Almost French (28 page)

Trends build slowly then inexplicably explode. At first it was a case of a British bulldog here, one over there. Then suddenly their stocky silhouettes were everywhere and the market street was invaded by foaming, four-legged generals with names like Winston and Wallace. After, came the Jack Russell craze. For a while there were just a couple in the
quartier
, scampering on hyperactive little legs. Next thing it seemed there was one under every second café table, wriggling its puppy-fat to reach a fallen sugar cube or a piece of bread. At some stage poodles must have been in vogue, because their creaky legs stalk the streets in perfect mimicry of their elderly mistresses.

But the ones that really catch my eye are wiry-haired and white, with bossy tails that stick straight up in a self-important wag. For a small dog, West Highland terriers, or Westies as they’re called, seem emotionally balanced and boisterous,
their solid little bodies imbued with personality. Consulting a dog encyclopaedia, I’m won over by a barrage of upbeat adjectives: ‘Friendly, feisty, plucky and confident, a West Highland terrier has the personality of a big dog in the body of a little one.’ That sounds pretty perfect. Without reading another line, the business of selecting a breed is decided.

Maddie is born near the pretty coastal town Honfleur in Normandy, in a house with a large garden and lots of trees which will make our apartment seem a little disappointing to her. The dog breeder has promised us first pick of the four female pups. Eager to appear responsible, we’d decided to take our car instead of roaring up on the motorbike. On the way, Frédéric is perky. He seems to have come to terms with the idea—that is until he learns how much my precious pup is about to cost me.

‘
Six thousand francs?
I thought you said she was going to cost
three
thousand?’

I must have fibbed, I can’t remember. ‘Six thousand is actually quite reasonable for a pedigree in France,’ I argue defensively, pointing out that’s what you pay for one of those sad, yappy, caged creatures from the pet shops along the Seine, whereas for the same price we’re getting a happy dog from hardy country stock. For some reason I convert the sum into Australian dollars, as though the smaller number might fool him into believing it’s a bargain.

‘That’s only 1,700 dollars.’

His eyes leave the road for a reckless length of time to stare at me.

‘More than you make in a month.’

Actually, that isn’t true. I earn more than six thousand francs a month. But sometimes not a lot more. My annual income is a jagged line of wild dips and modest peaks. I know
what he’s thinking because the same thought is running through my mind. This dog better be worth it.

In the middle of a well-heated kitchen, a large, plastic basket is piled with pups sprawled so haphazardly it’s difficult to connect bottoms with noses and legs. It’s a wonder they can breathe. The slumbering tangle wriggles occasionally; beneath downy white fur their skin shines piglet-pink. They are incredibly cute. Frédéric’s resistance begins to melt.

The litter is unusually large—there are eight pups—and several are especially small. While the others doze, one determinedly tries to scramble out of the basket. She has little currant eyes, a black button nose straight off a wind-up toy and ridiculous Dumbo ears which the breeder assures us she’ll grow into. Her body is shaped like a wombat’s, with a broad rump and narrow neck. Perfect Westie proportions, apparently. In Frédéric’s hands she squirms impatiently, desperate to explore the world beyond her boring basket.

‘That one’s the liveliest,’ the dog breeder says approvingly. ‘She’s the smallest of the litter.’

This last bit of information blows the remaining clouds from Frédéric’s face. Lately he’s become obsessed with the size of West Highland terriers, pointing out that some of them are quite big. He worries Maddie might outgrow the motorbike basket. When the dog breeder assures us this one will remain petite, he can’t claim her quickly enough. ‘
Bon
. Let’s take her then.’

A stack of paperwork and twinkling trophies certify Maddie’s dazzling pedigree. The boughs of her family tree bend with prize winners and aristocratic surnames—there’s even an imperial branch consisting of great uncle Napoléon and auntie Joséphine. The dog breeder tells us how to care for her—everything from toys to
toilettage
, the expensive dog
grooming that in France is considered essential. As we prepare to leave she gives one last piece of advice.

‘Be firm,’ she says, with a warning look. ‘Remember, Westies are very stubborn.’

Where I grew up, dogs are dogs. Their lives consisted of modest pleasures like long walks, Pal and boisterous ball games. A night out meant guarding the house. But in Paris, a city of roughly two hundred thousand dogs (an incredible number when you consider there are no backyards and only pocket-sized parks) canines lead lives that are remarkably similar to their masters. They stay in châteaux-hotels and have expensive haircuts. A night out means dressing up and dining at fine restaurants. What makes this unrestrained spoiling even more bizarre is that it’s totally at odds with the strict discipline the French mete out to their kids. While children are expected to sit rod-straight at restaurants, eating and conversing like little grown-ups, dogs are babied and indulged, perched on velvet stools and hand-fed from plates.

Maddie draws me into this weird, uniquely Parisian world. Owning a dog reveals another realm of cultural peculiarities which cause me to look at my adopted home in renewed wonder. Just when you think you’ve grasped its complexities and contradictions, something else sends you spinning back into unfamiliar air space. Although living in France has opened my eyes and even changed my opinion on some things—hunting, for example, which somehow seemed less callous and more comprehensible when I’d witnessed the ritual of Jean-Michel preparing his catch for the table—I am adamant in my opposition to this Parisian pampering. I want a real dog, not some prissy pup that has
pedicures and hangs out at dog parlours.

Just as Alicia had promised, the much awaited Maddie changes my life. Working from home is altogether different with a little creative gambolling after my every step—to the toilet or into the kitchen to fill up my coffee cup. She’s an excellent distraction from writing. At the moment she needs frequent pee-runs, which means a lot of running up and down our six flights of stairs. Together we invent games—hide-and-seek and a form of tag where one chases the other round and round the armchair. I never quite know whether I’m the one indulging Maddie or if it’s Maddie who’s indulging me.

In unexpected ways, she makes my life easier. By virtue of proximity and ownership, I bathe in Maddie’s popularity. Sour civil servants soften at the sight of her. Usually the staff at the local social security office conscientiously ignore customers, feigning busyness to avoid serving anyone. But when I walk in with Maddie, two employees actually get up from behind their desks to congratulate me on my ‘adorable dog’. The first time we take her to a restaurant, the waiters perform a pantomime of fussing and pampering. They can’t do enough to please her. Out comes a little bowl of water—the same dish which will later contain someone’s soup or chocolate mousse. A few minutes later they slip her a sliver of pork
terrine.
A saucer of fragrant rosemary lamb—cut into tiny bites—lands under the table, making my mouth water. Maddie has had apéritif, first course and main before Frédéric and I have even glimpsed a menu.

Suddenly I have an identity. To the local
commerçants
, I’m no longer an anonymous foreigner, I am the
maman de Maddie
. This title carries street cred. Shop assistants who had previously ignored me now smile as they surreptitiously
slide her a corner of croissant. The
fromager
calls her in for a chunk of Gruyère; Pierre blows her boozy kisses from across the street. Napoléon—who has never once asked how
I
am—enquires after Maddie every time he cycles by. In a city where establishing contact with strangers is notoriously difficult, suddenly it seems everyone wants to talk to me because of my dog.

‘
Oooh, le petit bebéee!
’ The voice behind me is irritatingly saccharine. Anyone who calls a dog a baby is best avoided, that much is obvious. Quickening my pace, I tug Maddie who is struggling to swivel and greet her latest admirer. But the cooing follows us along Rue Montorgueil.

‘
Oooh, mon toutou, mon petit cœur!
’ Maddie—an incorrigible attention seeker—splays her legs and showing great force for a little dog, brings us both to a stop. Showered with endearments, she licks and leaps all over her admirer, an elderly woman with one bulging eye that looks, quite literally, like it’s about to pop out of her head. I brace myself for the usual questions: how old is she, what’s her name (which I will invariably have to spell), and then the inevitable ‘what does “Maddie” mean?’ to which I will tersely reply ‘nothing’. If she knows any English, she might make the ‘mad’ joke (did you call her Maddie because she’s mad?), and I will try to pull my mouth into a tight smile.

But no. Madame has not stopped me for pleasantries. Her falling-out eye is fierce.

‘She’s cold.’

Taken aback, I try not to stare at the odd eye.

‘
Vous voyez, Madame
,’—she points an authoritative finger at Maddie, ‘
elle tremble
.’

My dog is not shivering. She’s not even especially cold, I protest. But grandma is apparently a mind reader of mutts.

‘She should be wearing a jacket.’

Well that’s bullshit. According to my vet, those silly coats only make the dogs colder because they rub the natural protective oil from their fur. But I don’t get a chance to set her straight. Shaking an accusing finger at me, the know-all granny has the last word.

‘Mauvaise maman!
’ You’re a bad mother.

Unfortunately, this is not an isolated incident. The most startling aspect of owning a dog in Paris is the reams of unwanted advice delivered by total strangers. After just one month, I could fill a book. Such-and-such a dog grooming salon is very good; try Louis Vuitton for leads—they’re strong and smart (not to mention ludicrously expensive). Scoldings are frequent. Your dog’s hungry, Madame. Thirsty. Two butchers on Rue Montmartre order me to stop walking so fast:
‘il est fatigué, le pauvre!
’ The poor little thing’s tired. Sometimes the messages are delivered indirectly, deliberately dropped within earshot. ‘Look at that poor puppy,’ says a voice behind me one day, which sounded like a mother addressing a child. ‘She’s far too young to be on a lead.’

Alicia had warned me. She’d experienced the same endless interruptions with Lou-Lou, whose theatrical shivering in public draws sympathy and accusations of maltreatment. But not for a moment had I imagined it would be this bad. In my books about France I’d read that dogs are a great way of meeting people in Paris. They hadn’t mentioned anything about being chastised. After a few months, the regularity of these interruptions begins to wear me down.

Frédéric comes up with a line to silence the busy bodies. One crisp, authoritative phrase that somehow says she’s my
dog and I know exactly what’s best, thank you very much, now get lost. ‘
Je suis vétérinaire
.’

So when two guys start hassling me one day, it’s just a matter of pulling the verbal trigger. They’re sitting on a bench in Palais Royal, obviously bored. Meanwhile, I am endeavouring to walk my six-month-old pup, except that she won’t walk. Instead, Maddie is skiing behind me, rump reared and legs splayed, stirring up a wake of dust. This is her tiresome I-want-to-stop tantrum: her body goes rigid with indignation at not being allowed to snatch a baguette crust or sniff a fresh piddle. Gentle coaxing and encouraging tugs are futile; the wombat bottom anchors to the ground, the currant eyes blink insolently at me.

‘
Faut pas tirer!
’ Don’t pull her, one of the boys shouts. Ignoring him, I plough on, refusing to bow to my lumpish pup. Dust clouds accumulate in the air; kids point and laugh. In different circumstances I might have joined in. But under the critical glare of the truculent youths, I’m just keen to get out of here. To avoid a confrontation.