15. Born in the Year of “M”
Wine-colored and taupe collar puppies have now had their shots. Arlette and Elizabeth have had several phone conversations (her accent challenges me and Elizabeth is the Queen of French). We are leaning toward wine-colored. He has a strong head. A big strong saddle of black on his left side. Mme Salignac thinks his temperament is a bit calmer than M. Taupe. Fine.
We have agreed that she will bring our puppy up to Montauban, above Toulouse, to shorten our journey a bit and keep “operation escargot” memories in the mental rear-view mirror. We get our nice station wagon ready for our new companion. Elizabeth has studied things and, like a mom, wants to be sure he has everything a little boy should need for the journey.
As to the question, what will we call him, we have come and gone, gone back and forth. On reflection, we have decided “M” is more challenging that other first letters for naming a dog.
There’s General Montgomery, associated with the region. He used the Chateau of Courances as his HQ after the war. NATO was first headquartered in Fontainebleau (I did not know that until we moved there). He had built a road to expedite his comings and goings through the forest that was now our road as well. But naming a French dog after an English field general? No. Besides, “Monty” sounded all wrong as a nickname.
What about Marquis? That suited our Chateau context. No, too pretentious. (As it would turn out, taupe collar would be called by that name).
Montbrun was the name of the ruisseau (stream) which gave the name to his breeding kennel. Arlette said, too confusing. Repetitive. Montbrun of Ruisseau Montbrun. OK, not Montbrun. I thought it had a strong resonance.
Our favorite author was responsible for our favorite books and films, the writer from Aubagne, above Marseille, Marcel Pagnol. La Gloire de mon Pere. Le Chateau de ma Mère. Jean de Florette. Manon des Sources. The list goes on.
“Marcel” he would be!
It had a nice casual sense, French, not pretentious. A “Marcel” as it turns out, is the name given to the t-shirt worn by laborers, without sleeves. Just straps. We would learn that our puppy had the same kind of insouciant swagger.
We had yet to learn what kind of “Marcel” he would prove to be. And since he is standing in front of me now as I type, “Marcel” is, well, the dog before me. “Stop typing, let’s go for a run,” his presence says.
There is a great scene in “The Glory of my Father” by Marcel Pagnol, when the family are making their way into the hills above Marseille for a long summer stint. Mother and two squirming boys, like Marcel in his puppy pile, and a little girl newly born to her. The father is a schoolteacher. His sister-in-law married later in life a wealthy Marseille-born, kindly man. Oncle Jules as he is known, proud husband of Tante Rose.
They have taken the streetcar as far as it goes through the outskirts of Marseille. A man from the village where they are headed has been hired by Oncle Jules to pick them up and ferry them by mule and cart to their destination. He could easily be wearing a marcel. It suits him.
He’s a bit classier. Tricot, sweater, no shirt.
As they lumber their way up the path, he points out the peaks in the near distance and proudly names their names in his heavy Provencal accent. He is at home in his hills. C’est Tête-Rouge (Red-Head), c’est la Taoumé. One also calls it le Tubé. He beams as he pronounces their names.
Ever the teacher and a bit out of place, the father asks, what do they mean and where do the names come from? Not entirely getting the question, he responds, the names mean what they are. Taoumé (also Tubé) is that prominence I am pointing to. With that, he smacks the mule’s rump and off they go.
“Marcel” is that dog he will become in our life.
We have the same long road trip, a bit dull, but no serious traffic to contend with. Elizabeth and I have time to relive memories of our first married days in France. Our love, our adventure. “Le grand voyage,” as Brel sang it. We feel our little family is forming in our new home in Courances, next to the church with strong walls and a cross to look down on us.
Elizabeth visited France three times in 2009, and we were married the day after her birthday, on the 19th of December. We wanted to visit a region neither of us knew. We chose the Dorgogne, the region in Southwest France named for the river flowing from east to west to the Gironde. It is a time of the year without tourists. We rented a car at the Bordeaux airport and drove to Bergerac. It was a few days before Christmas.
We had arranged to have a drink with the Anglican chaplain for the region (full of Brits with second homes there). Here it was that we decided on the summer mission in the Medoc. We wanted to be able to return and spend a longer stint. We finished our meeting and our drinks, and I went to get the car I had parked on the street.
Coming down a narrow street the tire rubbed the curb and blew out. Snow was falling. I prayed our Lune du Miel (honeymoon) would not become a nightmare (cauchemar). We were in rural France, Christmas was coming, would there even be a Hertz office in town and would it be open? I walked down to the café and told Elizabeth.
She phoned Hertz and it turned out—thank God—there was an agent in town. It was dark now. He came to meet us, looked at the tire and cursed his colleagues in Bordeaux. The tires were shot. We would have had a blow out on the way to our honeymoon spot, an hour and half away. The Chateau de la Treyne Elizabeth had picked out with its sumptuous décor and charming rooms. She had made a dinner reservation for 8pm.
The agent was a godsend. He had another, better car that he swapped out for us. No paperwork. Off you go.
The snow was falling more heavily, wipers keeping up with the pace. It was a SUV type vehicle and much more suited for the roads and our adventures to come. Everything was going to work out fine. An hour delay. Relief we both felt not to have had that accident outside of Bergerac, for we were soon in the Perigord Noir with nothing like the same population or services.
We share these recollections on our drive to pick up our puppy Marcel, on the A-20, passing the exit sign reading “Souillac,” the town 10 minutes north of Chateau de la Treyne where we turned that snowy night seven years ago to begin married life together. Then the sign for St. Cirq Lapopie, one of the “plus beaux villages de France.” We would stop for the night there after picking up Marcel, only an hour away to the south.
Seven years. Where did the time go? What rich adventures that night heralded, that we would share husband and wife, companions on the Grand Voyage of life.
16. Bringing Marcel Home
Saint-Cirq-Lapopie is a famous destination in a location we had come to know and love. In the Lot department, 30 miles east of Cahors. The village sits some 300 feet straight above the river Lot and it was famous as a defense position in the Middle Ages. This is in part what makes it one of les plus beaux villages de France. We had very visited, as it is a bit outside the orbit of trips French Affaires takes to SW France. The famous pilgrimage site of Rocamadour is a must for clients, and Saint-Cirq-Lapopie is another hour to the south.
Both Rocamadour and this pretty village where we spend the night are on the same chemin/camino headed to Santiago. St Stephens Cathedral in Cahors is the next major stop, due west. Our purpose on this occasion is simply to have a quiet place to stroll and spend the night. Montauban is only an hour south by car, and that is where we are to meet Arnette. Our minds are on that. We found an excellent restaurant, un des plus beaux restaurants for the town carrying that same prestige.
We slept well in the quiet village and went down for le petit dejeuner. We are mindful of needing to meet Arlette and then make the entire return journey with our little charge the same day. Marcel will be making his first (of many) road trips in the little space we have set up for him in the rear of the station wagon. I have found a little crate that fits well. We want him to get use to that training routine from the get-go, so he feels it is his own house.
Arlette is waiting in her own station wagon at the rest area we have agreed. Our hearts race a bit. This is Elizabeth’s first dog since childhood. I had a demanding Weimaraner I had to leave with my brother and sister-in-law at 6 years old, due to the quarantine headaches in the UK, when I moved to Scotland in 1998. So, the present routine was more familiar to me.
She brings us our new bundle of energy. Marcel! Exchanges like these are not unlike dropping the dog at the kennel for vacation. Make it quick. We get Marcel comfortable in his crate, get the paperwork from Arlette and promise to give her a call when home. Elizabeth stays with Marcel as I wrap things up. I ask Arlette if this is a hard thing for her. My memory is her responding, “not really. She has done it many, many times. Off we go. Allons-y.
The little guy whimpers from time to time. But just as expected. He sleeps. We make regular stops so we can walk him and make sure he is doing his business and getting water. Elizabeth is la bonne maman. It should take us about five and a half hours. That’s not too bad a journey time.
We make good time and arrive in the late afternoon. It is late April. I recall the saying, en avril ne te decouvre pas d’un fil/mais en mais, fais ce qu’il te plait. Don’t take a thread off in April, but in May wear what you want. The day was bright and spring-like warm. We park the VW in the customary spot across from our wooden gate. Out we bustle our little guy.
Our home set-up could not be more ideal for an 8-week-old puppy. Entirely enclosed. Three steps up from the courtyard to the garden and laid lawn. We have blocked off the stairway to the well. “Safe as houses,” as the British say. We let little Marcel find his way on his own and make himself at home. I have a video of him that Elizabeth made. I am rolling around on the grass next to Marcel doing the same. I am a bit tired of driving and emotionally tired I suspect.
On the video I can hear Elizabeth’s voice. Marcel is rolling and rolling and rolling, especially on his back. Is he OK, she whispers?
It is grass. It may be entirely new to him, and, in a word, he is happy. We are too. Bienvenue notre nouveau chiot, Marcel. Tu es chez toi.
We introduce Marcel to his house. The doors opening onto the garden into the sitting room are from the ground up, and on the same level. He can just clamber in and out. We have set up his cage in the living room. If he whines too much, I’ll bring the cage to our bedroom for a season. He’ll figure out how to handle the flight of stairs in time.
We feed him and sit down together to relax over a glass of wine. Having been recollecting our honeymoon and the SW France trips of French Affaires, as we were down in the area, I recall a funny episode.
We were in the Lot Department. Elizabeth had planned some typical on-the-ground type events typical of the region. Foie gras production (we won’t do that again). Goat farm for chevre cheese (ditto, very stinky and nasty goats). Truffle hunting. Yes! We visited a famous site for learning how this goes about.
Pigs have been largely replaced by dogs. In the case of the truffle farm in the Lot, labradors were to go-to breed. She told us all about how they grow, what kind of tree, the rings they establish for good production, and so forth. We walked about her stand of trees followed by a trusty yellow lab.
What is the biggest challenge, be it with pig or dog? Why, how to stop them eating the prized truffles when they find them. They think they are yummy too.
She showed us the little wooden ball they soaked in truffle oil. You bury that, as if it were the valuable original being sought. The first time you let the dog hunt for them; here is where they start. They find the “truffle” in record time, dig it up, and chomp down. Ouch! This apparently keeps them from consuming the truffles when they find them or at least make them hesitant as the hand reaches in to grab the treasure from their mouth.
As she was explaining this to our group, I noticed that the famed truffle hunter yellow lab trailing us during her talk had an odd black spot on his rump. I’d never seen that marking on a lab before, as they are usually all black, yellow or brown. What about that black mark, I asked?
She smiled and started to explain. Her famed truffle dog had such a reputation for quick work, someone kidnapped him. And they tinted the yellow lab black.
Fortunately, dogs in France are chipped and they recovered the faithful hound in no time. It had been about a year for her yellow coat to return. There was just this one black splotch left.
Marcel is a white dog with a riot of black spots all over his body, so it would be hard to call him a white dog with black spots or a black dog with white zones here and there. Neither. He’s simply Marcel. Our dog. Sleep well tonight. It has been a day to remember.