A Dog's Life

In some cultures, they are viewed as important fashion accessories. In others, they perform working roles, often the unsung heroes of their wooly charges. In our country, they are regarded as an important member of the family. They are spoiled, loved and revered for their devotion and warmth. Of course, I am talking about dogs.

            In Paris, you see many little Yorkshires and Shitzus peeking from Gucci totes as mademoiselle makes her way across the street in her impossibly high-heeled boots. It seems to me that French dogs are mostly of the handful size and almost never walk under their own power. You often find them sitting very demurely next to their owner (rarely a man) in a restaurant, delicately taking small bits of food, discreetly offered. They don’t make much noise, but it is certainly disconcerting to see those beady eyes following you in the most surprising places – restrooms, grocery store lines, airplanes.

            My little beagle suffers from cultural and racial confusion. He stands only 15 inches high and is, unmistakably, a pure-bred beagle. In his mind, however, he views himself as a Labrador and wants to be treated like a more diminutive Pekinese, his demeanor is often cat-like. Unlike his brethren, he is a dog of few words. He lacks the interminable beagle bay (much to the happiness of my neighbors). Don’t be mistaken about this. He can do it, usually when there is a delivery man wearing a hat and sporting a beard at my front door. His indignation is expressed from a safe distance as he scowls down from the stairway landing.

            I love to see dogs riding in cars. I know one black lab who sits in the passenger seat while in transit and immediately moves to the driver seat when his owner gets out of the car. There he sits, patiently waiting in the Food Center parking lot, dolefully gazing through the windshield as if she is holding up his schedule. He always has the good grace to look guilty as he slides back to his seat when she returns. He accepts his carrots with dignity and keeps careful watch out the window as they return home. He is a good boy after all.

            Whenever we are getting ready to leave the house, my little friend makes it very clear that he wants desperately to get into the car with us. Once inside, he realizes that he doesn’t like it very much. He begins to look a bit green by the time we get out of the neighborhood. I think he simply does not want to be left behind. He acts the same way when the kids prepare for a cruise in their kayak. He willingly dons a bright yellow doggy life vest, in accordance with house rules that all must wear one when paddling. He perches stiffly between his favorite people in the world, and I’m certain that he is willing himself to smile, despite the terror in his little, furry heart.

Every summer he travels with us on our annual pilgrimage to France. He rides in the plane in a duffel-bag type carrier. He gets half of a Dramamine, I take the other half, and when we wake up, we have arrived! Of course it is necessary to book a ticket for him, and there are only two such spaces available on each flight, so that means we are making plans months ahead, on account of the dog.

            Because he is so quiet, most of the time, the other passengers don’t even realize there is a dog among them. The bag sits perfectly still between my feet with most of it tucked under the seat in front of me. One particularly ornery airline hostess was thoroughly aggravated with the slight protrusion of the bag and reached down, with huffy annoyance, to grab the handles. This must go in the overhead compartment, she admonished me. As she lifted, and didn’t gain any ground, I told her that there was a beagle inside and he couldn’t possibly fit in the bin. Shock, disbelief, then pleasure, transformed her nasty countenance and she cooed at the duffle bag. Since it still didn’t fit the way she wanted, though she was now charmed by the unseen contents. We found that some neighboring passengers had some space on the floor in front of an empty seat next to them. My dog-in-a-bag rode with our new German friends and now he also thinks himself a “hund.”

            My globetrotting pal has enjoyed more business class flights than I have. Because the seats have much more leg room in this section, it is often whoever got the upgrade is also the traveler who gets charge of the dog in his carrier. This is much more comfortable for everyone concerned and the airline folks seem to be much more relaxed closer to the front of the plane.

            Our beagle buddy is also bi-lingual, having picked up quite a bit of French on his annual excursions. Though he wouldn’t tell you, I am convinced he prefers French to English. When my husband shouts “come” to the stubborn canine standing in the middle of the driveway, he looks the other way. But ask him to “viennes ici” and he’ll happily trot back to the house. His favorite treat is the end of a baguette and like all good French dogs, he sits placidly at our feet in a restaurant. His good European manners keep him from sticking his head into loaded shopping bags at the market and he enjoys going pretty much anyplace his kids go. It is a dog’s life indeed.

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