I was supposed to get back from France today. Unfortunately, my client’s situation changed. But that’s a risk I run as an international dog sitter.
I haven’t been in the business long; in fact, this was going to be my first gig. In mid-June, my Dad's friend Frank forwarded me an email from his stepdaughter who lives in France. Suzy had emailed everyone she knows, asking if anyone wanted a free apartment for a few weeks in downtown Toulouse, an 18th century town near the Pyrenees. The catch? The occupier had to dog sit for River, her 13-year old black lab, whose age prevented him from accompanying Suzy on a two week hiking trip in the aforementioned mountains.
“Hey, Mr. Author,” Frank wrote. “Why don’t you go bunker down in France for two weeks and knock out your screenplay? All you’d have to do is walk the dog a couple of times a day and drink French wine at night.” Oh, sure, I’ll just
drop everything and jet over to France for two weeks. Like that’s going to happen. But then, as I sat un-showered in my boxers at 3pm on a school day, I began to reconsider.
Why
wouldn’t I do it?
It didn't take long as a fulltime writer to discover that I have the attention span of a crow trapped in a room filled with disco balls. TV, cell phone, “Hiya, Mr. Adelphia Cable Guy working next door” – distractions lurk in every direction. Burying myself in a city where I know no one and can speak to no one seemed like an easy way to get work done without addressing my lack of self-discipline. Oh yeah, and Toulouse is supposed to be a charming little city.
There were some good reasons for not going, starting with the fact that I had never heard of Toulouse, let alone yearned to visit. Logistical problems loomed, as it seemed I was not the only Californian trying to fly to Europe in August; exorbitant airfares would require me to cash in 100K cherished frequent flier miles (Jamo doesn’t do “coach” overseas). Oh, and then there was the whole, “Who goes to France to dog sit?” thing.
Which is what sealed the deal. Nobody flies to France – or any other place, for that matter – to watch a dog he’s never even met. This kind of shit doesn’t happen to normal people.
“Of course you are,” my old roommate Steve replied when hearing of my trip. Because that’s how I roll, mes amis. “Do you speak any French?”
Ah, zee million dollair question (question)! At my parents’ insistence I took French in 7th and 8th grade – in 1982 Rich and Loretta didn’t foresee Spanish becoming a growth language in this country – and I still recall more words en Francais than I do in German, which I “studied” for three semesters in college. But, to answer the question, non, je ne parle pas Francais. So, I ran out and bought a crash course on CD.
As I listened, many language-related issues popped into my tete. What if River had forgotten how to speak English? Even worse, what if he understands English, but, like so many Frenchmen,
refuses to speak it just so he can extract a sick pleasure from my flailings? He probably now prefers being called, “Reev-air.” Maybe I could get away with giving him commands in French-accented English, a la “seet.” Rattled, I rested all my faith in the universal truth that every dog in the world understands the words “Do you want to go outside?” as long as they are spoken in that rapid, crazy, baby talk way. Given two weeks together, I relished the challenge of trying to teach this 13-year old Lab un nouveau artifice. My mind raced with the possibilities of using River as a
foreign chick magnet: “Oui, il est mon chien.” (Note to self: learn how to say, “Would you like to see where he sleeps?”)
I started to get pretty excited about the trip. I learned from a helpful French waiter at an LA restaurant that I’d be visiting Tuh-looze, not Tuh-loose, as I had been saying. Checking it out online, I noticed that the city looks very cobblestoney, and I imagined The Riv – as I had nicknamed him – and I strolling its 300-year old streets in our matching berets. It was going to be one heck of a working vacation.
And then I got the email: River died.
The poor old guy conked out three weeks before I was due to arrive. Suzy said he went quickly, and mentioned that just a few days beforehand he had joyously fished a baguette out of a lake and then buried it on shore. This image broke my heart; ah, the times we would have had!
But my sadness gave way to an overwhelming sense of relief. What would I have done if River had died on my watch? Mon Dieu! I doubt my English-French dictionary contains help for finding a veterinarian or the phrase for, “I swear I did not kill the dog.” I cannot even imagine what I would have said to Suzy upon her return, what words of solace I could have provided.
In her email, Suzy said she hoped I’d still take advantage of the free apartment, since she was going ahead with the two-week hike. For me, though, River’s death robbed my trip of its spirit. Instead of living the unlikely adventure of writing a screenplay while dog sitting in an 18th century town in the south of France, I would have been a linguistically challenged, solo tourist aimlessly shuffling through a place I had no desire to visit in the first place. So, I declined her kind offer.
And on Saturday night – what would have been the last night of my trip to Toulouse – I raised a glass of Courvoisier and toasted River. Dying in the south of France while on a long vacation with the girl you love – tres bien, mon frere.
