In the late summer of 1993, Mrs. Marilyn Harris called me unexpectedly to tell me that she and her husband, Gordon, had “discovered” the very dog for me. The call was unexpected first because Marilyn and I, although sympathetic to one another, were not in the habit of calling one another, except perhaps to arrange a social engagement or consult upon some legal matter; and second, to my mind I was not even in the market to buy a dog. As it turned out, however, Marilyn's call was more than fortuitous, and to a degree she initiated a considerable change in my life.
Naturally, I inquired of Marilyn about the breed she had in mind, to which she replied “French Bulldog”, to which I replied, “What is a French Bulldog?” Following, I suppose, some description of the dog's general characteristics, Marilyn proceeded to invite me to visit the local breeder (Dr. Dorit Fischler) for a closer examination. While I advised that I would in fact do that, I had no intention of looking into the matter immediately, since I was about to head for Cape Cod for my (then) annual pilgrimage, and I hardly needed to be strapped with a puppy.
On my return from the Cape, I recalled my previous conversation with Marilyn, and I called her again to get the particulars of the breeder's location. I then made contact with the breeder, and set up an appointment. The first time I visited Dorit at her house on Hwy. 16 three kilometres outside Almonte, I believe it was a noon-hour during the week. Upon arriving at her secluded country residence, I was greeted by numerous very odd looking small dogs of equally many different colours. In addition to their most unusual appearance, they also made odd sounds, some of which could pass as an attempt at barking, but the majority of which noises parallelled the grunts and snorts of a pig. While Dorit had a goodly number of dogs, only a few were for sale (the rest were for breeding). My choice, I recall, was pretty much limited to two, unless I was prepared to take a pet which was no longer a puppy. Of the two from which I could choose, there was clearly only one that I preferred. In any event, that was only my first visit, and I really had not even determined that I wanted any dog at all, much less that one. So I left, promising to “think about it” and return later for another look. Apart from the dog, I might add, one of the other things to “think about” was the price, a wholopping $1,500, which to date I considered to be out of my league, at least in the dog department.
Today, I went to look at French Bulldog puppies. They've very expensive ($1,500), and the breeder (Dr. Dorit Fischler) says the vet bills can also be high. Nonetheless, it was good to see the little creatures. But I highly doubt that I would succumb to dog ownership. September 27, 1993.
The next time I returned, I focussed in on the little puppy which had interested me the first visit. Dorit, the puppy and I sat on the edge of her porch, letting the puppy run about, playing with him, discussing more details about the care of this breed, etc. Whether I decided then and there, or whether I called Dorit later to advise her of my decision, I do not recall. But I do remember returning one wet Saturday morning (October 2, 1996) to pick up my new little pet, "Belboulecan Chanson de ma Vie", whose call name I gave as “Monroe” after Marilyn (it was really her idea, I confess). I was totally unprepared for this acquisition. There I was expecting to greet an old and learned friend, who would charmingly accompany me upon my customary Saturday morning errands; and I had not a thing to deal with what I actually had, namely a small, shivering but very enthusiastic and licking ball of flesh and fluff, who would no sooner sit still beside me for more than thirty seconds, than he would think of not attempting to climb onto my lap and over my arms while I attempted to drive us home. Then, I realized, I had to go on something which amounted to a madman's shopping spree to obtain the stuff he needed: a bed (we would need a wicker basket and proper pillow - and we'd need three of them - one for the house, one for the office, and one for the condo); bones, toys, food and water dishes (three of everything!); and some nice cages to keep him in until he was “trained” (I hadn't even begun to think about that one!); and of course food and cookies; and lastly a carrying case for those times when he was in the car, between destinations. The first few hours together that fateful Saturday morning went by pretty quickly, and not surprisingly I had totally abandoned the idea of doing any of my other usual Saturday chores; and the idea of going to Ottawa was right out! So we spent our first evening at home together, doing what you might expect. However, the evening was not without its “moments”, as one might say. Cultivating the idea that “they never mess in their own backyard”, I decided it would be quite satisfactory for me to have the little beast sleep in my bed with me, and I would simply get up during the night from time to time to take him out for a pee. So, while I undressed myself in preparation for a cozy nap, he waited patiently at my feet, watching my every move. Then I picked up the little darling and deposited him gently on the fluffy, clean and white duvet, whereupon he trotted gingerly up to the head of the bed, onto a pillow and peed on it!
Naturally, I inquired of Marilyn about the breed she had in mind, to which she replied “French Bulldog”, to which I replied, “What is a French Bulldog?” Following, I suppose, some description of the dog's general characteristics, Marilyn proceeded to invite me to visit the local breeder (Dr. Dorit Fischler) for a closer examination. While I advised that I would in fact do that, I had no intention of looking into the matter immediately, since I was about to head for Cape Cod for my (then) annual pilgrimage, and I hardly needed to be strapped with a puppy.
On my return from the Cape, I recalled my previous conversation with Marilyn, and I called her again to get the particulars of the breeder's location. I then made contact with the breeder, and set up an appointment. The first time I visited Dorit at her house on Hwy. 16 three kilometres outside Almonte, I believe it was a noon-hour during the week. Upon arriving at her secluded country residence, I was greeted by numerous very odd looking small dogs of equally many different colours. In addition to their most unusual appearance, they also made odd sounds, some of which could pass as an attempt at barking, but the majority of which noises parallelled the grunts and snorts of a pig. While Dorit had a goodly number of dogs, only a few were for sale (the rest were for breeding). My choice, I recall, was pretty much limited to two, unless I was prepared to take a pet which was no longer a puppy. Of the two from which I could choose, there was clearly only one that I preferred. In any event, that was only my first visit, and I really had not even determined that I wanted any dog at all, much less that one. So I left, promising to “think about it” and return later for another look. Apart from the dog, I might add, one of the other things to “think about” was the price, a wholopping $1,500, which to date I considered to be out of my league, at least in the dog department.
Today, I went to look at French Bulldog puppies. They've very expensive ($1,500), and the breeder (Dr. Dorit Fischler) says the vet bills can also be high. Nonetheless, it was good to see the little creatures. But I highly doubt that I would succumb to dog ownership. September 27, 1993.
The next time I returned, I focussed in on the little puppy which had interested me the first visit. Dorit, the puppy and I sat on the edge of her porch, letting the puppy run about, playing with him, discussing more details about the care of this breed, etc. Whether I decided then and there, or whether I called Dorit later to advise her of my decision, I do not recall. But I do remember returning one wet Saturday morning (October 2, 1996) to pick up my new little pet, "Belboulecan Chanson de ma Vie", whose call name I gave as “Monroe” after Marilyn (it was really her idea, I confess). I was totally unprepared for this acquisition. There I was expecting to greet an old and learned friend, who would charmingly accompany me upon my customary Saturday morning errands; and I had not a thing to deal with what I actually had, namely a small, shivering but very enthusiastic and licking ball of flesh and fluff, who would no sooner sit still beside me for more than thirty seconds, than he would think of not attempting to climb onto my lap and over my arms while I attempted to drive us home. Then, I realized, I had to go on something which amounted to a madman's shopping spree to obtain the stuff he needed: a bed (we would need a wicker basket and proper pillow - and we'd need three of them - one for the house, one for the office, and one for the condo); bones, toys, food and water dishes (three of everything!); and some nice cages to keep him in until he was “trained” (I hadn't even begun to think about that one!); and of course food and cookies; and lastly a carrying case for those times when he was in the car, between destinations. The first few hours together that fateful Saturday morning went by pretty quickly, and not surprisingly I had totally abandoned the idea of doing any of my other usual Saturday chores; and the idea of going to Ottawa was right out! So we spent our first evening at home together, doing what you might expect. However, the evening was not without its “moments”, as one might say. Cultivating the idea that “they never mess in their own backyard”, I decided it would be quite satisfactory for me to have the little beast sleep in my bed with me, and I would simply get up during the night from time to time to take him out for a pee. So, while I undressed myself in preparation for a cozy nap, he waited patiently at my feet, watching my every move. Then I picked up the little darling and deposited him gently on the fluffy, clean and white duvet, whereupon he trotted gingerly up to the head of the bed, onto a pillow and peed on it!
I couldn't contain myself. It was bad enough I had entirely altered my day to satisfy his needs; that I had ignored all my habitual duties and undertakings. But now, my efforts at providing clean laundry and all the time I had dedicated to that thankless task were reduced to total waste. I picked the little devil up by the neck folds (which I had observed Dorit doing when handling the puppies), stomped downstairs, and deposited him on the porch step outside the front door, not really giving a damn whether he walked off or someone else took him. Then I began the infuriating task of stripping the entire bed, right down to the mattress cover, including not only the duvet cover but the duvet itself. Having deposited that pile of textile in the washer, I then had to go about remaking the bed with what available resources I had. And then and only then did I check to see if Monroe was still at the front door. He was. And I suppose I was glad that he was.
The next three days were really more of the same, to a lesser degree. I had no idea that caring for apuppywassodemandingandinhibiting. IfeltworsethanIdidwhenIwasengagedtobemarried! I feared this situation would never improve. There were the usual “accidents” at the house and office, and I felt that I punctuated my life with constant visits to the great outdoors, not only during normal waking hours, but throughout the night. I was at my wit's end.
Fortunately, Dorit had been kind enough to include in her contract with me that I had 14 days in which to reconsider, and if I wished to return the pet, there was an administration fee of $100 only. On Wednesday, following the purchase of the dog on the previous Saturday, I called Dorit to advise her I would like to return the dog. That evening, I arrived once again at her residence, complete not only with Monroe, but also with all the other bowls, toys, cages and beds, which I told her she could keep since I would never have need for such things again. I felt bad about the affair, but I knew I was making the right decision. The drive home, down the dark and lonely laneway from the house to the highway, was not without its emotion, but I was confident in the correctness of my decision. I simply was not in a position to have a dog.
The next three days were really more of the same, to a lesser degree. I had no idea that caring for apuppywassodemandingandinhibiting. IfeltworsethanIdidwhenIwasengagedtobemarried! I feared this situation would never improve. There were the usual “accidents” at the house and office, and I felt that I punctuated my life with constant visits to the great outdoors, not only during normal waking hours, but throughout the night. I was at my wit's end.
Fortunately, Dorit had been kind enough to include in her contract with me that I had 14 days in which to reconsider, and if I wished to return the pet, there was an administration fee of $100 only. On Wednesday, following the purchase of the dog on the previous Saturday, I called Dorit to advise her I would like to return the dog. That evening, I arrived once again at her residence, complete not only with Monroe, but also with all the other bowls, toys, cages and beds, which I told her she could keep since I would never have need for such things again. I felt bad about the affair, but I knew I was making the right decision. The drive home, down the dark and lonely laneway from the house to the highway, was not without its emotion, but I was confident in the correctness of my decision. I simply was not in a position to have a dog.
I made it through Thursday all-right. By Friday, things were a bit gloomier. I decided to visit Gord and Marilyn Harris to tell them of my decision, since of course they had a right to know. I dropped by their home after work. We had a drink together, but I was not really interested in discussing the matter too much, so I left and went home. There, in my kitchen, I poured myself another drink and stared at the rug on the floor, my mind flashing with images of that little fawn dog with the black mask. I guess I had another drink, and then things started happening. I wanted him back! I was positive! I called Dorit to tell her. She sounded more than unimpressed. In fact, she said I couldn't have him back, unless I had someone who would help me from time to time in caring for the dog. I assured her that this was no problem at all, since my sister (Lindy) would be more than willing to take care of Monroe occasionally. This bald assertion was, however, not sufficient assurance for Dorit. She would have to speak to Lindy. And soon, because Dorit was leaving for Florida tomorrow morning!
I called Lindy. The line was busy. I called my mother. The line was busy. I called the operator and told her that I had an emergency and that she had to connect me with my sister. Which she did. When Lindy came on the line, I asked, “Were you talking with mommy?”, which she said she had been. They could talk for hours! And I didn't have the time or patience tonight! When I told Lindy what was required, she said, “Well, Billy, the only reason I would take care of the dog is so I don't have to buy one for the girls!”, which I explained to Lindy was entirely legitimate since, first, the dog wouldn't know the difference; and, second, it would fulfill the requirements of St. Maj. Fischler.
Lindy then undertook to call Dorit. And within 15 minutes, Dorit called me back and I was on my way into the dark and stormy night to pick up my little friend, who has been with me to this day.
Monroe has, in fairness, gone on to become a bit of a celebrity in Almonte. He has been photographed or mentioned by name at least three times in The Almonte Gazette, and there are many people who know Monroe's name without even knowing my own. He is very popular with the young children, and he is a constant amusement for all but one of my Clients (a lady who is afraid of small dogs). Equally important to me is that my great friend, Denis, is extremely fond of Monroe; and thanks to Denis, Monroe has an entirely different weekend pattern of very early morning walks and eliminations, in addition to extremely satisfying massage and hide-'n-seek games at the condo.
I called Lindy. The line was busy. I called my mother. The line was busy. I called the operator and told her that I had an emergency and that she had to connect me with my sister. Which she did. When Lindy came on the line, I asked, “Were you talking with mommy?”, which she said she had been. They could talk for hours! And I didn't have the time or patience tonight! When I told Lindy what was required, she said, “Well, Billy, the only reason I would take care of the dog is so I don't have to buy one for the girls!”, which I explained to Lindy was entirely legitimate since, first, the dog wouldn't know the difference; and, second, it would fulfill the requirements of St. Maj. Fischler.
Lindy then undertook to call Dorit. And within 15 minutes, Dorit called me back and I was on my way into the dark and stormy night to pick up my little friend, who has been with me to this day.
Monroe has, in fairness, gone on to become a bit of a celebrity in Almonte. He has been photographed or mentioned by name at least three times in The Almonte Gazette, and there are many people who know Monroe's name without even knowing my own. He is very popular with the young children, and he is a constant amusement for all but one of my Clients (a lady who is afraid of small dogs). Equally important to me is that my great friend, Denis, is extremely fond of Monroe; and thanks to Denis, Monroe has an entirely different weekend pattern of very early morning walks and eliminations, in addition to extremely satisfying massage and hide-'n-seek games at the condo.
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