Hitting Dogs

Monday evening, August 4, 2014

     Emile, my elderly neighbor with the Clumber Spaniel, hits him with his crutch, which is made of aluminum and plastic.  "Arrêt!  Arrêt!", he shouts at him, while striking his nearest flank with the crutch.  The dog only howls in pain and barks so long as Beau is in sight.

     The couple down the way, who live in the low-income housing development, have a black French bulldog --which is rather large for the breed--who also can't stand other dogs.  This evening, walking Beau, the dog became agitated and jerked at his mistress' leash.  Out came her husband, who grabbed the dog's leash from his wife's hands with one hand.  With his carpet slipper in the other hand, he began smacking the animal with it, repeatedly, over and over again, as the dog retreated into the apartment.

     The dogs here so dislike their canine brethren, it's almost a joke.

     The other day, passing by l'Impasse de Saint Gerôme, a little street in the oldest part of town, a long-haired blonde dachshund attacked Beau, followed by a Cairn Terrier across the way, the two of them ganging up on my puppy.  I regret to say that I had to kick the dachshund --the worst offender-- in the flank before it desisted.  I expected the owner, who quickly emerged --a tall, slender, middle-aged man-- to rail at me for my barbarism.

     "He's awful!  Come here!" he shouted at the dog, who approaching the threshold of the house, the owner dragged inside.

     I've already written of Clovis, the German shepherd whose fangs augur no good, and his fluffy follower, who tries to match Clovis' aggression.  I've written of dogs chained, and  I've written of dogs who roam wild and defecate everywhere.  I have not yet written, but I announce now, that there are owners here who take their dogs out to relieve themselves and do not bother to pick up their turds.

     The only way I can explain why the dogs are the way they are is their owners; and the only way I can explain why the owners behave as they do is to chalk it up to what I would call a "barnyard mentality".

     France's roots are agricultural; animals only became pets in the late 19th century, and only for the privileged classes.  In l'Aude, which is primarily agricultural, there is probably more of a rural mentality than in many other places in France.  Along that line of thinking, a dog is not to be shown the consideration a human might be accorded.   There's no anthropomorphizing a dog, so it's unnecessary to consider whether "If it's unethical and cruel to kick a crying baby, is it unethical and cruel to kick a howling dog?"

     In my father's hamlet in Galicia, the cows lived in the house; that is to say half the toilet was above the barn, the other half in the straw below.  Walking from where you slept to where the cows slept was a matter of a few footsteps.  I see in the actions of many of the dog-owning Caunois a similar attitude to that my grandparents would have had towards their animals.  The animals --were they cows or dogs, were there to work, to perform a function, to earn their keep.  There was no excusing a failure to perform their function: it was too expensive to keep a non-productive animal.

     Similarly, dogs here are supposed to be guard dogs, not pets. When the door bell rings and Beau barks and jumps up, inevitably my visitor says, "Ah, he's protecting you, like a good dog."  At puppy school, Beau and I learned that dogs are supposed to learn to go to the door with you, sit and not jump on the visitor.

     In contrast with Manhattan --where everyone tells you how your dog should behave and your dog picks up the vibe-- Caunes is the equivalent of Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale for Beau.  Despite his failings in my eyes --he barks too much, he gets too excited when someone comes to the door, he's sometimes over-excited-- Beau is the best behaved dog for miles around.

      --Il est sage!  ("He's well-behaved."), people are always telling me.  "He's well-trained", people say, admiringly, when, in response to my command (and a treat in my hand), Beau sits, then drops all four paws on the floor.

     However, out in the countryside with me, the smells all around excite him and he bounds like a March hare.  Still, and to his credit-- he looks at the world with equanimity, if you will, and sees little to threaten him in it --although he has developed a great respect for cats.

     In Caunes, they roam freely, and are of all breeds: black Persians, calicos, tabbies.  Like the dogs, they are permitted their liberty.  And I am getting to be more fond of them than of Caunes' dogs: they never lose their cool, even in front of a gamboling puppy.