Gamone friends

Sophia is getting along fine with her new friend Fitzroy. The marvelous little Border Collie pup has the privilege of being able to do crash courses in canine behavior—often of a violent nature—with the wise old mistress, who knows every trick of the trade.

Naturally, Sophia often seems to wonder what it is that drives Fitzroy to run around crazily all the time, instead of sitting calmly on his backside and meditating.

Meanwhile, Fitzroy uses his little snout and sharp teeth to pick up, and maybe tear apart, anything he finds, such as this lavender bouquet.

Leaves (in no shortage at Gamone) are interesting light-weight acquisitions.

My ex-neighbor Bob is impressed by the apparent happiness of Fitzroy. As my former rugby-player friend puts it: "Clearly, that dog's not traumatized by his arrival at Gamone!"

As for me, now accustomed to spending long moments of joy in the sunshine, cuddling the woolly pup and stroking his belly, I'm constantly overcome by what I call the Fitzroy stare.

He could be asking me what it's all about, or whether I'm in control of the situation. He might be curious about my background, and my credentials for looking after dogs. He might be saying to himself: "What a splendid male specimen!" (Me, that is, not the dog.) Or rather: "Jeez, what a dumb-looking master!" In fact, Fitzroy's stare is probably no more than a visible indication of his simple desire to exist calmly and confidently, without wondering about anything in particular. Often, as I approach my 70th birthday (the day after tomorrow), I've said to myself that it would have been great to be born a dog. In fact, though, I don't regret anything.

Final testing phase

For the final phase of testing the new kennel, I filled it with straw.

At one stage, Sophia burrowed into the straw and dozed there for ten minutes. We're convinced that it's fit for Fitzroy.

Construction of a kennel

In my article of 9 August 2010 entitled Sophia's future companion at Gamone [display], I presented Fitzroy and his family. Although he won't be arriving at Gamone before the middle of September, I've already started to build him a kennel, because I want him to feel at home as soon as he moves in. I've designed the future kennel for an adult dog, even though Fitzroy is still, of course, a tiny pup. As a basis for the dimensions, I've used Sophia's big wicker basket.

As you can see in this photo, the interior walls will be pine panels (as used for cladding), while the exterior of the cubic frame will be covered in rough slabs of Douglas-fir. The space between the two walls will be stuffed with glass wool, since Fitzroy will be spending his winter nights out in the kennel. The flat roof (removable for cleaning, but sufficiently heavy to stay in place in strong winds) will be of ridged metal.

Sophia is testing the entrance for size. The kennel might appear to be rather tall, but you mustn't forget that the floor will be padded with a thick layer of straw. When it's raining or snowing outside, a Border Collie likes to dry itself by rolling in straw, and this is how it keeps its fur clean and glossy.

In a setting such as Gamone, constructing a kennel is a pleasant summer activity. It's not so much the actual woodwork that gives me pleasure (although I do indeed like to fiddle around with saws, hammers and nails), but rather the idea of building a sturdy home for a future friend.

Sophia's future companion at Gamone

In my recent article entitled Moshé's future companion [display], I mentioned my neighbor Sylvie from Presles: the girl who'll be selling me a young donkey in October. Her partner William had a few days off from his job in the Alps as a cattle drover (not a shepherd, as I said mistakenly), so he drove down to Presles with his canine companions: two adult Border Collies and their three pups. And, yesterday, I invited everybody to lunch here at Gamone.

This photo shows the male pup I intend to acquire, in about a month's time. He's sleeping with his mother Uana (a name derived from the Irish Gaelic word for "soul"), accompanied by Uana's own mother.

This year's dog names in France should normally start with the letter "F". So, with the help of my children, I began to examine a list of possible names. Happily, we soon reached a consensus. The pup will be named Fitzroy, which is a fine name for a dog in France. This is largely an allusion to the ancient ancestor mentioned in my article of December 20, 2009 entitled One of my ancestors was a bastard [display]. Having said this, I hasten to point out that, unlike my ancestor Richard FitzRoy [1186-1270], the little pup is not at all a bastard. On the contrary, he's a pure-bred animal, with the classical markings of a Border Collie. And surely, in his genes, he has an urge to round up animals of all kinds. Maybe, later on, to keep him occupied, I'll get around to acquiring a few ducks or geese.

Now I have to get to work building him a kennel, because Border Collies are outside dogs, all year round. It's too early to imagine the future relationship between Sophia and the pup. As soon as the adult females jumped out of the car yesterday, their snarls informed Sophia, in perfectly clear dog talk, that their pups were not to be disturbed. Sophia got the message instantly, and she spent most of the sunny afternoon on her own, inside the house, as if to say that she didn't give a damn about my guests.

Sophia's mother

Whenever I find myself reminiscing seriously with Sophia about personal matters, I take pleasure in reminding my dog that, once upon a time, I was a close friend of her dear mother Laïka. This reddish animal of no obvious race, who belonged to my neighbor's daughter Anne-Sophie, was truly the dearest dog I could have ever imagined. I got to know her well, as a visitor and intermittent well-fed guest at Gamone, long before the birth of Sophia. There's a simple anecdote that I adore. When Anne-Marie got married, I was invited to the civil ceremony on a nice spring morning up in the village of Presles. When I arrived, guests were strolling around on the village square, waiting for the mayoress of Presles to call us in to the tiny town hall. Suddenly, I received a thump in the back, as if I had been hit by a football. It was the paws of my friend Laïka, who had recognized me in the crowd, and wanted to welcome me to her mistress's marriage.

Shortly after Laïka's puppy was born, Anne-Sophie phoned me to announce that they had a dog for me. It was a total surprise for me, but Anne-Sophie was aware of my friendship with Laïka, and she had decided unilaterally that I should receive one of Laïka's puppies.

I chose the name Sophia, not because of Anne-Sophie, but because it has always been—in my mind and in my ears—the sweetest Greek word that exists: wisdom as in philosophy (literally, the love of knowledge).

No sooner had I received my puppy than Anne-Sophie ran into some kind of a personal problem, and she asked me to take care of Laïka for a couple of weeks. So, Sophia's earliest days at Gamone were spent in the reassuring presence of her mother.

Finally, Laïka left us, and my puppy became the unique mistress of Gamone. Later, Sophia herself had a splendid daughter, named Gamone, who lives with Christine in Brittany... where she has received Sophia's old kennel (seen above). So, I've been acquainted with a beautiful dynasty of three females: Laïka, Sophia and Gamone.

Respectful dog

In a recent issue of the weekly Le Point, the main theme was retirement. This is a highly topical subject in France, where many observers feel that citizens are allowed—indeed obliged, most often—to retire too early from their professional activities.

The weekly includes a short interview with a well-known individual: the celebrated 89-year-old writer Jean Dutourd, who's a member of the Académie Française. Still complaining bitterly about the insolence of the France Soir daily, which asked him to quit as a journalist at the early age of 80, Dutourd warns: "If anybody dares to call me a 'senior', he'll get my fist in his face."

Yesterday, a friendly young couple and their daughter dropped in at Gamone to ask me whether I could inform them about the possibility of purchasing a neighboring property. All I could do was to give them Bob's phone number. They were accompanied by their playful six-months-old dog, who immediately started taking practical lessons in canine behavior from my wise old Sophia (who gave lessons of this kind both to her daughter Gamone and, more recently, to Alison's young dog Pif). In fact, I've always considered that young animals who have had the privilege of learning from Sophia the art of being a dog are quite fortunate. It's the canine equivalent, you might say, of sending your teenage daughter to a finishing school in Switzerland... maybe with a higher dose of snarling and self-defense in the curriculum. The visitors' dog promptly grabbed a huge bone (in fact, the skull of Gavroche), whereupon Sophia's smiling countenance made it clear—contrary to the upbringing of animals that have gone to the wrong schools—that a well-behaved dog should never overreact aggressively, not even to such a blatant case of stealing. As I said, Sophia is wise... in keeping with the meaning of her Greek name.

With the bone in its mouth, the little dog settled down beneath my outstretched legs. The owner said: "That's really weird: Whenever our dog is contented, it immediately decides to lie down under the legs of the most senior individual in the group." I said to myself that this charming little animal could run into problems if it ever got around to visiting Jean Dutourd.

Familiar visitor

Look who raced madly into the yard at Gamone this afternoon for a lightning get-together with his old sparring partner Sophia.

It was several months since we had last seen the familiar black silhouette of Pif... who turned up unexpectedly with an older mate.

The little puppy has turned into a powerful lanky dog, with all his extrovert enthusiasm for life and action perfectly intact. To greet me, Pif galloped past me with the speed of a greyhound, barking excitedly. He didn't stop for a pat, or even slow down long enough to let me take a few good photos. I had the impression that Pif seemed to be saying to Sophia and me:

"During the time since those distant days when I used to turn up here for Sophia's daily lessons in dog-fighting, I've been doing a lot of traveling, both in France and in Spain. I've been in high-speed trains, and I even did a trip in an international jet airliner. And, of course, I had an opportunity of visiting our glorious capital, Paris... which was a splendid adventure for a rural creature like me. [I could tell from Pif's new language that something has changed in him, that he has indeed become an experienced and worldly animal.] In any case, you must realize that I'm now a very busy dog, leading a rich urban life and meeting up with all kinds of individuals... if you see what I mean."

Five minutes later, Pif grabbed his old tweaking plastic bone between his teeth (I had been keeping it here for him) and the two canine tourists raced off furiously back up towards Pif's old home, where his mistress Alison was waiting in an automobile.

Dog takes us for a ride

I'm always impressed by a dog that's smart enough to play tricks on the supposedly superior beings who think of themselves as the animal's masters. As of this afternoon, I realize that my neighbors' Briska belongs to that canine category.

In fact, I often suspect that most, if not all, dogs might belong to this smart category. The great US writer Kurt Vonnegut [1922-2007] published a collection of short stories under the title Welcome to the Monkey House. His book includes a tiny masterpiece entitled Tom Edison's Shaggy Dog, no more than seven pages long. The gist of this delightful tale: Thomas Edison [1847-1931], the celebrated inventor of the light bulb, happened to concoct a so-called intelligence analyzer capable of indicating what we would now call the IQ of the individual hooked up to the machine. Well, when Edison tried out the device on his dog, he was astounded to obtain a genius-level reading. Edison's dog, on the other hand, was furious to realize that its master was henceforth capable of revealing the Great Secret: namely, that dogs have always been vastly superior to humans from an intelligence viewpoint. The canine race preferred to keep a low profile, indefinitely, enabling them to be housed gratis, fed for free and admired by humans. In return, they were expected to give merely a minimum of Christian canine love: mainly effortless sloppy licks and tail wagging. From a dog's viewpoint, this continued to be a truly superb system! To avoid letting the cat out of the bag (wrong metaphor), Edison's dog struck up a bargain with its master. If the inventor were to keep quiet about canine intelligence, and destroy his diabolical contraption, then the dog was prepared to offer Thomas Edison the perfect formula for the filament of an incandescent electric bulb...

Let me get back to Briska. This afternoon, in front of my house, Madeleine was crying out: "William, Briska's caught in a trap. Phone Dédé and tell him to drive up here immediately."

I did as ordered, then rushed downstairs, donned boots and a jacket and raced up to the place, a couple of hundred meters above my house, where I could hear Briska barking furiously. Madeleine raced after me. I soon ascertained that the barking came from a spot on the muddy banks of Gamone Creek, at about the level of Bob's place.

Me: "Madeleine, Briska's barking doesn't sound as if she's in pain."

Madeleine: "Don't be silly, William. She's in pain! I can recognize her barking. She's surely caught in a fox trap. Maybe gored by a wild boar. When you find her, be careful. She's probably out of her mind, and she's likely to bite you."

I lost no time in racing up the creek bed and sighting Briska, several meters up on the banks. She was still barking, and darting back and forth, as if she were restrained, unable to come down. By this time, Dédé had arrived on the scene with his vehicle. Meanwhile, not wishing to be bitten by a delerious dog in agony, I did my best to push Madeleine up the muddy embankment, so that she might encounter the animal. Both of us struggled to catch hold of branches and pull ourselves upwards. Dédé, down in the creek bed, could see Briska moving to the right, then to the left, then back again, while continuing to bark furiously.

I might add (because I believe that this observation is significant) that I was intrigued to notice that my dear dog Sophia gave no signs whatsoever of understanding what the hell all this fuss was about. Sophia is a little like General Motors in the USA. When she coughs, this indicates that all Gamone might be catching a cold. But when Sophia behaves soporifically, it's highly likely that everything's perfectly fine at Gamone, that there are no murderous bandits in the vicinity and, concerning the problem confronting us, no dogs in pain.

Dédé (who remained down in the creek, where it was impossible to see what was happening, since he has trouble walking, let alone climbing creek banks): "Briska's almost certainly caught up by a wire or cable. She can't come down."

Madeleine (in living-room attire, including woolen gloves, and no longer accustomed to crawling up muddy creek banks in the middle of January): "I've got hold of her collar, but she refuses to descend. The poor dog seems to be wounded. She's terrified of the height of the embankment."

While doing my best to hold Madeleine in place—by poking my fingers, as it were, up her backside (I insist upon the "as it were")—so that she wouldn't roll back down into the creek, I was starting to become wary. It was more and more obvious to me (but not yet to Madeleine or Dédé) that their dog was not caught in a trap, was not attached by anything whatsoever, was not wounded in any way, was not in pain, was not afraid of heights, was not barking in anguish, etc. In other words, there was nothing whatsoever wrong with Briska. She had merely been having fun at that particular spot on the banks of Gamone Creek (which was running with a foot or so of water), and wanted to let us all know. Briska was thinking no doubt, in typical dog thought, that we might like to join in the fun. She had been inviting us to a rave party, as it were.

As soon as I got within reach of the dog, who was now held firmly by Madeleine (sprawled out face down on the muddy slopes), I gave her a big push on the arse (Briska, not Madeleine), which sent her rolling down towards Dédé, who immediately put her on a lead. Meanwhile, Madeleine's hand was covered in blood. We had imagined that it was the blood of our poor wounded Briska. In fact, Madeleine had cut herself slightly on a broken branch above Gamone Creek.

For the moment, the global situation is a little like that of the Airbus in the Hudson River. Nobody has located Briska's black boxes, capable of informing us what the hell all that bloody barking was about. All I can affirm is that it was a false alert, brilliantly executed by Briska... who must be erupting into dog-laughter at the moment I speak to you. (I don't know whether our dog is linked to the Internet, otherwise I would simply suggest that you look her up directly.)

I don't wish to influence the specialists who'll be called upon to examine the data of this afternoon's incident: Françoise Repellin, above all, daughter of Dédé and Madeleine. My gut feeling is that Briska was thrilled to have discovered, on the banks of Gamone Creek, a tiny smelly Garden of Eden where the roe deer come down to lie. Maybe there was even the delicious aroma of a decaying foetus, or something nice like that. And Briska decided to remain obstinately fixed in this marvelous site of discovery, like a successful archaeologist standing guard over his treasures. Meanwhile, Briska barked gladly, proudly, non-stop, like hell, for all the Gamone valley to know, like a dog in agony. Nothing could move Briska from that paradise... until I gave her a shove in the arse.

This evening, more than ever before, I love and admire that delightful dog Briska, poorly educated and unaccustomed to obeying orders from any human master or mistress (including Françoise), but more playful and smarter by far than oldies like Madeleine, Dédé and me. Let's face it: Dogs were made to be movie stars. Briska [to whom this blog post is dedicated], you're a cunning canine artist!

ADDENDUM: My neighbor Gérard Magnat, who's an experienced hunter, gave me a firm opinion on this incident. He concludes that Briska had come upon a wild boar drowsing on the creek bank. Apparently a boar isn't particularly impressed by a barking dog, even at close quarters. Roe deers, on the other hand, are terrified by dogs. The boar is sufficiently powerful to rip open the belly of a dog with a single upward thrust of its tusks. Gérard tells me that a boar is capable of carrying on its snoozing when surrounded by several barking hounds. But the boar will run like hell as soon as it sniffs the presence of a human being. Don't ask me why it finds us more fearful than dogs. So, according to Gérard, the boar was probably still snoozing calmly, and Briska was still barking furiously, right up until the moment I set foot in Gamone Creek. With all the barking, I would have been incapable of hearing a beast fleeing through the branches. It's a fact that Briska toned down her barking as Madeleine and I edged nearer. In fact, Briska was no doubt disappointed to find that we didn't appear on the scene like Saint George or Zorro, and rush into a mortal combat against the black dragon she had discovered.

Dog dances to Grease music

Corina sent me a link to this delightful video:



Besides the fine footwork, sense of rhythm and choreography, I love the dog's enraptured gaze, staring up constantly at his mistress.

High-tech Pif

Not having seen Pif for several days, I was happy to glimpse his tiny black silhouette this morning. He stood strangely still at a corner of the road, gazing down towards Sophia and me.

I sensed immediately that there was a change in Pif's behavior, for he seemed to hesitate before coming down to meet up with us. But, after a few minutes, he finally dashed down.

I was amused to see that Pif now wears a nice little blue metal badge informing us that he has an electronic chip implanted in his body. For Alison to resort to such technology, I would guess that Pif has probably been doing a few disappearing tricks over the last couple of weeks.

After romping around with Sophia for twenty minutes or so, Pif was happy to gulp down the usual food I offer him whenever he visits us.

As always, he splashed his broad snout around in the bowl of water in front of the house.

Then, he surprised me by calmly trotting off back home, like a wise little dog. This behavior was so unexpected that I wondered, for an instant, whether Pif might not be under the influence of a mysterious high-tech homing device. A more plausible explanation: Maybe Pif has simply attained the canine equivalent of the age of reason.

PS As of this morning (Wednesday 17), I realized that my belief that Pif might have attained an age of wisdom was probably a false alert. The dog arrived here early this morning, as excited as ever, to race around madly with Sophia, well before his mistress left their house on her noisy scooter. And there are no signs yet that he's thinking of trotting back up home. Meanwhile, I've reminded Pif that, once he leaves Gamone and settles in Spain with his mistress, Sophia and I will expect him to send us a postcard from time to time.

I've just spoken with Alison Morin. She tells me they'll be leaving for Spain next Monday. I'm relieved to learn that Pif gets on wonderfully well with other dogs, and that he does in fact calm down and behave himself when he's in a new and unknown environment. In Spain, he'll be living with Alison in a house that is ready to welcome him. As for his electronic chip, Alison tells me that it was actually implanted several months ago, but she had only recently thought of attaching the badge to Pif's collar. Apparently, as of next year, all domestic animals (such as Sophia, Gavroche, Moshé and Mandrin) will need to carry such chips. Maybe I should ask the authorities if they can install one in me, too. Who knows? It might turn out to be useful...