6. Ruisseau Montbrun
We slept well. When it is so quiet, it almost feels like a sleep blanket has descended. We dressed and headed down for the petit dejeuner. Our appointment at the kennel was for 9.30. The drive would take us 15 minutes to reach her home.
Madame bustled about and saw to our being well taken care of. Monsieur had disappeared, as was his wont. We finished our breakfast and did a quick tour of the quaint bastide village, and a stroll along the river.
Thank goodness for the GPS. This was the land of small winding roads, nature, various entrepreneurial ventures, as noted above. We saw the sign for Ruisseau Montbrun Elévage and turned in. Arlette, the owner, was at the ready. A small, vigorous, sturdy woman in her sixties, running a successful breeding kennel. Off we hustled to meet the puppies.
Her operation consisted of small whelping cabins, for lack of a better word. Cinder block, maybe a bit of paint to brighten things up, a chamber for the pups to clamber about, and mom’s little quarters. There is nothing quite like this, a squirming bundle of puppies—nine in this case—looking like a moving mass of black and white energy. Black heads, 4-week-old bodies full of mottled black markings, hard to separate. It is no wonder that as they grow up, it takes time for them to think of themselves apart from the moving mass that was their early start of life.
Those of you who have experienced this “pick a puppy” moment recall that each wee one has a differently colored little collar, to be able to distinguish one from another. We wanted a male puppy, so that helped narrow things down a bit.
Elizabeth and I studied the boys. We were first in line so our choice would be secure. That said, Arlette knew that they were still growing up, and so we were able to pick out our two favorites, and she would let us know more about each one’s personality in a month. We were not allowed to hold them or touch them.
She entered the little playground, giving tired mom a pat, and extracted the one we first identified. She would come to the door (one of those doors that divide in half with the bottom fixed and the top open) and hold up the little guy. We got a good look, and then she returned him to the puppy heap and brough the second one we picked out for us to eyeball.
It would be taupe collar and wine-colored collar. Our top choices. Nameless for now.
In France (and I believe other European countries) dogs and horses receive a name according to the year in which they are born. This helps identify their age. 2016 was the year of “M.” 2017 “N” and you get the picture. We would give our puppy a name that started with “M.”
We had discussed all the other relevant details with Arlette on the phone and would be checking in with her as they got their next round of shots (which is why we were not to touch them) along with other puppy details. Their little tails had been docked to breed standard already.
The purpose of our journey completed, our car already packed, our goodbyes at La Halte du Temps warmly relayed after breakfast, it was back to Courances, 8 hours—we hoped! —up the autoroute. Fortunately, no operation escargot hindered our return trip. You can only annoy the general public so long, or they will turn against you and withdraw their sympathy, such as it is.
We made good time. Made mental notes about our new “M” puppy, comparing the two we had selected. Thought of names. Took note of places we might stay upon return. St. Cirq Lapopie is one of the famous “les plus beaux villages en France” sites. We were already thinking about ways to avoid Toulouse, and to do the puppy swap 4 weeks later, around Montauban, north of the capital. This time we would make a stop at a charming village and take it in.
More “French Affaires research” as we would say.
We arrived, turned the ancient key on our wooden gate, entered our courtyard, and felt the peace descend. The huge church ramparts a kind of bulwark against all foes, nestled on our flank, guarding our lives. We were home, Le Presbytère, 7 rue du Petit Paris, Courances.