Almost French (29 page)

‘
C’est cruel!
’

This time the cry is louder, more aggressive. Curious heads turn towards cruel me. This is it. My cue.

‘Look, I know what’s cruel and what’s not,’ I yell angrily. ‘
Je suis vétrin … vétra … Je suis un vétiner … un
vet.’

Unlike in English, the French translation of vet can’t be abbreviated to three letters. Still, it’s a pretty simple word, not the sort you expect to stumble over. Vet-ay-reen-aire. But inexplicably, I have always struggled with words containing more than one ‘r’. Just as I used to stumble over pronouncing ‘Frédéric’, this word trips me up too.

My moment of anticipated triumph disintegrates into farce. The yobs practically roll off the bench with mocking
laughter as I splutter and choke on what is supposed to be my chosen profession. Pleased to be the centre of attention once again, Maddie wags and pulls on the lead, desperate to go and greet her protectors. Inside, I am seething. Snatching her up in my arms, I storm out of the gardens, red-faced and humiliated.

Instead of improving, Maddie’s behaviour only gets worse. Despite regular training sessions, at eight months she is still wilful and disobedient. Oh, she understands the commands, all right. She knows she’s supposed to trot over at ‘come’, she understands ‘sit’, she can even do ‘stay’. When she feels like it. The trouble is, the urge to obey doesn’t strike very often. Toilet training hasn’t been a stunning success either. Some nights we spend up to an hour outside while she sniffs and circles, apparently waiting for a comet to pass or the planets to align or some other sign from the gods. Inspiration invariably only strikes back at the apartment on Frédéric’s favourite rug that he bought in Yemen. Her obstinacy is breathtaking. Sometimes in the street she performs a swift, 180-degree turn and starts walking in
exactly the opposite direction
. Fair master and faithful hound—the romantic relationship distorted in a vision of dysfunction—performing a ridiculous tug-of-war.

The local vet is sympathetic. She’s a
petite femelle dominante
, he declares, too cheerfully for my liking. A real
tête de mule
, that’s for sure. He could tell the second she sauntered through the door. West Highland terriers are blessed with a happy disposition and a stubborn temperament which makes them difficult to train, he explains. Not a breed that strives to please its master. Very independent. Had I read further in the
dog encyclopaedia, I might have known the truth earlier. Westies should come with warning labels: Beware, this dog could break you.

What should I do? Call the breeder and ask for a refund? After all, F6,000 seems rather a lot to pay for a dominant dog (whatever that means). Maddie the mule-head. I’ve been had. The vet hands me a folded brochure. Beneath a name are the words: Professional Trainer, Dog Teacher. YOU’RE FEELING DESPERATE, YOU CAN’T GO ON? it asks in large green print. CALL US. I hurry home to phone.

The dog trainer comes to our apartment. She is a sensible-looking woman with a soft, understanding voice. Maddie whips herself into the usual tail-chasing welcome she reserves for total strangers but the trainer just pushes her away without even glancing down. No cries of
ma fille-fille
or
mon petit cœur
. I can’t help feeling vindicated. Frankly, I’m fed up with all this spoiling, these nauseating endearments. We have already discussed my pup’s problems at length over the phone and the dog trainer has brought along a list of techniques and tips, all of which are designed to show Maddie who’s boss.

First, though, we have to deal with the crux of the problem. By this I assume she means Maddie’s innate stubbornness. So her next words catch me totally unawares.

‘The real problem,’ the trainer says, ‘is that your dog doesn’t think she’s a dog.’

She delivers this line—which is naturally a joke—with a deadpan expression. I giggle but the dog trainer maintains an air of calm patience that suggests she’s waiting for her words to sink in. Slowly, I try to digest the news: Maddie’s disobedience is symptomatic of a deeper malaise. Her syndrome sounds shocking, I’ve never heard of dogs not
knowing they’re dogs. (Surely even mule-headed Maddie was born with that much basic knowledge?) But my pup is apparently so maladjusted she doesn’t even know what she is. Not even pubescent yet, she’s already going through an identity crisis.

Sensing my panic, the
prof
quickly explains that actually this is very common in Paris. How can dogs know they’re dogs if they don’t lead doggie lives? If they eat in restaurants and lie on chaise longues? They think they’re human (of course). Equal to their masters. They think they can do whatever you do and feel outraged when you say they can’t. I stare at my pea-brained mutt, suddenly sorry for her. How should I break the bad news? With stick figure illustrations of four-legged and two-legged creatures? A lesson in Darwinism? According to the dog teacher, a few firm rules will force the penny floating in the dim void of Maddie’s mind to drop. She starts scribbling on a pad of paper.

It goes without saying this is a very different sort of dog training lesson to the one I’d been expecting. The
prof
isn’t at all interested in getting me to parade in circles with Maddie, teaching me to teach her to sit, walk and stay. The session has taken a surreal twist. The trainer has turned into a shrink. The question is, who’s on the couch?

Initially it had appeared to be Maddie, which seems only fair. (After all, you have to be pretty screwed up not to even know your own species.) But now I’m not so sure. The
prof
questions me in the sort of careful, soothing manner which indicates my answers might be significant.

‘How did you feel, Madame, when Maddie refused to obey you in front of all those people at Palais Royal?’

The answer is so obvious I feel like shouting it.

‘Humiliated. Furious.’

‘And do you think Maddie understood you were angry?’

It’s difficult to believe this conversation is taking place in my lounge room. The urge to laugh is almost overwhelming but the
prof
is so kind, I don’t wish to offend her.

‘I guess.’

She nods knowingly. ‘So you see, Madame, that’s the problem. She knew she’d won.’

Two hours with the dog trainer turn out to be a lesson in canine psychology. Crazy though the whole session sounds, within a couple of weeks Maddie has undergone a metamorphosis. Although still stubborn, she seems to have accepted her place in the animal kingdom. All it takes is a few firm rules such as never allowing her up on the sofa, not making a fuss of her when I walk in the door and not showing my anger when she disobeys me. It’s such a success I give the number to Alicia. Lou-Lou, the ultimate deluded Parisian dog (who probably thinks she’s Coco Chanel reincarnated or the heir to the English throne), starts seeing the shrink.

In time, I grow skilful at avoiding busy bodies in the street. Maddie even begins to pay dividends as a catalyst for social encounters of a more positive kind. The terraced lawns at Les Halles are about the only area within walking distance from our apartment where dogs are allowed to run off the lead and gradually I get to know the local dog-owners. There’s Guy, a fun English dancer with the famous Lido cabaret who walks Caspar, another Westie. Then there’s the Chilean restaurateur with Otis, a silky Afghan with a leopard print scarf knotted around her head who does ads and has an agent. One woman has four French bulldogs; a gay couple has five meticulously brushed beige pugs. Probably half the dog-owners I see regularly are elderly women. Many of them are sweet, slightly mad old ladies who love chatting about the ail
ments of their
petit trésor
who’s invariably got eczema or a funny tummy or is on anti-depressants. (My vet once suggested anti-depressants for Maddie when she sulked for days after we returned from two weeks in the country.)

These people represent an interesting cross-section of Parisian life and they also reveal something about Paris. Although to outsiders it can look as though dogs are merely fashion accessories here, the explanation for the high canine population is more elemental. According to a 1999 census carried out by France’s bureau of statistics, Insee, more than half of Paris homes are single-person households. There is no culture of flat-sharing in this country. And now I understand why the dog trainer was so familiar with Maddie’s syndrome, what lies behind all this silly pampering. Quite simply, many Parisians are lonely. They don’t treat their dogs like dogs because they don’t see them as mere pets. In a city where canines can accompany you to the hairdresser or even to the doctor, a dog is like family and it becomes a way of life.

The Marie Poirier hair salon sits on a stately boulevard in the 17th
arrondissement
. I’ve come here to write a story about this renowned boutique, which also dabbles in fashion—and for an appointment. Inside, the walls are covered in photos of famous faces who’ve sought Poirier’s scissor skills—everyone from Sophia Loren to Christophe Lambert. Marie Poirier shows me her latest winter collection. ‘We’re doing lots of leather this season,’ she explains. She pulls out a wee cashmere coat, trailing a price tag marked F3,050—about $850. ‘Also more cashmere, and, of course, lots of hoods. Colours are soft—grey, beige and brown.’

Clients with beautifully buffed nails and perfect hairdos
swan about the boutique, lolling in low leather armchairs as they wait to be shampooed and snipped. One of them, Chanel, a glam young thing with fine features, trots over to model a two-toned reversible jacket. ‘All my clothes fit close to the body,’ explains Poirier, tying the hood under Chanel’s chin.

The scene resembles many fashionable Paris boutiques except for one glaring distinction: the clients here are canine. Poirier is a
coiffeuse
and accessories designer for dogs, a
styliste pour chiens.
Chanel is a Shih tzu, a dainty breed hailing from China. It is Maddie who’s the customer, not me.

For months, I’d refused to buckle to the pressure. I’d resolutely resisted indulging in any bizarre behaviour which might be construed as pampering. But Paris is a powerful force. Lately I’ve begun to feel ashamed. At ten months, my pup looks as though she’s put her paw in an electrical socket. Her fur is filthy grey and greasy to touch. Increasingly, the first question asked by strangers is not ‘what’s her name?’ but rather ‘what breed is she?’ (if indeed she is any at all, they imply). All that pedigree I paid for is wasted on me. Maintaining your dog’s appearance is just as important as your own upkeep in this city and even the fishmonger on Rue Montorgueil—who keeps a photo of his Westie in his shirt pocket—despairs at me. ‘
Oh la-la!
’ he exclaims looking at Maddie when I go to buy fish one morning. The situation must be dire, judging from the draconian measures he recommends: no less than a shampoo
bombe
to whiten her fur, followed by a full body
épilation
, which means waxing. (Later I discover that in this context
épilation
means plucking fur with a fine comb, which is the recommended method of grooming West Highland terriers.)

An attractive, charming blonde with not a wisp of dog hair soiling her black trouser suit, Marie Poirier hit national headlines in 1987 when she started snipping Yorkshire terriers. France’s pedigree associations were outraged, arguing that the breed traditionally wears its hair long. But dog-owners were delighted with the clipped cut which meant at last their pets had eyes. The style made it into French fashion magazines, which dubbed it the New Look. Now, Poirier’s five thousand clients span a wide range of breeds. Some of them jet all the way from Nice and St-Tropez for an appointment. The salon treats pooches like people, she explains. Individual characteristics such as being nervous of hair dryers, prone to biting or sensitive to certain products, are recorded on computer.

The appearance of Christine, an officious assistant with that artificial coppery hair, signals it’s Maddie’s turn on the beauty bench. I am shown a style book featuring photos of West Highland terriers with worryingly high hairdos. Beneath a close-up of a puffy head is the description ‘chrysanthemum’ another shot indicates ‘
la robe
’ meaning the coat, which is left long so that it forms a skirt beneath the body. Nervously, I declare a preference for a more unkempt look. No long skirts, no chrysanthemums. Just a regular canine cut, please. Christine, the specialist in West Highland terriers, eyes me pityingly.