Travels With Pets

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It’s Sunday. After D-Day’s seriousness, we need a break. Let’s smile a bit. ๐Ÿ™‚

My mother-in-law loves to declare, “The French are so civilised. They love their dogs.” Indeed we notice there is much less fuss about our four legged friends there than we often see towards dogs in Britain and America.

“No Dogs Allowed” is a common sign in the U.S. and U.K. Even in rural areas in the U.S. – where there is not a person anywhere around for miles – often there’s that threatening sign, “Pets must be on a leash.” We know some dog owners can be irresponsible, but that’s the owner’s fault, not the dog’s.

Try scoping out a vacation home rental in the U.S. and asking the owner if you may bring your dog? Most will react to you as if you are carrying smallpox. In comparison, in France, while of course you do have to check in advance, and you may have to pay a little extra for the cleaning fee, holiday home owners have allowed our dog to stay without batting an eye.

Dino, in our holiday home in France, summer 2011. [Photo by me.]
Dino, in our holiday home in France, summer 2011. [Photo by me.]

In France, pets are also generally allowed in restaurants and eateries. So Dino, our springador (who stays with my in-laws in London when we’re in America), gets to join us. He curls up under our table, usually at my feet (I keep him on a lead, of course; he is a dog), and I pass him some morsels from my plate.

When he’s not partaking in the meal, he pretty much just lies there and observes the passing French scene. Or he snoozes. Often there are well-behaved French dogs at other tables. Regularly, a staffer, unprompted, has brought out a bowl of water for him.

Yes, so “civilised.” Or maybe simply much less uptight is a better description. In any case, I hate to admit it when my mother-in-law makes a good point. ๐Ÿ˜‰

* * *

Dino’s a conversational ice breaker in public too. Other people with dogs chat with you as another dog-owner. In France, usually it’s a surprise when someone discovers you’re a foreigner: if they don’t hear you speaking English (or bad French), they assume you are French if they see you accompanied by a dog.

I also remember once on a beach tossing stones for Dino to chase into the surf (he never catches them), and seeing out of the corner of my eye a group of young teens watching him running into the water and then back toward me repeatedly. (If I didn’t stop, he’d play that game until he would collapse from exhaustion.) Obviously hearing my speaking English to my wife as she sat a distance away, one lad approached and asked me in English, “May I pet your dog, sir?” Dino behaved like a star and clearly loved the attention.

Dino, on a French beach, summer 2011. [Photo by me.]
Dino, on a French beach, summer 2011. [Photo by me.]

Our pal’s biggest “doggie quirk,” however, is for some reason he does not like “high visibility” jackets. That, as you might imagine, can be a rather awkward issue in certain official situations.

Once, going to France, we were making our way through passport control heading to the Channel Tunnel’s car train. From the car, dutifully at the window I handed over our passports to the French border officer sitting in his booth. (French passport control is in England, so there is no need to deal with it as you drive off; and British passport control inbound is in France similarly pre-loading. As much as Americans hear Britain and France “hate” each other, and their discord is a source for humor, their two governments actually do work together well.)

Seeing my U.S. passport mixed in with the rest of our car’s U.K. ones, the officer greeted me pleasantly. But in the back of our Volvo estate, quiet most of the time and so well-behaved there I often forget he’s lying back there, Dino unexpectedly pressed his nose to the side window and suddenly started barking all bl-ody murder at the officer. We couldn’t get him to pipe down. I think at one point he even spun around in a 360 degree circle.

Uh, I’m thinking, this is not good. After a few seconds of such foreign canine carrying on, the officer smiled wryly at me and remarked in perfect English tinged with an obvious French accent, “Ah, but I see he doesn’t like policemen?”

I tried to make light of the whole thing, and replied that he just doesn’t like those jackets.

He handed me back the passports. We were all allowed into the country….

* * *

To take your dog back into the U.K., you have to bring him to a vet within a 48 hour window prior to travel to the U.K. The vet makes sure your dog takes a worming tablet and stamps his U.K. “pet passport” for re-entry on the British side. It’s a bit of a hassle: you have to find a vet and make an appointment that falls within that tight window. But most French vets within reach of the ferries and Chunnel seem to know “the British returning to the U.K. with their dogs” pet drill by now.

Dino's pet passport. Yes, really. [Photo by me, 2010.]
Dino’s pet passport. Yes, really. [Photo by me, 2010.]

On one visit, my wife went to give Dino the tablet. Despite repeated coaxing from her, as I recall he spat it out at least twice. He never does that; at home, he always takes what he’s given.

Watching, eventually the vet intervened. “You give it him, uh, the medication with the food?” he asked us in English. “Please, you allow me,” he smiled.

He took hold of Dino. He then opened Dino’s mouth and held it open with some secret vet trick. Finally, he shoved the pill down Dino’s gullet so far it seemed the vet had stuck his arm in all the way up to his elbow.

I know dogs don’t have facial expressions. Yet, afterwards, I swear Dino looked bemused. It was almost as if he was thinking, “Uh, what just happened?”

“There, it is finish,” the vet announced. “Ah, he’s a good doggie.” ๐Ÿ™‚

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