A text by Patricia de Prelle, author
These days, I found myself dreaming of a dog’s life.
It doesn’t matter whether they are pedigree or bastard, big or small, I envy them all.
As soon as they put the truffle outside, they seek social rapprochement and more if affinities. Their master follows them, releases their rein and worries about them as soon as they are no longer in sight.
This morning, at the park, in scorching heat, I met a labrador, good chic and a dachshund, good kind. Both intelligent and faithful enjoy themselves with their family with pedigree. However, obeying a master overwhelmed with heat would encourage them to indulge their pronounced taste for hunting or running away in the event of a shortage of game. They are not the only ones suffering from the heat. Quite the contrary, because it is indeed the canine race which gave its name to the heat wave taken from the constellation of the Heat wave in astronomy.
The Baron of Newfoundland
Later, I recognized the chow-chow which also has its followers. This one, privileged companion of the walker, finds himself, hugged closely by his mistress who no longer bears this title except for her dog. Too bad because this hen still has the dog. Having no other ties and few constraints, she is only too available for this dog who would have taken to the air on his own.
I also meet Mr. Meunier that his Saint-Bernard pulls on a leash after pulling him out of bed. He borrows his keg of schnapps and proudly forces his master to leave.
The Baron de Terreneuve no longer recognizes his family but his dog. He harangues the Crusaders, pointing his cane like a sword. The build of his dog serves as a shield.
I recognize from afar my former neighbor flanked by his bastard, Loulou, for whom I have always had a weakness. Indeed, why condemn this pup, whose spirited parents failed to respect the breed. They both advance towards me, their croups bent and their necks lowered.
On the contrary of this poodle who snubs me every day and who plays oriental pasha with astonishing insolence and humiliating constancy for his master.
I walk, me, my herdsman, sheepdog, as happy as having gathered his herd. In an urban environment, mission impossible. However, thanks to his affectionate character, he will let himself be cuddled at will. Between him and me, it’s quite a story because we can get along and understand each other perfectly without speaking.
These days, it’s impossible for me to greet other walkers up close. Some dogs, by their tyrannical attitude, prevent any friendly conversation. I envy all the more those dogs who have the right to smell and feel. For us, verbal language is essential. Their own language is wordless but very real.
There you are, the barker, not the one who announces my arrival with pomp, but his own.
In order to be sure of being recognized, he will bark relentlessly. Nothing stops him, and although a tiny bichon, he persists with a mastiff whose cheeks float on either side of his mouth wide open in incomprehension. I find myself there in front of an enigma worthy of Fort Boyard: is a dog conscious of its size? I asked him the question, flattened on the ground, training myself in canine language. Since it was just me barking, I never got an answer to the question.
Annoyed, I find a friend accompanied by her greyhound. The aristocratic allure of one compared to the bearing of the other requires a kiss-paw rather than a kiss-hand. However, she would also like to have a good face and shiny hair so that we turn on her and no longer on her dog.
A twinkle in his eye
Back home, I still envy them because while talking with Jack, my neighbor, about our search for meaning in life, I quickly realized that for Jack Russell and his family, it is the senses that guide them.
I envy hounds a little less because finding myself in the crowd has never pleased me. Screaming and running all together towards the same goal interests me only moderately.
Hence my desire for a trotting fox, a dog whose primary mission is to flush out anything that moves. Thanks to this innate gift, I can be assured of a dance with a rider stripped of his King Charles.
Today, my wedding anniversary, I look at my dog with envy, he who has never had to beg for a collar. He received it unconditionally. And he still looks at me after so many years with a twinkle in his eye. He may lead me by the nose, his company is good because he will never betray the dogs!
