|Georges did not have the “handle” tail, his was half the normal size which made it impossible to pull him out of the holes he dug all over our garden — that and his growls of protest whenever anyone tried to tell him not to do something.|
The other day I was talking with one of my friends and, inevitably, our conversation turned to a subject we often address: devil dogs. She has one; we had one.
It occurred to me at that moment that I think I have never told you about Georges.
Georges was the worst dog we have never owned, well that’s not entirely true. When we married, My-Reason-For-Living-In-France had a golden cocker spaniel that was much worse. He was 14 at the time and lived until 19 — that shows you how mean he was. Of course I liked him; I like all dogs, but he didn’t steal my heart the way Georges did.
Back to Georges. We found him wandering around a parking lot next to a marina in Brittany where MRFLIF kept his boat. He was small and unbelievably cute in the way only wire-haired fox terrier puppies can be. I said to MRFLIF, “he’s lost. We have to take him with us, now.” He said, “non.” I said, I’ll make a deal with you. We come back in 30 minutes and if he’s still here, we at least try to find his owners.
I believed our veterinarian to be wrong on that count. Georges was too sweet, too funny, just plain too adorable to be difficult. I was wrong. Georges also happened to be extremely intelligent thus reading my intentions early on and realizing with little effort he would be the one controlling our relationship. When he was bad, and he was often very, very bad, he would climb up on my lap, look in my eyes and somehow — or at least that’s how I read it — manage to look pitiful. It was as if he were saying, “the devil made me do it.”
|This about sums it up.|
He would dig out of the garden and Macha, our German shepherd who only lived to please, would follow which resulted in her being kicked by a horse. Georges was not. He dug holes all over the garden in search of the ever illusive moles that so fascinated him. He just generally did whatever struck his fancy.
After a few years with Georges and his antics, MRFLIF and I decided the people who left him on the shores of the Atlantic in Brittany probably barely slowed down when they tossed him out of their car.
Georges had a philosophy of life that was all about Georges. He, unlike our German shepherds and my friend’s golden retriever who only wish to make us happy, had a “what can you do for me?” attitude. And, I think I can say in all honesty I pretty much fulfilled his expectations.
Sometimes it’s difficult not to fall in love with bad boys.