A Dog's Life

by Peter Mayle

  There were rocks, tastefully arranged to form an uneven base, with a variety of dying shrubs wedged in the crevices. If you had a vivid imagination and an uncritical eye, you might have detected some distant resemblance to nature, but I was unconvinced. However, I did notice that some biscuits had been left on one of the rocks, and I dealt with them while I listened to Eloise making a phone call. Then she made another, and another, and each time it was the same story. She was calling her friends to tell them not to disturb her—ironic, really, given her talent for interrupting herself at every opportunity. But she sent out the message that an important commission had been undertaken, artist in the throes of creation, no contact with the outside world until further notice, and so on. I wondered how the old masters had managed without phones. Messengers with cleft sticks, I imagine.

  I was becoming a little restive by this time, feeling more than ever that my obliging nature had let me in for an extended dose of tedium. Remember what I said about good deeds? One pays for them, there’s no doubt about it, and as I gazed out of the window to the accompaniment of yet another phone call, I almost regretted being born with such a distinguished appearance. I’m quite happy for artists to suffer for their art, but I wish they’d leave us models out of it.

  Finally, Eloise put aside the phone and battle commenced. She took me over to install me in the grotto and made numerous adjustments before she succeeded in placing me in a position of acute discomfort. This was my pose, so she told me, and I was not to move, a rock up the backside notwithstanding. She stepped back, extended an arm, cocked her thumb, and squinted at me thoughtfully, in the manner of Degas getting a grip on perspective. But no. It wouldn’t do. Something was missing. I was allowed to stand at ease while she went out to the garden to look for whatever it was.

  Back she came in triumph, holding an armful of weeds. Horticulture isn’t one of my strong points, so I can’t give you their name, but I’m sure you’ve come across them. They grow in curling tendrils, and they stick to you like long strands of burrs. They’re the devil to get off, so you keep well clear of them if you have any sense. Eloise, of course, doesn’t qualify.

  She began draping this dreadful stuff around my head and shoulders, mumbling some claptrap about a verdant garland completing the effect. By the time she’d finished, I felt completely ridiculous, as you would if someone dressed you up as a bush. But Eloise was obviously convinced we were making progress, and she pushed me back on my jagged perch with exclamations of artistic delight. “Yes,” she said, “yes. I can see it now, that head framed by a symbol of nature’s fertility. Superbe.” Personally, I could see very little through the foliage hanging over my brow, and I put that forward as the cause of the accident. It wasn’t malice aforethought, despite what she said later.

  So far, not a drop of paint had been spilled in earnest. I was uncomfortable at both ends, three-quarters blind, and rapidly running out of patience. And then the phone rang.

  Would Picasso have answered it, or any of those maestros of the brush? Of course not. Did Eloise? Of course she did. I have heard it said—unkind, I know, as the truth often is—that it would take surgery to remove a phone from her ear, and she was settling down to a detailed discussion of the benefits of liposuction with one of her weight-conscious friends when I decided that enough was enough. I rose from my bed of pain and went toward the door, with the intention of disentangling myself from my leafy disguise. Unfortunately, vision being impaired, I bumped into the easel, the canvas came down on my head, and a combination of instinct and irritation made me fight back.

  It was the redeeming moment of the day. I don’t know if you’ve ever had reason to attack a four-by-four canvas, but if you’re ever feeling out of sorts, I can’t recommend it too highly. It rips like a dream, and there’s no chance of personal injury. I was at it like a tiger, until nothing remained but strips and fragments, with a distraught Eloise giving a hysterical running commentary to her friend on the phone. “He has turned into a vicious killer. My work is destroyed. I fear for my life. Call the police.” I should add that by now the terrified artist had climbed to a position of safety on top of her table, her booted feet causing havoc among the tubes of aquamarine and madder, some of which spurted out and landed on me.

  The redeeming moment of the day

  I’m sure you can guess the rest. An emergency call summoned the management, they hurried over, and, do you know, it was the first time I’d ever seen them flinch. There I was, festooned with weeds and morsels of canvas, decorated with multicolored blobs of paint, and pawing at the door to get out, with Eloise up on the table, clutching the phone to her breast and preparing to swoon. I wasn’t in the best position to appreciate the sight myself, but I’m sure some people would have paid a modest entrance fee.

  It ended badly for us all. The management promised a check in the post by return, to compensate for general wear and tear. I was subjected to a disagreeable session with scissors and paint stripper. And Eloise was in shock, so she said, for months afterward. So much for art. Not worth the fuss, if you ask me.

  Notes on the Human Species

  If I live to be sixteen, I shall never fully understand the rich complexities of human nature. Not sure that I want to, either. It would be a lifetime’s work, and brooding over the mysteries of existence is bad for your health. Look what happens to philosophers. Most of them end up barking mad, taking to the bottle, or becoming professors of existentialism at obscure universities.

  Having said that, I won’t deny that after many happy years of living with the management and their occasionally suspect friends, I have come to certain conclusions about the beast with two legs. Flashes of insight have occurred, as they will if you observe closely, keep your mouth shut and your ears open. Instructive moments stay in the memory, adding to the store of knowledge. Take, for example, the day I learned about the sanctity of the human infant.

  It happened during that socially perilous period after dinner, when those around the table are often tempted to let fly with a juicy indiscretion, or even—in vino veritas—to tell the truth. They often regret it the next day, and remorseful phone calls are exchanged. But by then, fortunately, it’s too late.

  On the evening in question, we were privileged to have the company of an earth mother. She had three young children, and never let anyone forget it-photographs with the cocktails, fascinating tales of their exploits with bib and rattle during the first course, followed by up-to-date reports, in great and unnecessary detail, of the number of teeth and their experiments with bodily functions. I found it hard to take, and I wasn’t trying to eat, but she pressed on regardless while the other guests did as best they could to choke down the roast lamb. Finally, having run out of hard news, she put forward the offensive theory that people have dogs as child substitutes. Misguided and discourteous, of course, but hardly original, and I thought the remark would receive the lack of attention it deserved.

  I hadn’t reckoned, however, on the effect of her monologue on the other half. I may have mentioned previously that it usually takes something close to an earth tremor to rouse him from his after-dinner reverie. But at this point—inspired, no doubt, by a surfeit of propaganda on the joys of fertility—he pricked up his ears and bit back. Good stuff it was, too, the gist of it being that many couples in these overcrowded times live in small apartments where dogs are forbidden. Desperate for companionship, the couple either buys a parakeet or has a baby, depending on available cage space. Therefore, one could just as easily put forward the opposite argument—that children are, in fact, dog substitutes. Have another drink.

  He picked up his ears and bit back.

  The other half has found himself in trouble before because of his frivolous attitude to sacred cows, but seldom have I seen such a dramatic response. Vibrating with emotion like a blancmange in heat, the earth mother fixed him with furious and incandescent eye. “That’s outrageous,” said she. “Are you seriously comparing my little Tommy with a parakeet?”

/>   A hush fell upon the table while everyone waited for the other half to extricate himself from the situation. But the devil was in him that night, and he wasn’t in a mood to appease. “Why not?” said he. “They’re both small. They’re both noisy. They both spill their food. And they both have difficulty controlling their bowels.” All true, of course, but not really what a mother wants to hear.

  And it was enough to conclude the evening’s entertainment. The offended party threw down her napkin, picked up the family album, and dragged her husband off into the night, complaining loudly about insults to motherhood and swearing never to speak to that dreadful man again. “What a relief,” the other half was heard to mutter, which caused him to be banished to do penance in the kitchen. I kept my head well down. I’d enjoyed every minute of it, of course, but it doesn’t do to gloat.

  Musing on events in my basket after lights out, my thoughts turned to other sensitive issues where unfashionable opinions or a few words spoken in jest can lead to alarm and despondency and ruptured social ties. There are many touchy subjects, when you come to think about it, from politics—which I gather many people still take seriously—to the role of the condom in modern society. I’ve listened to overheated discussions about both, and I’ve seen normally mild-mannered, reasonable people behave like ferrets in a sack over the most minor disagreements. They like to win, you see, and they get cross if they don’t. There’s nothing as strange as folk.

  It was with this in mind that I spent a few days reviewing the thoughts collected in the preceding pages—to be certain I’d included all that might be of interest to posterity, or anyone else, for that matter. To my surprise, I found that I might have neglected my own kind. What of the youthful and untried among us, ignorant of human ways, cast adrift in a strange world where people relieve themselves indoors and punish the dog who imitates them? Logic doesn’t answer; only experience does. And so I offer these hints. Random pensées, they may be, but none the worse for that. See what you think.

  Advice to the Young Dog

  1. Beware of Christmas. It is traditionally a time when puppies are brought into the happy home as gifts. If they manage to survive an early diet of turkey, mince pies, liqueur chocolates, wrapping paper, tinsel, and tree ornaments, they grow, as puppies do. For some reason, this causes astonishment and consternation among the older members of the family, who should have known better. But they don’t, and by spring they’re looking for someone prepared to take over a dog that has become an inconvenience. Christmas puppies should not make long-term plans. Sad but true.

  2. Do not even attempt to understand the lure of television. I like to think of myself as fairly sophisticated, able to move freely among different social groups, sympathetic to their interests, however bizarre, and so forth. But here I am baffled. A box filled with small and noisy people, a disagreeable scent of heated plastic, the room plunged into darkness, conversation banned, and the faint sounds of snoring in the background—is this enjoyable? I can’t make head or tail of it myself. Have you ever seen rabbits hypnotized by flashlight? That’s television, as far as I’m concerned. For drama and entertainment, give me ants any day.

  3. You may one night be disturbed by the stealthy arrival through a window of gentlemen who tiptoe around the house in silence. These are burglars. Never bark at them. They have no respect for animal rights and can be violent. Postpone making any noise until they are safely out of the house. With luck, they might have taken the television.

  4. The etiquette of bathing confused me for several months, but the rules seem to be as follows. It is acceptable for people to immerse themselves in water every day; indeed, they consider it a virtue and a joy. They sing; they play games with the soap; they emerge pink and glowing and pleased with themselves. Seeing this, the novice dog who wishes to please may be tempted to follow their example by taking a refreshing squirm in a puddle. This is not acceptable. Neither is shaking oneself dry in the living room or cleaning the facial hair with a brisk rub on the carpet. As in most aspects of life, a dual standard operates here, and it doesn’t favor those of us with four legs and a muddy gusset.

  5. Learn to distinguish between natural friends and natural enemies. I always warm to gardeners (because we have a mutual interest in digging), clumsy eaters, those who understand the principles of bribery to ensure good behavior, and denture wearers, who find biscuits difficult. To be treated with caution: anyone dressed in white, people who make patronizing inquiries about your pedigree, grumpy old men with sticks, and vegetarians (except at mealtimes when there is meat on the table that they wish to dispose of discreetly). To be avoided: women who carry photographs of their cats. They are beyond hope.

  6. Recognize the need for selective obedience. Under normal circumstances, you can do more or less what you like. Man’s innate idleness and short attention span will save you from too much discipline. But there will be moments of crisis when it pays to respond to a call from the authorities. You can always tell. Voices are raised, hysteria looms, and threats are uttered. When they shout in capital letters—as in “BOY! DAMNIT!”—return to base immediately, pretending you didn’t hear the first time. Wag sincerely, and all will be well.

  7. Do not bring friends of the opposite sex home. This will only encourage indelicate speculation about your intentions, and it may lead to a period of house arrest. Romance, in my view, is best conducted on neutral ground, where you’re unlikely to find yourself cornered and you can retain what is known these days as “maximum deniability.” Follow the example of our eminent leaders: Admit to nothing until your accusers have you by the short hairs.

  8. Never bite vets, even when attacked from behind by a chilly thermometer. They mean well.

  9. Finally, remember that we live in an imperfect world. People make mistakes. Cocktail parties, pale-colored furniture, hair transplants, New Year’s Eve, worming tablets, vibrant orange Lycra, diamanté dog collars, jogging, grooming, telephone sex, leg waxing—the list is long, and life is short. My advice is to make the best of it, and to make allowances. To err is human. To forgive, canine.

  To err is human. To forgive, canine.

  Anyone for a walk?

  A luscious novel that gives us the sensual wonders of Provence while telling a fascinating tale of the competitive boutique-wine trade.

  A GOOD YEAR

  A NOVEL

  BY PETER MAYLE

  Available June 2004 in hardcover from Knopf $24.00 (Canada: $34.00) • 0-375-40591-7

  PLEASE VISIT www.aaknopf.com

  A selection of titles available in Vintage paperback:

  Anything Considered • 0-679-76268-X

  Encore Provence • 0-679-762.69-8

  French Lessons • 0-375-70561-9

  A Year in Provence • 0-679-73114-8

  ALSO BY PETER MAYLE

  “Peter Mayle [is] something of a wonder … chronicling the scene around him in irresistible prose.” —Time

  ANYTHING CONSIDERED

  Set in the South of France, Anything Considered introduces Bennett, a suave English expatriate who, when he runs low on cash, places an ad that reads, “Unattached Englishman … seeks interesting and unusual work. Anything considered except marriage.” Soon Bennett finds himself living in luxury as he impersonates a wealthy stranger, but he faces a few complications, which involve the Sicilian and Corsican mafiosi, the loveliest woman ever to drive a tank, and a formula for domesticating the notoriously unpredictable black truffle.

  Fiction/0-679-76268-X

  CHASING CÉZANNE

  Hanky-panky on the international art scene is the source of the hilarity and fizz in Chasing Cézanne. Camilla Jameson Porter, editor of the glossy magazine Decorating Quarterly, has commissioned Andre Kelly to photograph the treasures of the rich, famous, and fatuous. After Andre spots a priceless Cezanne being loaded onto a plumber’s truck near the home of an absent collector, he begins a riotous quest through galleries, glamorous houses, and naturally, enticingly delectable restaurants.
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br />   Fiction/0-679-78120-X

  HOTEL PASTIS

  In this novel of romance, adventure, and tongue-in-cheek suspense, Simon Shaw, a rumpled, fortyish English advertising executive, has decided to chuck it all and transform an abandoned police station in the Lubéron into the small but world-class Hotel Pastis. On his side, Simon has the loyal majordomo and a French business partner who is as practical as she is ravishing. But he hasn’t counted on the bank robbers who have chosen the neighboring village for their next heist.

  Fiction/0-679-75111-4

  A YEAR IN PROVENCE

  In this witty and warmhearted account, Peter Mayle realizes a long-cherished dream and moves into a two-hundred-year-old farmhouse in the remote French countryside. A Year in Provence transports us into all the earthy pleasures of Provençal life and lets us live vicariously at a tempo governed by seasons, not by days.

  Travel/0-679-73114-8

  TOUJOURS PROVENCE

  Taking up where A Year in Provence leaves off, Peter Mayle offers another deliciously evocative book about life in Provence. With tales of finding old gold coins while digging in the garden and indulging in sumptuous dinners at truck stops, Toujours Provence is an irresistible portrait of a place where, if you can’t quite “get away from it all,” you can surely have a good time trying.