Ten Trees and a Truffle Dog (13 page)

T
he more I thought about it, the more I disliked the idea of getting a poodle. A poodle was more of a fashion statement than a dog and I just wasn't sure how well one would complement my Primark T-shirts. Tanya didn't help the matter by showing me pictures of coiffed pooches with pink ribbons in their hair, wearing pearl-encrusted tiaras and coats studded with diamonds. Only oligarchs' wives, Parisian princesses and Hollywood honeys had poodles.

  I had a recurring nightmare about the village bar. As I entered the Bar du Centre all heads swivelled towards me and jaws dropped cartoon style to the floor at the sight of my prancing poodle. Pulling up my seat I nodded to the barman and opened my copy of
La Provence
. Then when I reached for my drink I discovered that instead of my regular beer, I'd been served a Babycham in a Martini glass with an iced cocktail cherry. 'Anything for the dog?' the barman asked and all the other customers burst out laughing. Above all the noise I could hear one particularly unpleasant cackle – it was Serge, the man with the fixed eyes, whose bad mood always seemed to form a shadow in the corner. In my dreams Serge's area of the bar was so dark that all I could see were his mirthless eyes boring into my skull. At this point I always woke up in a cold sweat.

  Internet searches revealed any number of poodles waiting for a new home. There were two breeders within a thirty-minute drive with recent litters and yet I prevaricated. We weren't just choosing a dog, we were choosing a new member of our family. Pascal had stressed how successful truffle hunters were at one with their dogs, thinking together, moving together, existing, if only on the hunt, in a state of synchronicity. How could I ever achieve this with a poodle?

  An alternative briefly presented itself in the form of the labradoodle, a cross-breed from Australia first bred in the 1980s, which promised the temperament and size of a Labrador with the hypoallergenic non-fur-dropping characteristics of the poodle. I was sold and immediately checked the Internet for local breeders. There were none. I changed the search to the south of France, only to get the same answer. Finally, I checked the whole of France and discovered the website of one breeder near Paris. The next litter wasn't due for six months and there was already a waiting list for the puppies. Even in England there were no labradoodle puppies immediately available. Short of flying one in from Australia, the breed simply wasn't an option.

  Meanwhile, time passed and it became increasingly likely that my poodle obstinacy was going to cost us the first season of truffle hunting. Fields of vines turned a ripe robust gold, the streets emptied of tourists, pumpkins replaced melons in the fields, and falling leaves lay on the surface of the local
étang
(pond) like pieces of an unfinished jigsaw. Progress on the build was non-existent but finding our first truffles was within our control – if, that is, I was prepared to sacrifice my manhood and get a poodle.

  I was one click away from ordering a whole new poodle-matching wardrobe when I came across a breed called petit chien lion. The dogs grew to just below knee height and appeared to be bundles of fur, not the tight curl of a poodle, but rather long and shaggy, like a fireside rug in a bad porn movie. Descriptions of the breed were positive: the dogs were loyal, excellent with children, fierce defenders of their owners and – most importantly – hypoallergenic. When displayed at shows they had their hind legs shaved, which made them look ridiculous, but otherwise for a small dog they carried an air of rough toughness which appealed to me.

  A further click pulled up a photo of a twelve-week-old pup being offered for sale by a breeder in Cassis. His kennel name was Flairer. We'd never heard the word before and looked it up in the dictionary – 'to hunt with one's nose; to snuffle', read the definition. 'Snuffle the truffles,' I said under my breath. It had to be fate.

  In the photo, Snuffle's eyes were invisible, even his legs were invisible; in fact, all that could be discerned was a black blob with a flash of white across the chest. It reminded me of the type of painting a three year old would bring back from nursery. I called Tanya over.

  'What do you think?'

  She laughed. 'What are we buying, a rug?'

  'Shall I give the breeder a call?'

  'Why not.'

  Moments later I was on the phone to Veronique, hearing all about Snuffle. Her description made him sound more virtuous than Mother Theresa; never had she had a dog like him; he was calm, wise, caring, attentive, clever and gentle. The adjectives just went on and on and the praise was limitless. Finding truffles was child's play for Snuffle; he could sniff out a black diamond at over one hundred metres. Encase it in kryptonite and he would still find it.

  When I had the temerity to enquire whether Snuffle was house-trained, Veronique's indignant tone implied that here was a puppy so domesticated that he would cook us a three-course meal every night, uncork the wine, make the beds, do the hoovering, sweep the terrace, keep Elodie amused, make a fortune shorting the stock markets and enable us all to retire in a year. A price a little shy of 600 euros was not much to ask for such a dog.

  In fact, it was not really a question of whether we wanted the dog, of course we did, rather whether Veronique would allow Snuffle to come and live with us. What type of people were we? Could she see photos of our house and the room where Snuffle would sleep? Would we agree to send her photos of Snuffle every six months? Would we update her website with a blog about Snuffle's life? If the accommodation was suitable and the answer to all these questions was yes, then she would consider selling him to us. However, before taking her final decision she would have to sleep on it.

  Veronique phoned again the next morning. She'd looked at the photos of our apartment and felt that it was a little small for a dog such as Snuffle. However, she'd also examined the designs for the place we were building and noticed a little corner under the staircase that could be adapted just for Snuffle. No major structural alterations were necessary and it would provide the perfect refuge for him when he needed some peace and quiet.

  Had this been any normal transaction I would have politely told Veronique where to go, but I already felt out of my comfort zone. This was the doggie world, about which I knew so little. Perhaps such overbearing concern for the welfare of puppies was normal. I was reluctant to contradict Veronique: she was the expert and I was the novice, and to object to her suggestions would be to show a callous disregard to the needs of Snuffle. And so instead I agreed a pick-up time the following morning and was reassured that Veronique would sell me, at what she insisted was a large discount, everything one could ever need for the health and happiness of a dog. Apart, that is, from the pick-up truck to bring it all home.

  Cassis out of season is a gem of a seaside town. Pastel buildings surround a crescent-shaped bay. Boats gently rock at anchor and stairs wind away into pretty cobbled backstreets. The port is fringed by endless restaurants offering carnivals of
coquillage
piled high on mountains of crushed ice. Our favourite was a cafe which allowed its customers to purchase direct from the fisherman. Sea urchins were heaped in the corner of an old wooden boat. As the orders came in, a man wearing oily yellow gloves shovelled the spiky balls into bags and handed them to his partner, who split open the urchins and placed them on a paper plate. It was the freshest seafood available and once the purchase was made diners retired to the cafe, where for a cover charge of a couple of euros they were provided with bread, napkins and an accompanying glass of sharp white wine. Our plan was to pick up Snuffle at around 11 a.m. and then head to the seafront and lunch under the arching cliffs of the port.

  Veronique's
domaine
(estate) was in the hinterland behind Cassis on the way to Roquefort-La-Bédoule. The countryside was dominated by vineyards making the sophisticated white for which Cassis is famed and also heavier, tannin-laden reds that echo their more illustrious neighbours from Bandol. As a result I'd assumed Veronique was a vigneron with a sideline in dog raising. The
domaine
I'd visualised was pine fringed, with rows of vines falling away from a country
mas
. The marketing symbol Veronique used on the Internet was the silhouette of a dog under a palm tree, and so my mental image also contained a long drive guarded by two ancient palms, forming a natural bridge over the road. It was all rather idyllic and peaceful. Perhaps we would share a coffee in the shade of some ancient stone walls, and the trickle of a fountain would provide the background music to our first meeting with Snuffle.

  Instead, the directions took us to a piece of scrubland sandwiched between the
autoroute
and the
route nationale
. As our car rattled up the track, Veronique emerged from one of a number of portable buildings. She was wearing riding boots and jodhpurs, a ragged shirt and a dirt-stained body warmer. Her hair was tied back, although a couple of strands had escaped and dangled in front of her eyes. A loose horse ambled over and nuzzled her face and she reached into her coat and produced half an apple that had gone brown in her pocket.

  We waved apprehensively and got out of the car. My shoes disappeared into mud and water soaked through the thin leather, drenching my socks. The sound of cars and juggernauts rumbled in the background and the smell of manure and heavy animal rugs brought back memories of the riding stables my mother had insisted we visit when we were young. Lifting Elodie from her car seat, we crossed the boggy land to Veronique.

  
'Venez, venez!'
She beckoned us over to the far side of the field, where a series of gates led through to a large enclosed pen with another Portakabin in the corner. Our arrival prompted a cacophony of barking and the cabin shook with the combined might of all the dogs throwing their weight against the door.

  'Wait here. I'll go and search for the babies,' she said, paying not the slightest attention to our baby. Without thinking, I set Elodie down. She'd just started walking and at every opportunity we were encouraging her to take wobbly steps. I glanced at Tanya, aware that she was as uncomfortable as I was in this environment. At that precise moment Veronique opened the door to the cabin and unleashed a ferocious torrent of yapping, jumping dogs that came tumbling out, devouring the distance between us in seconds.

  The dogs noticed Elodie and like a school of piranhas honed in on her in a slathering, over-excited mass. I was only metres away but before I could hook my arm around my daughter she was enveloped by the lion dogs. Her screams for help were drowned by the barking.

  Plucking Elodie from the melee I held her aloft to check she was OK.

  
'Mais alors!'
I protested.

  Veronique was unperturbed and called over and kissed each of her babies.

  'Micha,
bisous
… Arthur,
bisous
.'

  I was overcome by a strong urge to leave, with or without our new puppy.

  'Play with my babies,' said Veronique, unaware that I would have rather put my hand in a cage full of tarantulas than once more expose my daughter to the crazed rabble. An uncomfortable five minutes of growling, barking and licking followed as Tanya and I tried to simulate enjoyment while continuing to hoist Elodie into the air to avoid the fangs of the yelping pack. Was it too late to confess that the whole idea had been a terrible mistake?

  'And now let's introduce you to Snuffle.' Veronique ushered the dogs back into the cabin, which once more rocked like a fairground ride. 'I'll be back in a moment.' She headed out of the enclosure towards another temporary building.

  Tanya and I looked at each other with panic in our eyes.

  'It's only because there are so many of them,' I said reassuringly.

  'Exactly, it's pack behaviour.'

  'The book said they were fantastic with kids.' I tried to soothe the disquiet we both felt. 'Still, if we are going to leave, now's the time.'

  Tanya shook her head. 'Think of the truffles.'

  Veronique was on her way back. Two dogs followed her.

  'Sure?'

  'Sure.'

  'Last chance,' I joked.

  'Sure,' said Tanya definitively.

  As Veronique approached, I began to have a dreadful feeling. I squinted to make sure my first impression was correct. However, the dogs walked in a tight file behind her and it was difficult to see. The closer they came, though, the more convinced I became. I'd only known Veronique for a few days but already I appreciated that this was a big moment for her and her dogs. So far everything had been stage-managed: meeting the other dogs and then leaving us alone to anticipate the arrival of our new pup. We were part of a pageant, a parade put on to mark Snuffle's departure from the
domaine
, and of course at parades people always wear their best party outfits. In the case of a petit chien lion, I realised with horror, this meant shaving the hind legs.

  Veronique opened the gate to the paddock, and Snuffle's bare bottom and Twiglet legs followed quickly afterwards. It was anything but love at first sight. Snuffle looked like a cross between a cat and a dog. One half of him was scrawny and bare, the other fluffy from a recent blow-dry. Of all the thousands of breeds in the world, we'd ended up buying, at extortionate expense, this mismatched mistake. Unbelievably, I wished we'd got a poodle instead. Following the aggressive pattern of the other dogs, Snuffle's mother, who'd also had her legs shaved for the occasion, bared her teeth and let out a deep rumbling growl.

  'Ah, she knows he's going, poor darling. Go on, play with your puppy for the last time.'

  We sat down at a wooden picnic table and began to fill out the required paperwork. As usual in France this was exhaustive and in triplicate. Fetching one of the other dogs, Veronique showed us how to groom Snuffle properly, demonstrating how to comb the hair away from the eyes and how to clip the nails. Photocopies of the various forms were made, to be sent to a multitude of government agencies. The clock ticked towards midday and thoughts of our planned lunch in Cassis crept into my head. At least Snuffle's shaved legs would be admired by the Marseillais divas who strutted up and down the seafront.