmosphere of well-being was sullied by a real torpedo, possibly the result of too much rich cheese. It was impossible to ignore, and conversation ceased while everyone looked for the guilty party.

  Now I happened to be lying close to the perpetrator, a small and excitable man in journalism, as a matter of fact. But was there any attempt on his part to claim authorship? Certainly not. With the practiced effrontery that came, I’m sure, from many similar lapses in the past, he waved his wineglass in the direction of the Labrador and said, in so many words, Officer, arrest that dog. The poor old thing was expelled into the night, a victim of her reputation.

  I wouldn’t want you to think that my domestic education was limited to avoiding the disapproval of the management. Stemming, I suppose, from fondness and gratitude, and maybe a touch of self-interest, I also wanted to please them. It wasn’t long before I pi
cked up some invaluable hints on establishing myself in their good graces, laying up a store of benevolence against the day—accidents and misunderstandings will happen, as we all know—when it might be needed.

  The human responds to spontaneous displays of affection. These can take the form of the straightforward, head-on-the-knee and adoring-gaze variety or the early morning salute with tail at full wag, to more complicated indications of joy, trust, fidelity, and a desire to ingratiate. The transportation and delivery of precious objects, for instance, never fails to please. Following a trifling faux pas on my part, I once disinterred, with some reluctance, the remains of a mouse that I had been saving until it reached full maturity and placed it at madame’s feet while she was in the kitchen making mayonnaise. She was overcome with gratitude; at least, I think it was gratitude. She summoned the other half, and they both regarded the mouse with expressions of wonder. Rather touching, really, and well worth the minimal effort involved, since I was forgiven immediately. I’ve had much the same gratifying reaction to other tokens of esteem—cushions, hats, mislaid airline tickets and discarded items of lingerie from the guest quarters, a favorite book, urgent faxes from foreign parts, or the back half of a grass snake. The nature of the gift doesn’t seem to matter. It’s the fact that I take the trouble to choose it personally that counts.

  The human responds to spontaneous displays of affection.