I was 35 years old and living with the “previous administration” of my life in the south of France when I got my first puppy.  Nearly a year earlier, my ex’s Yorkie had finally succumbed to death at the ripe old age of 19.  Shortly thereafter, we had adopted two kittens to keep the mice at bay – our heating room had become a regular Motel 6.   Lucky and Lucca were great kitties but they couldn’t play fetch or bark.  They did have a thing for running after me and racing up my body to perch on top of my head.  People were often astounded when I answered the front door wearing cats. 

The sheer size and somewhat remote location of our home and property surrounded by wild rosemary, lavender, vineyards and little else, made for equal parts eerily quiet existence and an open invitation for unwanted guests.  They generally came in the form of wild boars searching for truffles under the roots of ancient oak tress and hunters searching for the wild swine AND the truffles.  

Autumn nights were often reminiscent of the scene from “Dances With Wolves” as the bison pounded their way across the prairie.  The biggest difference of course, was that nothing about these stampedes got us anywhere near an Academy Award.  Even as I would walk down the sloping hills, pass the massive vegetable garden and saunter into the arms of the oak trees to find hunters with shotguns and yell them off the property (without cats on my head), nobody offered me a golden statuette.  It became an ongoing battle of wills between the hunters’ taunts and my frustration.  “We are not going to shoot your property” the hunters would say and then offer me a toothless grin.  The smell of their sweat mixed with recession proof alcohol made me want to vomit.  I would return to my house defeated.  The cats would barely pay attention.  Until the sound of gunshots would ring out and echo through the hills behind us and far beyond.

My ex and I decided we needed to get a dog with authority to deal with this problem and a Rottweiler was deemed the perfect match.  We researched breeders and found the guy who was considered to be the best in the business.  He was short with stubby fingers and a perpetually mis-shaven face and a brow that manufactured sweat beads on command. On top of all these charming attributes, he was the owner of an unusual stutter (in French, this is beyond comical). It was barely noticeable when we negotiated our deal.  He would drive me to the best breeder in France.

I endured a seven-hour drive with the most talked about man in guard dog training to go and help me pick my first puppy.  Nobody warned me that he was also the most talkative.  He ch-ch-chattered nonstop.  Th-th-th there and b-b-back.  With his hair challenged face and s-s-s-stuttt-air.  I have never witnessed anything like that before or since.  I don’t know that I will ever recover from that experience.  I’m  frightened of even hearing Morse code.  I relish the sound of silence.  Now you might better understand why I choose to carry Hungarian or Danish books and Chinese newspapers (always) when I travel through airports.  I’m afraid there is no shut off valve on some people’s mouths or worse, that their spigots have a constant drip that can’t be corrected.  I can only be taken hostage once.

This what -should- have- been -nice- but -was -turning- out -to- be -a nightmare drive might have been spectacular if a) I didn’t feel like I was in a getaway car with a dodgy version of Danny DeVito and b) I wasn’t half terrified at his fantasies of being a racecar driver with me as his passenger.  Did I mention that a van with dark tinted windows was his vehicle?  It must have slipped my mind.

The faster he drove, I started to wonder if  I might find myself being kidnapped and, um, thrown to the dogs so to speak.  The breeding compound was situated inland from Beziers, a coastal city that is part of the Languedoc region where people go for fresh mussels and wine, not Rottweilers. The further inland we went began to feel like the wilds of Viet Nam.  Lush and verdant with no signage whatsoever, I may as well have brought a machete to try to cut the humidity in the airconditionless van.  Or slit my throat and offer my tongue so this guy could finally be free to not only roam but also speak about the c-c-c- country.

We slashed through trees along the tiny, dusty dirt road and after what seemed like a rough number of bumpy miles, we arrived at an ominous looking set of heavily chained gates.  Several nondescript, cement buildings spaced about 50 yards apart from one another were set just far back enough from the entry to give whoever was in there a head start.  The buildings looked like safe houses. What was more unsettling were the several men of questionable breeding origin with beefy bodies and fat hands that greeted us.  They looked like they might be related to the hunters I knew in my yard.  There were four of them waiting to unlock the gates that welcomed me and my money in my quest to find the perfect dog to protect and defend me from people exactly like them.

To be continued.....

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