20. Marcel dans le Fôret
Our pal Marcel comes from one of the finest breeding kennels in France. His nose is bigger than any other organ in his body, I’d wager. Knowing nothing about organs, of course. When we go into the Forest near 7 rue du petit Paris, out the track road to the east, past the cemetery and the Fallen Airmen Tribute, and I let him go, the fire behind his boosters lights up. He can smell game from 100 meters, from inside the car. He is gnawing at the station wagon gate. He hits his head on it as he explodes forth.
I have purchased a hunting shock collar for him. If you know about these, first the dog hears a beep, then he gets a vibration when you push the next button on the hand-held device, then he gets an electric shock. It’s a genius system. I wish I could use it for PhD students. All kinds of applications come to mind.
You set the #3 shock selection (the English euphemism is ‘a nick’) with the dog looking at you. Sit still, Marcel. Levels 1-5 are useless. A dog has a lot of fur. I use it on myself and 4 is like touching the electric fence of growing up in the country. Six, and he seems to think of something other than his next meal. I set it at six.
The idea is, if six gets a reaction from a dog sitting in front of you, then when he gets the beep, and then the vibration, he has fair warning. We are doing something serious here. Dad is doing something that matters to him. OK, I get it.
Once the collar is put on, he enters the world of “I am hunting” and that is the whole point. That said, when he is seriously hunting, I mean really entering the world of “I am Marcel,” a six is useless. You hold the device and start moving up the scale. At this point it is probably too late. He’s gone in a blaze of flying dirt and sand.
Because, when you enter the forest track across from Courances, past the cemetery, we are in Pheasant Land. Not just the usual birds (imported from Nepal) or the ones that are indigenized in places like South Dakota in the US, but big lumbering, brooding birds used to walking about, eating the abundant grain that pheasants eat right by their nests, and then watching TV and napping in the afternoon.
The Chateau (and for that matter, shooting clubs in the same spirit all over the world) has introduced these birds so their guests can hunt them and believe they are up to something mediaeval and hard and exclusive. I want to be charitable. But shooting pheasants who brood in the forests and watch TV in the afternoon actually don’t fly very much. When you startle them on a walk, they ‘get up,’ fly about fifty meters, and come back down, hoping the commercials have passed and some fresh grain has been discovered during their tiny sojourn.
And then one day they find their life has been disturbed. Routines upset.
Marcel is now in the woods. This is his world. What are all these pheasants doing here? I shall have to find out. I can smell them from 7 rue du petit Paris.
Obviously, our new dog will have to test his skills against other Braque d’Auvergne dogs his age. Also, this is a good way to make new friends at the venues for this all over France. Les Amateurs post a list of upcoming field trials at their website. They call this the test d’aptitude naturelle.
We find an event in the Berry, south of us, the historical name of a region now consisting roughly of the Loiret to the north, Indre to the west, and Cher in the southeast corner – three of the 101 Departments of administrative districts created by Napolean. Our drive is about 90 minutes to a small field in the Loiret.
A nice late spring adventure. You get a little guidance on the location at the website. Off we go, leaving just after 7. Marcel senses something fun is up. We come to the village where we are to find further guidance in the way of signage, and see the glass covered announcement board next to the Marie. Good. We are not lost. We have about a mile to go, and signs have been posted by the road “TAN – Braque d’Auvergne evenement” and the date. We see the SUV’s and various cars parked in a field, with a table set up for registering. And of course, the cousins of Marcel on leads, or in the open boot of SUV’s restless or calm in their crates.
We are greeted by our owner cousins. Elizabeth handles the bavardage (chatter, chit-chat) after we introduce ourselves and register. Les amateurs are keen on their dogs, and they know about Marcel. The dogs come from the kennels scattered across France, and everyone knows Arlette and her dogs (usually more black markings). I see versions of the breed far whiter in base color, and with less black.
There is very little in the way of explanation by the judge for the day, as to how this will unfold. I don’t take that as unusual at the time. I had also done no research about it, because I assume, you show up, give your dog to the judge or assistants, and off they go. Wrong assumption.
Because when I agree to let Marcel go first, I suddenly get the sinking feeling I am supposed to know what I am doing. I am not dressed to stomp through the chaume (stubble field). I look about and see I alone look like the stupid American, in shorts none the less. Well OK, let’s go. Can’t be that difficult.
I let Marcel off his lead. Game birds have been placed at key spots by the helpers for the day. It isn’t a matter of tricking you as you don’t know where they have placed them, though they do this before the field trial begins. The dogs know what’s going on. But this owner doesn’t know what’s going on so I am trying to play more of an active role than is necessary, with a whistle and arm gestures. I am helicopter parenting a dog who would naturally range left and right, or learn that in short order, without so much coaching. Or so I would learn.
I’m not sure why I chose to go first. I’m naturally competitive I suppose. Or let’s get this over and we can have another coffee and relax. After all, I thought I was just giving Marcel to someone else, and I’d stand and admire next to Elizabeth.
Another way to put this (since in time I will know how to work with Marcel in the next field trials) is, if you had waited and let others go first, you’d have a clear sense of the deroulement (process) just by observing. Feeling a bit humiliated, we leave the field and then see how it is done with the 8 or so dogs next in line.
In fact, I will learn, I’m not the first person to launch into field trial space a bit rusty. I watch the others and see better and worse owners working their dogs. And, I also realize that Marcel is very talented, and full of promise. I think I was just caught off guard about the role I was surprised I had.
After the last dog finished, a kindly man offered to give me some training. And into the field we went. He could see that Marcel had a lot of aptitude naturelle. We would all see each other again at trials down the road and he wanted us to have a better experience.
This isn’t the United States. You don’t wrap up the trial, the reason you came, and go home. The reason you came is for the Full Monty. Trial, awards, vendors, socializing, and something on the order of a 3-hour lunch. Ah, the French. We sit at long, rough tables, on benches, across from each other and down the line. Aperitifs. One starter. A second starter. Wine of course. A main dish. More wine. Side dishes. A variety of desserts. Coffee and/or a marc (regional brandy).
Gradually the day takes on a different hue. We are making friends. The dogs can play with each other or be tucked into the vehicles. It’s time for us to play and jostle and tell stories and promise to see each other down the road.
Les amateurs de Braque d’Auvergne.