LITMIR.BIZ

       A French Poodle in the House

      Every day for three years, while Joe and I were walking to school in the early mornings, he used to ask me if he could have a little sister, as though this was something we would buy at the charcuterie we passed each morning. The first time the request came up I didn’t know what to say. Joe didn’t know that Michael and I wanted another child – boy or girl – and had been trying to have one for several years. It wouldn’t mean a thing to him if I said, ‘We’re trying, Joe, we’re trying, we don’t want you to be an only child any more than you do.’ So, I put him off by saying, ‘Well, maybe you will one day,’ sheepishly knowing this probably wasn’t true.

      Michael and I weren’t desperate to have another child, but we thought it would be great for Joe to have a sibling, and for our family to be one person bigger. We assumed I would get pregnant, but two years had passed and I hadn’t. I decided I would take the first steps to check into adoption, to see how serious we wanted to get. I didn’t get far in my research before I learned that there are few if any babies available for adoption in France: pregnant woman of any age and situation are encouraged to keep their babies, and financial assistance from the state makes it very possible for them to do so. This explains the number of babies wheeling around babies; some of the mothers I see look no older than thirteen and, for all I know, they may be.

      The only couples I knew in France who had adopted babies had gone to South America or China to find them, and I knew that we wouldn’t go that far. We didn’t want to, nor could we afford to purchase a child. Secondly, our passion for a child didn’t go to those lengths. Maybe we were selfish – we wanted our own baby, and if our own baby wasn’t going to happen, we’d stay a happy little family of three.

      Finally we did what any sensible couple whose son wants a sibling would do. We considered getting a dog. Joe wanted a dog. Michael wanted a dog. I’m not much of an animal-lover, but I figured I could live with a dog. I’d grown up with a dachshund and loved her, but she was a yippy little attack dog who would go after crawling babies if she couldn’t find the moles she was bred to chase, so I didn’t think we wanted that sort. Michael had grown up with and loved golden labradors, but they needed lots of space and exercise, and our house and garden weren’t appropriate. What we really needed was a robotic dog that acted like a real dog and needed no space (or maintenance).

      Joe’s plaintive request for a sister continued. One of his favourite stories was The Little Match Girl and he would get so sad at the plight of the little girl. He wanted to bring her home and make a little bed for her in his room so he could protect her. He was obviously ready for the care and feeding of a living creature. We continued to mull over the dog idea until we finally decided that was what we would do. It would be Joe’s ‘little match girl’, his sibling.

      Joe was ecstatic and promised to do his share of taking care of the dog. I was clear from the start that, while I would go along with the idea, I wouldn’t take care of it full-time. We all agreed the dog would be a family project. Knowing that the best way to find a great dog was de bouche à oreille, by word of mouth, I mentioned it to our neighbours the florists. The very next day there was a knock on the door. Michael opened it to a rotund boy of about eleven with the thickest, most lush crew-cut I’d ever seen. ‘Bonjour Monsieur, Madame,’ he said, politely. ‘I believe that you are looking for a dog. The florists sent me over here.’ That was fast, I thought. He went on to explain, in very adult language, about a dog he had found and that he loved, but that his father, a fireman, insisted he get rid of because their apartment was too small. Tears welled up in his eyes. ‘I love this dog,’ he admitted, hiccuping a sob back into his throat. ‘My mother loves it, too, but my father says no, we must not keep it.’ He closed his eyes and two little tears popped out.

      We were taken in by the drama, and told him we would think about his offer and call him. We were only vaguely interested, though, since we didn’t want a fully grown dog with someone else’s bad training habits. The boy, whose name was Anthony, turned away, shoulders sagging, and slowly walked out through the courtyard door. Not two hours later he was back, dog and mother in tow. This time, when Michael answered the door, Joe was right behind him.

      ‘Monsieur, – dame,’ he said brightly. ‘You seem like such nice people, I just had to bring this little dog over to meet you.’

      The dog turned out to be an abricot caniche, a mid-sized, full-grown, fuzzy poodle the colour of dirty reddish straw, or unripe apricots. A male, his eyes were invisible under his unruly curls, and he wiggled all over, obviously delighted to be around people. Anthony, the boy, was holding him by a leash. ‘He is so adorable I know you’ll love him immediately,’ he said artlessly, and with a slight quaver in his voice.

      ‘Oh brother,’ I thought. Deciding to get a dog was one thing. Being presented with a warm and full-grown one that wiggled was another. We had never imagined getting a poodle – they are reputed to be as silly as they look. To prove our point the dog, held firmly by the strong Anthony, began little arcing jumps to nowhere, nearly choking himself and pulling over Anthony simultaneously. He wanted to get away, to move, to be free. He finally arced so hard that Anthony let go of the leash and he bounded into our front yard as though shot out of a cannon. He ran stupidly around the apple tree a couple of times, then back through the gravel, spraying pieces everywhere, until he stopped right at Joe’s feet. Well, he sort of stopped. He actually bashed right into Joe’s leg, startling Joe, and hurting his own nose.

      Michael bent down and beckoned, and the dog plastered himself against Michael’s leg. Joe, who likes dogs in theory but is afraid of them, stood behind Michael and bent over to stroke the dog’s back. He and Michael had turned into pools of melted butter in the face of this dog.

      Like a horse-whisperer with horses, Michael knows just how to get a dog to respond, where to scratch, pat, tickle and rub. This dog responded by lying flat on his back on the bricks, and shaking all over. Joe crouched over him. I stood by, watching the scene. Anthony and his mother were in a half-embrace, tears running down their faces. Joe and Michael were rapt. Molière couldn’t have written a better farce.

      I was lukewarm about the dog. He was a little messy for me, a little too rambunctious, a little too – well – dog-like. I’d imagined something smaller, cuter, calmer; something that resembled a stuffed dog a little more. The more Michael teased him, the more the dog slobbered all over him and the closer Joe got to him. I knew he would soon be moving in.

      Michael released the dog. Anthony called him, and the dog responded. We formed a family huddle while Anthony and his mother mooned over the dog. ‘Oh mama and papa, he’s so cute,’ Joe said.

      ‘He really is cute,’ Michael said. ‘And he seems

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