Canine Capers

Bringing our howling dogs through the tunnel had been harrowing enough, but the French countryside has diversions not found in Britain. One way of leaving Laudibertie took us past a small farm with chickens, ducks and geese roaming the track, giving a new twist to the term free-range. Our hounds were very interested in a closer acquaintance with this exciting form of fast food, which didn’t make for good community relations. Realising they had no intention of living and let live, I went by a different route with fewer feathered attractions.

Unfortunately this exposed me to my biggest fear, which was using my appalling French. The rural French are incredibly welcoming – frighteningly so. They’d greet me, I would reply, but then they’d come out with a string of words and I hadn’t a clue what on earth they were saying. One particular old man used to lie in wait in his string vest and beret, roll-up hanging from his lip, which made deciphering his words even harder. He obviously relished our little chats; his eyes twinkled and he had the dirtiest laugh I’ve ever heard. To this day I have no idea if he was propositioning me or discussing the weather. I have a dreadful fear it was the former and I may have inadvertently said yes to some pretty unsavoury suggestions. Still, it kept him happy.

One day I’d walked for miles with the dogs before I heard the sound of a tractor and a dog barking. I should explain at this stage that although Benson and Heidi loved people, they had a dislike, bordering on pathological hatred, for all other dogs. I felt that as long as I kept Benson and Heidi on short leads I should be able to cope, even if the other dog was running free. The tractor came round the bend into view. Being driven in front of it, herded by the dog, and taking up the entire width of the road, were several cows. I turned tail and ran, dragging the dogs with me and taking refuge in a sunflower field until the cows had passed. I know when to admit defeat.

The driver of the tractor, an ancient-looking farmer’s wife, lived in our village, and often, as I passed with the dogs on their evening walk, would give me a weather report for the next day. She was incredible, never once getting her forecast wrong. I was amazed at her knowledge, and presumed it was due to having lived close to nature all her life. Day after day, week after week, she was spot-on.

Once my command of French had improved sufficiently, I asked her how she was able to make such accurate predictions. She looked at me as if I were an imbecile and said: “I listen to the radio.”

The Dordogne is sunflower country and they are left in the fields until every part has turned black. Walking alongside this dark landscape one morning the dogs disappeared. Being black they vanished without trace. Ten minutes passed, then half an hour. Despite my frenzied calling there wasn’t a sign of them, only black stalks and flower heads as far as the eye could see.

A passing car pulled up and my neighbour looked out. I managed sufficient French to explain that the dogs had disappeared.

“C’est normale, ils chassent les biches,” he laughed, and drove off.

It may be normal for dogs to chase les biches, but I didn’t even know what one was. I soon found out.

With a tremendous crash, a deer erupted through the stalks. The terrified creature ran straight at me. I stood transfixed, unable to move. At the last moment the deer swerved, and behind it, noses down and utterly intent on the hunt, came Benson and Heidi. I grabbed them, but as an awful stench hit my nostrils, I almost let go again. I’m sure Bambi couldn’t possibly have smelled like that.

This short piece of humour was brought to you by the author of The Greatest Moving Abroad Tips in the World