An Incredible Lunch

The invitation to lunch was first issued in September of last year. It was intended as a thank you for the firewood we’d given our friends, Dominique and Monique. Jack, my husband, tried his best to put it off, emphasising that such repayment was entirely unnecessary, but they were having none of it. They energetically pooh-poohed his loud protestations, innocently believing they stemmed from his generosity, rather than his aversion to social excursions.

For various mundane reasons, we were unable to make the first, or indeed the next three, dates offered. And it was at this point that Jack began to see a speck of light at the end of his anti-social tunnel. Surely the whole idea would fizzle out to nothing, he’d exclaimed. He should have known better. Once an offer of hospitality has been made by our French pals it is never rescinded.

Dominique and Monique were like a pair of terriers, darting around the calendar until a suitable alternative date was set in January. It was confirmed, re-confirmed and followed up by several text messages to make sure that we were all on the same page. In fairness to them these final acts of extreme communication were probably a sensible precaution because, as we are Anglaises, and therefore permanently challenged linguistically, there was always that lurking risk of a misunderstanding.

Already jaded by what he termed an unreasonably high number of social festivities over the Christmas period, Jack was close to a mental decline as our lunch date loomed. I tried to jolly him along by reminding him how kind the offer was, which he acknowledged with a grunt and further moans about there being no need at all.

The next challenge was locating our host’s home. Dominique and Monique allegedly live somewhere outside a tiny village called La Chatel. That was a start. However, the precise location was something of a brain-teaser. It shouldn’t have been that difficult, after all there are only around 250 souls who live in the entire commune (parish). Quite obviously the thing to do was to seek advice from the owners. Easier said than done.

Dominique speaks at Mach five and there are only so many times one can ask for the instructions to be repeated. Sadly, Monique is even worse and starts each sentence with an ‘oopahhh’, which can easily throw one off track. Shameful though it may be, we eventually gave up, pretended we understood, and resorted to asking people who had already visited.

Nathan said it was a farm behind La Chatel and we couldn’t miss it. Brilliant! Just about everything behind La Chatel is a farm. Jean-Pierre had only been once and said we should approach it from the direction of Lozarte. Jean-Luc disagreed and said the only way to reach it was by taking the third road out of La Chatel. This was somewhat disconcerting since we thought there were only two. Finally, Anton came to our aid. Anton is one of those people who is always right. With great precision and much arm waving he issued instructions, insisting that we needed to turn right off the main road, then right and right again. Voila!

Jack questioned him animatedly, looked a trifle confused and ended up glazing over altogether. When I later asked why he was being so picky he explained that if we had followed Anton’s imaginative directions we would have ended up on junction 17 of the autoroute. Either something had got horribly lost in translation, or Anton was having a spot of bother with his rights and lefts. The latter theory was neatly confirmed when we consulted Google Earth, which showed that by taking several lefts we’d get there in no time at all.

The great day finally arrived and we departed early, just in case, but found the place very easily. At dead-on 12.30pm we drew up in front of a magnificent old farmhouse. Set in glorious countryside, it was surrounded by meadows, sheltered at the rear by cow sheds, and had a natural windbreak of graceful trees that lined the garden.

Dominique was already outside waiting to welcome us and, by his side, stood a tattered old mutt with only three legs. After the customary wet-cheeked welcome from our host, I immediately asked what had happened to his dog. Dominique explained that the poor lad had wandered off one day and been run over by a truck. His leg was too badly injured to be saved so it had to be amputated. Desperately sad though this was, it was clear from looking at this proud animal that his disability wasn’t holding him back from executing his duties as home guardian. Axel viewed us with disdain, growled lustily and hopped away to a suitable position from which to observe our every move.

During the short story about his dog it became abundantly clear that Dominique was suffering from a dreadful cold. If there’s something Jack really hates, it’s coming into contact with anyone who is off-colour. In fact it tops his list of clear and present dangers involved in social intermingling. The whole thing is made much worse in France because of the kissing business that occurs with most greetings, which fortunately didn’t apply for him here. As we were ushered into the house I ignored Jack’s hisses about contagious diseases, and focused on what lay before us.

I’m not sure what wowed me most: the enormous fireplace filled with cheery flames darting around pine-scented logs, the alluring cooking aromas that instantly assailed my taste buds, or the radiant smile from our hostess. Monique gave us both a hug, several kisses and welcomed us into her wonderful home.

The fireplace, with a mantelpiece too high for me to reach, was easily big enough for two or three people to sit in. It belted out heat, warming a large dining area on one side, the kitchen on the other and an open-plan lounge. The ambience was perfect for a chilly January day. Monique, sensing my interest, or possibly because she was sick of me cooing with delight, shyly asked if I would like to see the rest of the house. I jumped at the chance. We left the men rootling around for drinks and headed off towards the kitchen and those heavenly smells.

She explained that the farmhouse was extremely old and originally humans had shared living space with their beasts. Various renovations resulted in partitioning the animals off into the barns we saw when we arrived. I asked how long they had lived in the house.

“Oopahhh, not long, around 26 years I think,” she ruminated. “We started renovating recently and I made most of the changes with Dominique. Come and look.”

I was just processing the concept of 26 years being ‘not long’ as we walked into the kitchen.

“These used to be cattle stalls, we put in a wall but kept the original fixtures,” Monique said, gesturing towards the back of the room.

I peered at the back wall but couldn’t readily see anything cowish until she pointed out the blindingly obvious. The first stall housed an intimate breakfast table and behind it was a wall length ex-manger. Animal fodder had been replaced by several pot plants and a television poked up cheekily in the middle. It was an ingenious idea. The second stall was the food preparation area. The manger here contained a sink and work space and the far wall housed a massive hob – the source of those amazing whiffs. My taste buds were on fire as I viewed the perfectly French Le Creuset frying pan filled with large lumps of sizzling meat. At that moment I couldn’t quite work out what is was, but I felt sure it would be substantial enough to cheer up Jack.

As we wandered from room to room Monique chatted about her family, always a confusing subject. She had me foxed in moments. One of the features of living in our part of France is that many men share a first name with the prefix Jean. So we have lots of Jean-Lucs, many Jean-François, oodles of Jean-Claudes and endless Jean-Pierre’s. Quite what happened when Dominique was born is a mystery. Anyway, between the two families, there are a large number of Jean-Pierre’s so I quickly became lost in the morass of relations. We were upstairs by this time and it was decidedly nippy; I was just about to enquire whether we were discussing an uncle or nephew when we arrived at a wall of polythene. This was odd.

By way of explanation, Monique swept aside the opaque plastic curtain to reveal an open space with breeze blocks on three sides and nothing on the fourth.

“This will be our gym,” she beamed. “We will install windows in the summer.”

Thinking that this probably couldn’t come soon enough, I quashed an involuntary shiver and replied, “Gosh, what a lovely large space. When did you start the renovations?”

“Oopahhh, about ten years ago. They won’t take too much longer I don’t think.”

We left that stinger hanging in the frigid air and took another route back through the labyrinthine upstairs corridors, arriving at a room which took my breath away. It was a vast pigeonnier supported by an amazing number of beams that reached an apex way, way above our heads.

As I stared in wonder at this fantastic feat of architecture Monique explained that it was indeed originally used to house pigeons. During the renovations they had plastered the lower walls and she had sanded and re-varnished every beam – which was a bit of a job, she added. I stared up at the spider’s web of criss-crossing beams, then at my petite friend, and wondered how on earth she’d managed to do that all by herself. With the obvious absence of scaffolding I could only imagine that she was a skilled abseiler – it must have taken weeks. She, on the other hand was more concerned about a problem that presented itself at floorboard level.

Monique gestured to more sheets of polythene, this time covering twin beds, liberally coated in unusual smelling matter.

“It’s the bats you see,” she pouted, “they make a terrible mess in here.”

I might not be bat-phobic, but I do prefer to admire them on the outside of a house rather than in it. The very thought of them whizzing around the snoozy heads of a couple of house guests made me shudder. I made sympathetic noises, took one last wistful look at this structural triumph and followed Monique back down to the warm heart of the home.

The men were sitting in the lounge adjacent to the massive fireplace. Dominique was now looking very pale and sounded a tiny bit snivelly while Jack was nursing a large whisky, which I’m surprised he wasn’t gargling (a favourite anti-cold precaution of his). He was sitting jammed up against a settee cushion as far away from Dominque as possible. I sat down to join them for a drink and Monique went off to check her sizzling meat and returned with tasty fois gras and boar pâté canapés, both favourites in this part of France.

We were soon chatting about last year’s harvest problems when the front door swung open. In poured Jean-Pierre, their son, and his two young children, Jean-Pierre and Emilie – who was rather a screamer. I’m afraid this instantly presented Jack with another one of his pet ‘could do withouts’. Don’t get me wrong, he’s almost fine with children but, if they have to be seen, he prefers them not to be heard or, at least, at less than 100 decibels. Sadly it wasn’t to be. Emilie, aged around five years old, was extremely exuberant and wanted to play.

Doting grandfather though he is, the children’s boisterous behaviour immediately had a marked effect on Dominique, who was becoming more fragile by the moment. He retreated to his bar, produced drinks for the newcomers and a colourless liquid for himself that looked worryingly like eau de vie. This is a liquid incendiary device, distilled at home by many of our friends and is particularly favoured here. I have had the misfortune to taste it on a couple of occasions and, on each, have come away with an oesophagus on fire, wannabe ulcers forming on my tongue and earache. I hate the stuff. That said, he presumably felt it was just the remedy for his cold.

When the French dine on a Sunday it is generally a relaxed affair where meals often take the form of a degustation. We were prepared for this but by 1.45pm I was beginning to wonder when we would eat. There was certainly no let-up in the kitchen. The meat was still audibly sizzling and Monique was popping to and fro, presumably to give it the odd test-poke. But there was absolutely no sign of any movement towards the dining table. Conversely, Emilie was becoming bouncier by the minute, causing both Dominique and Jack to wince. Happily help was at hand.

Loud barks from the three-legged mutt augured the arrival of more visitors. The front door swung open again and in came Dominique and Monique’s nephew, Jean-Luc, and his girlfriend, Chloé. They’re a lovely couple whom we know well. Dominique, now the colour of a freshly-laundered handkerchief, refreshed all drinks and we settled down to nibble on a new heap of fois gras.

I appraised the assembled company. We were up to nine potential diners now, quite a departure from the cosy foursome I’d assumed we’d be. Then I looked at the big dining table – it could easily seat more. It was now past 2.15pm and I began to wonder how many more guests were due. If they arrived at the same rate as the others, lunch would turn into supper. I decided to pace myself just in case. As if to confirm my thoughts Monique called Jean-Pierre (junior) and Emilie to the table to eat. But only them. Somewhat confused I looked over to Jack, who had taken on a whisky-fuelled rosy hue. Jean-Pierre was showing him an article from his latest farming magazine, which happily was still legible in spite of the blob of pâté that had fallen off Emilie’s breadstick. 

Meals for youngsters tend to be a speedy affair and this was no exception. Food was bolted down at breakneck speed with minimal fuss and a great deal of noise. Much to the men’s poorly disguised chagrin, they were back with us in no time at all, except this time with a tennis racket, which they brandished at their grandfather. I’m not sure whether Dominique thought he was required to play a quick set before eating, but the sight of this games weapon brought on a paroxysm of sneezes and sent him back to his bar in search of further elixirs.

I could tell by the slight twitch in his left eye that Jack was taking a relatively dim view of the young person’s exuberance, nevertheless he was coping admirably well with being sat on. It then suddenly occurred to me that we might actually have got the whole invitation completely wrong. Perhaps we’d been invited for drinks and viewing of grandchildren eating only. No problem, I decided, that was perfectly fine. After all, we had by now consumed a brick of fois gras and half a boar and wouldn’t need to eat for days.

Moments later, Monique, clearly in charge of human resources, surprised us by lining the children up to be kissed. She then bustled them together with Jean-Luc, Chloé and the tennis racket out of the door. She beamed an ‘Oopahhh’ at us and announced that our lunch was ready. Feeling thoroughly confused about the social arrangements we trailed off behind her towards the dining table. 

Five of us sat down at the magnificent old oak table in front of the roaring fire. It was past 3pm by now and I don’t mind admitting that I was ready for a speed-nap. The combination of our lengthy canapé session, the scents of pinewood, and constant serenading by sounds of ever-sizzling meat was having a soporific effect. But our friends had other ideas.

Consummate host that he is, Dominique, sniffing like an old bloodhound, staggered off to a different room muttering something about wine for the meal. Judging by the extremely audible nose-blows, he can’t have gone far and eventually reappeared with several bottles. Meanwhile, Monique, who had also disappeared, brought in an enormous round platter laden with a crusty tart which was almost black on top.

Dominique served drinks and slumped into a chair opposite me. We chatted lightly for quite a while, tart un-touched, until it occurred to me what was required. I’d completely forgotten that in our rural part of France it is customary for guests to take first dibs of the culinary offering. I made a preliminary move towards the serving cutlery, which was greeted by a look of immense relief from Monique. We each took a piece and the meal commenced.

I have absolutely no idea what variety the tart was, other than fishy, tasty and filling. Nicely lubricated with a dry white, we polished off our slab with gusto. But there was still half a tart left and I worried about the social implications of this. Were we supposed to dive in again? A social faux pas with our generous hosts would be unforgivable. Since Monique was eyeing the leftovers somewhat wistfully, I decided to go for it. I made a second test-move towards the servers, which was obviously the right thing to do. She gleefully slid the platter towards me and I cut another slice.

Course after course appeared, often with just one foodstuff – another custom here. As my tummy started swelling under the strain I began to regret taking that second slice of fish tart, but to pass on a course at this stage would be too rude for words. Desperately hoping my skirt button was up to the job of keeping things in place, I continued to stuff food down.  

Each course was darkly coloured and as difficult to distinguish as the first, and served with a splash of differently coloured wine. As before, dishes were placed in front of us with great reverence and the remaining three family members waited politely until Jack and I had the first helping. The latest of these was somewhat difficult to deal with because it was a mound of cep mushrooms – Jack hates mushrooms. Under the proud gaze of Dominique, who no doubt had picked them, I ignored Jack’s disgusted sotto voce grunt and swept a couple of prime specimens onto his plate. Surely that was the end of the savouries? Not a bit of it.

Monique sprang out of her chair and disappeared again, the sizzling in the cow stalls abruptly stopped, and moments later she made a triumphant return, bearing a salver of medallion-shaped pieces of blackish meat. As luck would have it, Jack, hadn’t noticed this detail. He was now nicely oiled by the non-stop flow of wine, and having washed down the remains of his mushrooms with yet another glass of red, had begun a riveting tale about machine parts. His expansive chat was evidently fascinating Jean-Pierre, conversely, poor Dominique was suffering. His eyes were approaching the same colour as the claret, his voice reduced to a croak.  

I looked apprehensively at the meat. It ought to be borne in mind that it had been cooking for over four and a half hours, therefore it was likely to be a tad past its prime. Monique couldn’t possibly be blamed for this; the day had been a social whirlwind for her. We dutifully took our helpings and started sawing. From the corner of my eye I could see that Jack was due to say something entirely inappropriate like ‘what is it?’ so I quickly cut in by asking a nicely vague question about the name of the specific cut.  

Our wonderful beef-farming hosts’ eyes lit up at our interest in this pièce de résistance of the feast. They commenced an animated discussion between themselves about how to describe the body part to their Anglais friends. Since Dominique could only whisper now, Monique won their pithy debate in double-quick time. She tried and failed several times to explain the answer to us before having an Eureka moment.

“Oopahhh, I know, I’ll get the book!”

Off she went, leaving Dominique looking wan, and cantered back with a tome on how to butcher a cow. Inspirational move! Now it seemed we had a clue as to what we were eating and since I’ve often got stuck at le boucher when trying to describe a certain cut of meat, this was going to be very helpful.

Somewhat relieved at having a moment’s reprise from chewing, she and I pored over the relevant page. Once we’d located the diagram of a cow and accompanying legend of meat cuts Monique sped off again, fired up a machine that sounded like a combustion engine, and returned with a hot photocopy of the body parts page. Monique is kindness itself. We solemnly returned to the matter of doing battle with our pieces of meat and Jack innocently asked which cut of beef it actually was. “It is duck,” was the reply.

Dessert was washed down with a river of champagne and took the form of three courses. It was clear what two of them were and the third very closely resembled our first course. I ignored Jack’s tittered mutter of ‘what goes around comes around’ and dug my spoon into the most delicious apple tart I have ever tasted in my life. Bravo, Monique!

After the cheese course, coffee and assorted bottles of liqueur including a re-appearance of the dreaded eau de vie, arrived and were served by Jean-Pierre. Dominique was incapable of uttering anything and was reduced to the occasional pathetic nod. Monique, in spite of her toiling, looked as fresh as a daisy and Jack was now on top form. He held the floor, regaling us all with his favourite stories and generally delighted the assembled company. Even Dominique began to chuckle.

Finally it was time to go. It was nearly 6pm and I was mildly surprised that the younger members of the family hadn’t reappeared after a gruelling five-setter. We executed a number of embraces and stepped out into the cold January air – ooh it was nippy. Poor Dominique looked like he ought to be hospitalised. However, despite being close to collapse, he courteously insisted on seeing us to our car while Monique gaily waved her how-to-butcher-cattle (but not ducks) at us. The three-legged mutt joined his master and growled gently, no doubt happy to have the interlopers removed from his domain.

We trundled slowly through the countryside back to our home, taking care to turn right this time, not left. With broad smiles across our faces, we agreed that it had been another truly memorable day in the company of these fantastically generous people. Just another typical day in our little corner of France.

The Unwanted Gift

I’m one of those people who tends to be a little flimsy on a morning. No particular reason for this other than a touch of fatigue brought on by the family cat.

Our morning routine is pretty consistent and begins at around 5 am where I am usually alerted from a lovely, deep sleep by the sound of throaty purrs. Brutus, our portly cat, has materialised on the bed and is making his way to my pillow for a session of face-time. Try as I might to resist his advances, I’m no match for his persuasive talents at that time of the morning.

Brutus steadfastly inveigles himself onto my nice, warm pillow and uses my head as a radiator. A cat with unnecessarily long limbs, he’ll extend an arm, using it to great effect by gently drawing my hand towards him. This is the signal that he wants to be stroked. Failure to comply on my part then involves the subtle use of claws, which he cleverly disguises as an act of affection. I imagine it’s rather like acupuncture. Mildly perforated and still enfeebled, I quickly give in and begin stroking his head, which causes him to turn into an inboard motor. The sensation of being in a ship’s engine room might be acceptable, soporific even, but the accompanying process of gradual suffocation, as Brutus gradually drapes himself over my nose, is eventually too much. I give in, turn over and fall off the pillow.

At this stage I’m semi-awake and then start dozing, desperately trying to return to my slumbers, but it’s no good – and why? Because Brutus has begun to clean his toes. The engine room transforms into a giant rasping workshop of activity as the lick-a-thon gets under way. As unmentionable detritus, including a fair amount of flowerbed, is carelessly flicked all over me I eventually surrender. Cussing about life with animals, I tumble out of bed and do what is required of me.

With slippers and dressing gown on, and Brutus doing his best to trip me up, I stumble downstairs to meet the next challenge. The dogs – Aby and Max. I sleepily fight off loving onslaughts from our over-affectionate Australian Shepherds, who behave as though they haven’t seen me for six months. 

With wiggling bottoms, and toothy smiles that light the dimness of the room, they pin me to the bottom step, moaning in delight, ready to plan the daily walk. Weakly I deliver a number of random pats, struggle free and shuffle into the utility room to prepare Brutus’ breakfast.

Fortunately this pattern, one that can only be endured by animal-lovers, is nothing that can’t be rectified by a nice strong cuppa, and also the product of my Christmas present – a juicer. This has been a true revelation to me and I adore it. With Max still grinning from ear to ear as he adoringly hangs onto the hem of my dressing gown, I drag us both to the sink, hoping not to unravel before I reach the chopping board. I reach for my random collection of fruits and vegetables and begin to hack them into juicer-friendly sizes.

Still half-asleep, I stuff the ingredients into my wonderful machine, which munches and grinds its way through the contents with consummate ease. It belches out ex-veggie bits into one container and a heady drinkable liquid into another. This can often be a strange colour but it is thrillingly stuffed with vitamins and minerals – I’m convinced it’s an act of magic.

Just enough for two glasses, I give one to my husband, Jack, who is decidedly less thrilled. His belief is that these bright green/orange/dark red concoctions containing more than six types of vegetable and at least three varieties of fruit appear much too similar to human waste, and should probably carry a gastro intestinal health warning. Disappointing though his attitude is, I shouldn’t be at all surprised given that he’s a die-hard carnivore. I’ve reminded him of the health benefits and, so far, all seems to be well down below. So, in spite of his continued scepticism, he manfully sips his way through most offerings.

The single downside to my magnificent machine is that it devours an inordinate quantity of produce. After my first few goes it quickly became clear that I would need a bigger vegetable rack to contain them. In the meantime, I made do by using three deep boxes which I left on the window ledge in the cool of the utility room.

A few days ago, following another nocturnal feline skirmish that I’d failed to repel, I was on my way to the utility room to collect my ingredients. Jack was already downstairs and commented, “I noticed a mouse in one of your veg boxes this morning. Huh, at least someone appreciates your devil’s brew mix.”

I took very little notice of him and shambled into the crowded utility room, which was occupied by both dogs and Brutus (on the worktop) all eating their breakfasts. I was about to collect a clump of celery when a head popped up between the sprouts. It was there again, but this wasn’t a mouse at all, it was a large rat. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m usually perfectly fine with rats, but they do need to be in their own place – and not mine.

I recoiled in horror and started shrieking at the animals to do something helpful. Aside from Max who raised an eyebrow, my appeals had absolutely no affect whatsoever. They were intent on eating their meal and a hysterical mum wasn’t going to get in their way.

Meanwhile, the rat, alerted to the possibility that it wasn’t welcome, calmly squeezed its bulk between my greens and started to waddle over the apples and lemons. My continued squawks brought Jack bounding in. “It’s a rat,” I ranted, “a huge one. Please do something, Jack!”

“You’ve got a roomful of so-called shepherding and hunting animals in here, can’t they catch it? If you didn’t feed them so much it might be an incentive for them to earn their keep. Anyway where is it?” he puffed with exasperation.

“Over there somewhere, behind the dogfood bins,” I replied, pointing nervously at two knee-high feed containers.

Jack fought his way through the furry mass and peered behind the bins.

“No, nothing here, it must have gone through the hole by the radiator. Useless bloody animals, catch a rat? That lot couldn’t even catch a cold. Now can you stop making such a noise please, I’m trying to watch the news.” With that he stalked off.

Feeling somewhat sheepish, I returned to the job in hand and studied my goods for signs of contamination. Our new visitor might be a carrier of several vile diseases for all I knew, a simple rinsing of my legumes might not be sufficient. Just as I was considering this important point the dogs, who had finished their breakfast, started to show a renewed interest in the food bins. At first I ignored this, assuming it was a late show of teaminess, when Aby started urgently whining and staring at me imploringly. Still under the impression that they were alerted by old scents I pulled back a bin and to my horror saw that the rat was still there and looking decidedly frisky.

In an instant both dogs exploded into a flurry of activity and started blundering around. Even Brutus looked up, mildly interested at all this canine activity.

“Jaaack, it’s still here!” I yelled.

Jack thundered back in and surveyed the perpetrator, which was scampering around in circles behind the containers.

“Quite a fatty isn’t it?”

“Yes, can you do something please, I’m frightened it’s going to escape into the house.”

Jack gave me a withering look and switched to operations mode. “Right, you take the empty bin and I’ll grab the full one, that’ll give the dogs or Brutus a chance to get it. It’s obviously too large to get through the hole in the corner, so there’s a tiny chance that one of them might have the intelligence to catch it.”

“Oh I daren’t go any closer,” I whined pathetically.

“Why not?”

“I haven’t got any pants on.”

“Wha...what’s that got to do with anything?” he cried, totally nonplussed.

“You know what they say about rats running up drainpipes, anything could happen with me standing here with just my slippers and dressing gown on!”

With a look of irritation at my reticence he replied, “Ridiculous woman! For goodness’ sake, just get out of here then, I’ll try to sort it out with the dogs, although I dare say they’ll just continue to knock things over.”

With that I scurried out of the room and closed the door firmly behind me.

During the next couple of minutes the rooms bulged with the sounds of shouts, barks and scrambling noises, then the vacuum cleaner was switched on, which was strange. Next thing, the door was flung open and out shot Brutus looking like a mobile inflated toilet brush with the fluffiest tail I have ever seen. He galloped up the stairs, four at a time, and disappeared from view. Poor lad, he has always considered the vacuum cleaner to be a weapon of mass destruction.

One defender of the realm down, three to go. I felt sure that one of them would manage to trap the perp.

Sounds of pandemonium continued, then Aby flew through the door with an enraged-looking rat in her mouth and Max in pursuit. As she dashed around the dining room table with it I attempted to do something useful by opening the kitchen door for her, but I was too late. Max-the-misguided had decided that this was a great game and rugby tackled her just before she made the exit. Aby was floored, spat out the rat, which triumphantly scampered off to another corner of the kitchen.  

“Bloody idiot dog!” raged Jack as he came into the kitchen with vacuum cleaner nozzle in hand. “Where has it gone now, and what are you doing up there?”

As a security measure, remembering my state of undress, I’d taken the sensible precaution of taking refuge halfway up the stairs. I ignored his insensitive question and pointed towards the area where our escapee was last seen.

“It’s over there. Can you shoo it out of the door before the dogs have another go?”

“I tried that last time, I got it nicely stuck on the end of my nozzle when Aby grabbed it and galloped off. Now she’s let it go again.”

“Actually it wasn’t her fault, it was Max and…”

“It doesn’t matter, they’re both idiots. Control them please, they’re causing havoc with the furniture!”

Jack went off to find his rodent-proof gloves while I attempted to control the dogs’ level of hysteria. When he returned they were both rigidly sitting to attention, on crimson alert, and whining in anticipation of the next fiasco.

“Ah, there it is,” he said, gently removing a chair with his giant red rubber gloves, “I reckon I can probably grab it now.” As he reached towards the defiant rodent Max somehow interpreted this to be a signal to advance. He sprang over Jack’s arm and pounced on the rat, which deftly swerved out of the way, scuttled through his legs and pelted out through the open door into the garden. This was Max’s second own-goal, but at least the intruder was outside.

“That idiot sodding dog!” bawled Jack, from a seated position where he’d been felled, “If he were to suddenly become five times more intelligent, he could qualify as an ingredient for your vegetable juicer.”

“Never mind, darling,” I gaily replied, “at least the rat’s gone now. I call that a great result!”

Jack gave me a disdainful look and snarled, “I blame myself. None of this would be happening if I hadn’t bought you that damned juicer, which has resulted in the utility room turning into vegetable market. Now, fascinating though it may be, it’s too early to be on safari. Please don’t bother me again about helping out with invasions of anything smaller than a wild boar, I’m going to catch up on the news.” With that he stalked back to the TV.

I then surveyed the scenes of gentle chaos. A couple of chairs had been knocked over in the kitchen, the utility room had fared less well. The empty dog bin was on its side, the other at a jaunty angle surrounded by red cabbage, sprouts and vacuum cleaner attachments. Well, I thought, at least nothing had been damaged in our early morning incident, not even the rat, which seemed to have been the calmest of us all.

Clearly I couldn’t blame any of this on my wonderful new juicer. It simply had to have its fuel. No, there was only one unwanted gift that day, and it was now happily sauntering around the garden somewhere no doubt plotting a return visit – one that I wouldn’t look forward to.

The Dog with a Bony Backside

You know how some memories stick in one’s mind as though they happened yesterday? That’s how it is with this incident.

It was a very hot day in May, I’ll never forget it. I’d just finished my housework and we were heading out to our local auberge in France for Sunday lunch. This was a treat I always looked forward to.

As Jack, my husband, and I drove down the almost deserted road towards our eatery, I relaxed and idly flipped through the menu in my mind. H’m what would I choose today? The fillet of salmon and mixed salad was always good and would go very nicely with a glass of ice-cold beer. And for Jack? Doubtless he’d be ordering a plateful of meat, laced with frites à la maison. He jolted me out of my daydreams with a series of tuts.

“Tsk, just look at that – what a mess!”

“What?”

“Up ahead, there’s a whole load of cardboard in the middle of the road.”

Sure enough, although it was some way off, it looked distinctly like someone had discarded a large cardboard box. I tutted teamily, but as we got closer we realised how wrong we were.

“Jack, it’s moving!”

“You’re right. It must be an animal, perhaps it’s a deer that’s been hit by a car. What a shame.”

We drew alongside the lightly twitching form and got out to see what we could do, only to find that it wasn’t a deer at all. Barely alive, with its head flat on the tarmac, it was a dreadfully emaciated male dog. His ribs and spine stuck out like coat hangers, stretching filthy fur into grotesquely unnatural shapes. Cuts, bare patches and old scars covered much of the animal, it was a pitiful sight.

There was no way we were prepared to leave it exposed in the middle of the road. Aside from the obvious danger from other motorists, the sun was so hot on the tarmac it was causing mirages to form. The dog had to be moved.

So far he hadn’t acknowledged us at all. Swatting away the buzzing flies that surrounded the pathetic body, I stared in dismay at his muzzle. It was a mass of scabs, some bleeding from the bites of fleas and mites which visibly infested the threadbare fur. And he stank. As we began lifting him, he weakly raised his head. Completely docile, he gazed at us pathetically as we gently carried him to a cool, shaded patch of grass on the side of the road.

I waited while Jack dashed back to the house to get a supply of food and water (the photos above show the water bowl). We weren’t sure whether it was wise to give the dog any food, but we felt certain he needed water. We put both down and he managed a little of each. At that stage there was nothing else we could do. We continued on to the auberge and had an unsettled lunch. Somehow our meals didn’t taste quite as good as usual.

We tried to rationalise what we’d seen. Perhaps the dog had wandered off from his kennel. Maybe he had tired himself out and lain on the road, exhausted. Perhaps the owner would come looking for him. Whilst almost logical, those theories didn’t tally with the reality. We talked to our local chums in the auberge and everyone had the same opinion. It was a well-known trick. The animal was probably an old hunting dog who was no longer useful and had been dumped on the road in the hope that someone else would take it in.

With this appalling thought in our minds we said our goodbyes and returned to the spot where we’d left the dog. At first we thought it had gone, but no, we followed a trail of flattened grass and found him. He'd had dragged himself to a shadier spot. There was nothing for it, we couldn’t possibly leave him there all night, so we put him in the car and returned home.

Fortunately, we have a small grassy pen with a kennel so we put the dog in there, isolating him from our own dogs, Aby and Max. At that stage we had no idea whether he might be carrying a disease and didn’t want them in close contact, but we did allow ours to have an introductory sniff through the fence. This didn’t take long. Aby and Max decided there was no fun to be had here and mooched off to do something more interesting.

The dog had been too weak to walk so we left it propped up on some bedding in the kennel with a fresh supply of food and water. That night was a tense one. We prepared ourselves that it would probably be dead the next morning and were amazed to find that not only was it alive, it was standing.

We weren’t entirely sure what to do next but one thing was quite clear, the poor animal needed urgent medical attention. I took him to our vet for a full examination. Doctor Arnaud had seen this kind of case before and was incredibly caring as usual. He confirmed our early suspicions. There was no tattoo, microchip or other form of identity on the dog, he was badly emaciated and had several superficial injuries, including a broken tail. But the list got longer. Blood tests showed that he had a kidney problem, and a dicky heart. He was running a temperature and had a skin disease. He was also old and nearly deaf.

Our vet concluded that the dog had almost certainly been abandoned and asked what we wanted to do. Put it down, or keep it? This was a scenario we hadn’t properly considered. I asked the vet if the dog was in pain. He replied that, other than discomfort from the superficial injuries, he wasn’t. That was all I needed to know, I called Jack to confirm the results and we decided to keep him. Sometime later I left with a huge bag of tablets, special antiseptic shampoo, extra special food and a very large bill.

Now that we had a new dog in the family we had to give it a name. That was easy. Doctor Arnaud had told me it was a wild boar hunting dog; he’d even shown me a particularly nasty looking scar which he thought had been made by a boar’s tusk. Our new dog was named Hunter.

The next few weeks passed in a flurry of activity for Hunter with some basic requirements receiving rapid attention. There was no denying it, he was very smelly indeed. He was also covered with fleas and other small critters, which had a tendency to jump rather a long way. This wasn’t a winning combination for a dog that was going to be living with others, so early action had to be taken.

His general state of filth meant that Hunter was quickly bathed – twice. Did he ever put up a fight? Never. He simply peered mournfully at me with his rheumy eyes and succumbed gracefully to what had to be done.

The level of bug infestation was so high that he was given anti-flea treatment in tablet form and as a liquid spot-on. This nearly worked but not quite. The second application of antiseptic shampoo, whilst effective in eliminating most of the unwanted odours, did a great job of turning my fingers a strange colour and also dissolved the spot-on. The tablet clearly wasn’t up to the job of handling French fleas all by itself so another spot-on had to be applied.

Then there was the question of worms – we couldn’t seem to get rid of them. Hunter lived in the pen while he was undergoing his primary health-care programme and two things happened. Firstly, we noticed his poo contained extremely wriggly-looking parasites, which caused me to rush back to the vet for further supplies. Then his poo disappeared.

Unlikely though the concept was, I assumed that Jack had transformed into a hygiene-conscious kennel maid and he, apparently, thought the same about me. It was only when I complimented him on his selfless husbandry skills that the ghastly truth was out. Hunter was supplementing his regular diet by eating his own poo. That explained why we couldn’t get rid of the worms and the reason for his rank breath, which had a similar effect to pepper spray.

Back I went to the vet for a discussion about the dog’s psychological issues and to buy more wormer. Doctor Arnaud wasn’t at all surprised by my awful tale. He explained that most hunting dogs in the area live in kennels. Many are kept in excellent conditions but, in a situation such as Hunter’s, evidently not always. Come feeding time it was probably survival of the fittest. Food would be put down and the older dogs were often bullied out of the way by the youngsters. This explained why our dog resorted to unsavoury tactics to fill his belly, it also helped explain why he was so thin and poorly. Thereafter, Hunter was stalked and poo removed the moment it was deposited.

We began to see some positive changes in mid-June. Hunter started gaining weight and padded around his pen with a gait most sea dogs would be proud of. Finally we could see what a handsome chap he must once have been. Not very tall, but with a fine head, floppy ears, strong body and deep chest, he had the distinct look of a bloodhound. He was also gentle as can be and amenable to any amount of fussing that came his way. He was a proper country gent who gradually captured our hearts.

Once his primary problems were sorted out, he spent his early days gently pottering around in the garden with our two young Australian Shepherds. He was a pack dog so there was no reason why they shouldn’t get on, and our two were always up for a play with a new pal. Once he started to tire we’d take him back to rest in his own pen. This routine worked for everyone, or so we thought. One morning all that abruptly changed. We were woken by the mournful baying of a hunting hound. It took us a moment or two to realise where the sound was coming from. It was Hunter, and he had found his voice.

Delighted, but worried that something was wrong; I hurried out to find him booming his head off at the pen gate. He was absolutely fine and just making it clear that being shut in the pen was no longer an acceptable option. That was the start of his transition to becoming a house dog.

During the hot summer days the doors were usually left open so he could come and go as he pleased, but he was returned to his pen at night. He would have lived in a kennel so we assumed he wouldn’t be house trained, and anyway we thought he’d be more comfortable outside. Not a bit of it. Once Hunter discovered the delights of comfortable dog beds and warm, dry conditions, that was it – he wanted in! This was when we began to realise what a determined lad he was.

Every morning at daybreak we would be roused by a constant report of deep barks, which continued until one of us opened the gate. Then, to our surprise, holes started appearing in the fence. It took a couple of days for us to work out what was going on – Hunter was chewing through the galvanised wire – we couldn’t believe it, this was supposed to be strong enough to keep wild boar out. We cut our losses and took a chance on letting him sleep in the house. Did he wee on the floor? Never, there was no problem at all, except for Aby, whose bed he commandeered.

For the rest of the summer Hunter was in his element and his wonderfully mild character flourished. He ate like a horse, finally put on weight and started to look like a healthy old dog again. But there were one or two issues. Hunter, being a hunting dog, was extremely single-minded, and with that came a certain degree of obstinacy. His deafness emerged as a distinct advantage, and was a condition he conveniently used like a trump card.

When Hunter decided he wanted to do something that nobody else wanted him to do he completely ignored any contrary instructions. This was frustrating for me, and completely intolerable for my hyper-impatient husband. Cries like, ‘Hunteeer! Argh! That bloody dog won’t listen to a thing I say,’ commonly rang around the garden as Jack pointed furiously at a disappearing bony backside.

Once Hunter had gained enough strength for longer outings we allowed him into the ‘dogs’ field’, a three hectare (over seven acres) enclosed pasture. It is cut for hay each year by a local farmer and the dogs use it for general exploring, constitutionals and honing their scenting skills while they’re waiting for a proper dog walk. The moment Hunter set paw in the field he was off and it was a joy to see. With his nose to the ground he shuffled around with his ungainly gait. Sniffing, pausing, sniffing again – head up for a moment, then down again. Just doing his job. He weaved across the field with remarkable speed for an animal who had so recently been close to death. But there was a practical problem with all this.  

After the first few visits we realised he was having a wonderful time and seemed strong enough to be left on his own. A fine idea in theory except that Hunter had no idea when to stop. The other two dogs would come back after a short excursion, abandoning their old pal who would be somewhere in the field, head fixed to the ground as usual.

The pattern never changed. Once he’d been out for a while I would walk to the field to bring him back in. But it wasn’t easy, he was hard to spot. His tawny-brown fur blended nicely with the grass and became the perfect camouflage. When the prospect of disrupting a satisfying hunt was in the offing I swear he used that together with his cloth-eared deafness to great effect. Looking like a slowly moving tussock of grass he completely ignored my bawls of, ‘Hunter, supper, come!’ The inevitable result being that I would trudge across the field, lasso him, and drag him home.

On one occasion, as I forlornly watched the bony backside snaking around the field in the distance, I had a cunning idea. Aha! We have Australian Shepherds, they’re herders, why not send them out to collect Hunter? Sadly the dogs took a pretty dim view of my brilliant plan. Aby evidently decided that the bed-stealer was best left out there and Max had a couple of half-hearted attempts, but since Hunter wouldn’t play Frisbee with him, declared him to be no fun at all. That was it, I ended up traipsing across the field and hauling Hunter back – every time. And he was very good natured about it all.

The next problem came via his paws. Hunter had enormous ones – they were like shovels. I was alerted to a sound I can only describe as a hound dog song. You might be familiar with it. When a hunting dog picks up a particularly tantalising scent they will alert their fellow hunters by making a strange, continuous call, it’s quite different to the normal bark. One day in the field Hunter started making a similar sound but it was more like a quavering hoot. Initially charmed by this peculiar noise, I ran over to find that he had discovered an extremely interesting scent, but it was beneath the ground.

Hunter took the term ‘dogged’ to a whole new level. He had started digging and wouldn’t stop. Aby and Max were extremely impressed, joined in for a bit then gave up, evidently deciding that he was being a bit ‘OCD’ about the whole process. But then they are shepherding dogs. I watched, amused for a while, until it dawned on me that he really wasn’t going to stop. Eventually concerned that he might injure his bulldozer-like paws I pulled him off and towed him out of the field.

As the weeks wore on this became a regular event. Every day Hunter would dig holes – long ones, wide ones and sometimes very deep ones. His health didn’t seem to be suffering although we were worried that the effort might be straining his heart. I checked with the vet who said he should be fine. Jack dryly observed that whilst the dog was fine the farmer might not be thrilled when one of his tractor tyres disappeared down a newly-created crevice – but I felt this was a slight exaggeration. So we left him to enjoy his retirement days weaving, sniffing, hooting, digging and then digging some more.

One day in the late summer Jack rushed up to me with a panicked expression.

“You have to come and have a look at Hunter. Something terrible has happened.”

“Why what’s wrong?” I asked, slightly exasperated that my satisfying weeding session was being disrupted.

“His balls have exploded!”

“What?”

“Honestly, they have.” He winced, with look of anguish only another male can express.

“I’m sure your exaggerating again, where is he?”

We found Hunter snoozing in the sun outside the kitchen door and sure enough the poor dog’s testicles were very swollen and oozing a ghastly fluid through flaking skin.

“I can’t believe it, he was absolutely fine this morning,” I cried.

“I know, it’s awful isn’t it, poor bugger,” groaned Jack. “Oh God, you don’t think they’re going to drop off do you?” he shuddered.

“Don’t be so ridiculous,” I retorted hotly, fervently hoping I was right.

I took our uncomplaining dog back to the vet for more blood tests which showed that he had a nasty infection. We were told that the treatment would eventually clear it up but unless he was castrated he was likely to develop testicular cancer. This decision was ours to make, and it was a hard one. Hunter was very old and had a weak heart. Was it right for us to put him through the traumas of surgery?

We spent the next week treating his symptoms with strong antibiotics and cleaning him up several times a day. He didn’t seem to be in any pain, but the site of the infection was taking a long time to respond. Akin to that I noticed a few dark, scabby patches on his tummy and legs where his fur had worn to the skin. Unsure as to whether this was part of the infection we cut our losses and decided to risk it, Hunter was to have surgery.

To our relief Hunter pulled through incredibly well. Doctor Arnaud carried out a new battery of tests and found that he was suffering from a kidney disease that was causing his skin to break up and fur to fall out. Once again we sought his advice. Were we right to keep the old hound going? The response was the same. He was responding well to treatment, he was in no pain and the skin condition could be kept in check with a different special shampoo and regular baths. Decision made. Armed with further supplies of medication and a new lot of special food, we decided to work with our aging canine retainer.

Autumn brought the deer and wild boar hunters out in enthusiastic droves. We live in rural France and every weekend the air would be filled by the cries of frantic hunters and our home surrounded by baying hounds. They were so loud that Hunter heard them, or possibly smelled them. He would stand by the entrance gate sniffing and watching as dogs whizzed past in pursuit of their quarry.

On one such hunting day I was working in the house when Jack shouted for me to come outside.

“I’ve lost Hunter!” he cried, in exasperated tones. “Just look at what he’s done.”

I walked over to the gate and saw a gaping hole in the wire. Hunter had chewed a hole in the netting that covered the wooden gate, and disappeared. I was horrified.

“Jack, that’s awful, he’s far too old to be outside on his own. He might get run over or caught up in the hunt.” Then a thought struck me. “Ooh, I wonder if it’s his old pack out there?”

Jack went off to have a look, which in some ways wasn’t a great idea. Being in the potential firing line of our hunters, or actually anywhere in the same vicinity is never advisable. I tensely waited, listening to Jack shouting his head off, but it was to no avail. He came back a short time later absolutely furious.

“That bloody dog,” he puffed, “I could see his bony arse in the distance but would he come? No he bloody well wouldn’t.”

“Oh dear, I hope he’s going to be alright, his poor heart,” I replied, feeling decidedly anxious.

“His heart? What about my sodding heart? I nearly had a coronary galloping across that field. Anyway he’s probably gone for good now – back to the idiot huntsman who messed up his health in the first place. Huh, that’s gratitude for you!”  

With that, Jack stalked off in a huff. But I know my husband, underneath that bluster he’s a big old softie at heart. He spent the next few hours wandering around looking for Hunter and was thoroughly forlorn when his search proved to be fruitless.

By the end of the day we’d morosely decided that Hunter had either had a serious accident or returned to his pack. Our chat was interrupted by a funny noise. It was that unmistakable quavering hoot – the old warrior had returned. We rushed to the gate and there he was, filthy dirty, but otherwise unharmed and extremely hungry.

Incidents like this weren’t isolated. If he managed to chew his way through a newly replaced piece of netting he would always return. He knew where his home was. Happily he eventually stopped trying to join a pursuit and renewed his focus on excavating the now pitted field. He was in doggy heaven.

Friends and visitors who came to visit immediately fell in love with our gentle old boy. He was handsome, he was placid and loved the kindness that was showered on him. One did have to be a bit careful though when handing out treats. Clearly used to fighting for food in his youth, he’d make a sporty grab for whatever tantalising titbit that was being offered, whether or not a hand was in the way.  

The thing is, Hunter was a true hunting dog. This was reinforced by a series of incidents that took place in the spring of the following year. One day I saw him sitting under a tree in the garden with a bundle of white in his mouth. Quite where he had found the speed to grab one of our fantail pigeons was beyond me, but I managed to rescue it before it met an early demise. The grass snakes he regularly trapped and crunched on were less lucky.

While he was having a lovely time, his skin condition wasn’t. It was worsening. Bi-monthly baths turned into weekly ones. New shampoos were used and different tablets given. Still no pain or discomfort so we persevered, which enabled him to commit another grave sin. We live in an ancient property which is surrounded by an old, mostly dry moat. The first I knew of this next set of misdemeanours was a hollering from Jack, who was suffering from a nasty bout of sciatica.

“Come quick, we’ve got a problem with Hunter!”

I rushed out to find Jack teetering on the edge of our moat staring down at something. Hunter had somehow scrambled down the bank and had got himself stuck up to his legpits in a particularly stinky patch of muddy water. We looked at him, he stared solemnly back – motionless.

“It’s no good, I’m going to have to get him out, he’s obviously too weak to do it himself,” snapped Jack, through gritted teeth.

He disappeared into the house and returned wearing wellies, which was a bit pointless because the moment he climbed into the brackish depths, water poured into his boots, filling them in seconds. He shoved and pushed and hauled the old dog and eventually got him to a dry part of the moat where I could help. Whilst Hunter seemed to be completely unperturbed – Jack was in agony. He started spitting out instructions.

“You pull while I push – just watch you don’t slip, we don’t want another injured party in here, we’ll all end up at the bloody vet at this rate.”

“Rightho, just watch your back,” I gasped, trying to grab Hunter’s shoulders.

“Very funny, God Almighty, for a dog with such a bony arse I can’t believe how heavy he is. He’s like a sack of potatoes. Come on, Hunter, make an effort!”

Hunter didn’t make any effort at all and relaxed into the fireman’s lift routine like a pro. It took us quite a while to get him out and when we did he gathered himself up and shuffled off to have a kip. We on the other hand were shadows of our former selves. Jack declared that his back would never be the same again and I was covered in moaty slime. Actually we both were.

I’d like to say that this was an isolated incident, but it wasn’t. In between times he continued to enjoy his halcyon days in a variety of ways. He messed around with the other dogs, teaching them bad habits. He snoozed in flower beds, never beside them, dug more holes, chewed on things that didn’t look remotely chewable and ate like a horse. He was a magnificent character, but he was becoming more poorly. More health checks showed further deterioration. His heart was becoming weaker. But he never showed signs of pain, just pure contentment with the gift of prolonged life.

One morning the following summer he didn’t come in after breakfast. I went out to find out our old boy lying on the lawn, completely flat – he couldn’t move. Panic-stricken, we placed him on his favourite bed and I rushed him to the vet. The vet did what vets have to do. He ran yet more tests, explained that Hunter’s kidneys were now failing and gave us our options. Yes, we could keep him going for a while longer, but was this for the best? It was our choice. Deeply troubled, I looked down at the old scarred head with big floppy ears. For the first time since that fateful day when we had found him he didn’t raise his head. Hunter was tired and ready to go.

With heavy hearts we made our decision and the vet put our old boy to sleep. It was a dreadful, awful decision to make, but we knew it was the right thing to do.

Now when we look back on our experiences with this ancient old warrior, we smile with enormous affection. Was he independently minded? No, he was bloody minded. He caused havoc to our land and bank account and was incredibly time consuming to deal with. But here’s the flip side. He had been cruelly mistreated yet remained accepting, stoic, affectionate and so very content with his new home. For all his foibles we loved our old hunting hound dearly and still miss him terribly. Watching that dog with the bony backside enjoy the autumn of his years was a privilege.