Travels With Happy

The French are extremely dog-friendly. It has been said that they are fonder of dogs than of people, including each other. But on my recent adventure through France, with my Yorkshire terrier, Happy, I would have to say, to my surprise, it was a tie: Most Frenchmen welcome guests in their country, and dogs. Either the populace has mellowed, or I have. Plus Happy’s sheer irresistibility must have won them over.

I must begin by apologizing for the cloying sweetness of his name, for which my daughter, as a little girl, was responsible, saying he made her happy. But he did seem to grow to fit the appellation, dancing in circles at the prospect of a meal or a walk, rejoicing at the sight of his kennel being pulled out along with my suitcase, proof that he wouldn’t be left behind.

Happy began his journey to France under my airplane seat, in the regulation-size kennel allowed by most carriers on domestic flights but rarely on international trips. Air France is an exception, the company’s affection for dogs extending to transporting them and letting you take them out of their confinement if no one is looking. We flew from Los Angeles to Paris--more than 11 hours--during which Happy made not a peep or a pee. A beast of incredible restraint. Though it’s hard to think of Happy as a beast, really, his comportment and nature being better than those of most people.

From Paris, we flew to Bordeaux, where, in the main square, he had his first carousel ride, on a dazzlingly mirrored rococo merry-go-round, astride a white horse that rose and fell to the pulse of the music.

Then, along with my other traveling companion, a fellow writer, we drove in a rented car to the Dordogne, an area of southwest France comparatively undiscovered by tourists, where the hills are lush, as are the farmers, who start their days with pastis. So the tractors have a tendency to weave on the roads.

We were fortunate to have been invited by friends. Few Americans have found the area and bought homes there, the majority of expatriates being Brits, many of whom have turned failed hotels into successful B&Bs;, and failed marriages into fresh menages in a new locale. One of the best of these B&Bs; is a place in Bertic Buree called Le Maine Foucaud, a remodeled 18th century farmhouse where feasts (foie gras to creme caramel, with local excellent wines, Monbazillac and Cognac) are served to residents as part of the pension plan, to outside guests for a reasonable fee, and to Happy gratis. A dog could get used to that.

And Happy did, thriving, running through the manicured gardens of our hostess, having a quiet loll in a hammock, enjoying what appeared to be a complete recovery from a recent kidney affliction, for which I carried a bag of liquid and needles to give him dialysis, and a little book of prayers that I wouldn’t have to. The vet had advised me to take him on a vacation--he had long been a traveling dog, going with me everywhere. But on my last trip to New York, I had left him with my son, who loved him, but isn’t me. Happy fell ill while I was gone; the vet explained that when elderly dogs are very attached to their owners, an absence can cause illness. So Happy came along to France.

He seemed restored by the peace of the green Perigord region, elated to be cavorting with the local dogs, and even perhaps up for a romance (he’d heard about the French). Our last night there, he was honored at a dinner at the Hotel de France in the village of Riberac, where a tapestried cushion was placed on a chair for him to sit on, and some special side dishes were served. The proprietor of the hotel, who also had Yorkies, had been gifted with a little book about Happy the year before, set at the Hotel Bel-Air, so Happy was considered a Hollywood celebrity. None of this had gone to the little dog’s head (including a stint on “Oprah”), but the part that sat on the cushion had to have felt elevated.

*

From Riberac, we drove through gently rolling countryside. Happy was traveling in the back seat, or rather on it, struggling to see out the window, to my resounding cries of “Happy, sit down!” to counter his tendency to upholstery-surf. He much preferred traveling in my arms, with his head hanging out the window, catching the breeze. But it was a long trip, and one had to stay alert, so we reminded ourselves that he was a dog and had to keep his place.

Though we had spent several days in the area that is known as the Dordogne, we had yet to see the river for which it is named. My eyes and spirit were thirsty for the sight of water, so we pulled in at a hotel called Le Manoir Belle Reve (both my writer friend and I being fans of Tennessee Williams and Blanche DuBois, whose ancestral dwelling place was named Belle Reve), parked the car and took Happy for a meditative stroll by the stream. Walking back through the lobby, we stopped for a brochure in case we ever wanted to return and stay. At the reception desk we were confronted by a steely-eyed, crossed-arms French version of Mrs. Danvers, who said icily, in English, “You want something?” Well, not anymore. Don’t ever go there.

But our souls were lifted, spirits and bodies restored by La Belle Etoile, an amazing, unpretentious little hotel in a comparatively tourist-free village, La Roque-Gageac. Even Frenchmen we were later to meet had never heard of the town, and I am somewhat reluctant to tell about it, it is so reasonable, delicious and unspoiled. Our room cornered the hotel, one window facing the river, for $52 a night for the two of us and Happy (some hotels charge a petit supplement for the chien). Dinner--the best magret de canard, an inspiringly greaseless and tasty breast of duck, in all of the Dordogne (which specializes in canard), smoked salmon appetizer, enough artfully presented vegetables to let Happy know he was, indeed, far from home and a choice of extravagant desserts--was $26 each, including wine. Practically worth spending the air fare to get there.

We found the hotel so comfortable in every sense that we used it for a headquarters, exploring the neighboring towns in the daytime, starting with Beynac and its great 13th century feudal castle. Happy found the tour a unique experience. In the past, he had visited many of the world’s finest museums, concert halls and galleries (where dogs were not permitted) inside a purse, automatically ducking down, without ever having been taught, born with the mentality of a stowaway. He seemed pleased to be out in the open, learning history.

Then we motored through the Loire Valley, where we spent an overpriced night in an overrated chateau (Chateau de Marcay), where Happy had to be content to dine on dog food since we could afford only an appetizer. The next day we paid a fleeting visit to Usse, the castle that inspired “Sleeping Beauty,” but not us, as they wouldn’t let Happy in. By this time, he had seemed so welcome everywhere that I’d neglected to hide him in my purse.

On to the best of the castles, Chateau de Chenonceau, which we visited with dog in arms (permitted), passing a man who held in his arms a black Labrador. We took a nap on the bank on the river Loire, Happy acting as pillow behind my head, his sturdy, warm little body supporting the curve of my neck. We had a fine dinner at Bon Laboureur et Chateau, a hotel recommended by Henry James, who usually knew what he was talking or writing about. Behind the hotel, Happy found a concealed garden, which he made his own in the way little male dogs will--but not until he’d smelled every flower, being as much aesthete as animal.

And then it was on to Paris.

There was dancing in the streets, mostly along the jampacked banks of the river and on the bridges of the Seine, it being the eve of Bastille Day. Happy tripped among the exuberant crowds, gingerly, managing to avoid being stomped on.

The next day he was not so lucky. We went very early to see the parade at the Rond Point des Champs-Elysees, by the Avenue Montaigne, and were immediately pushed behind barricades by intractable police, as if the revolution being celebrated were going to happen again. There was a show of air strength above our heads: The tricolor striped across the sky--jets, bombers, helicopters--while down below, on the Champs-Elysees was a parade I couldn’t see. An ambulance was parked on the sidewalk among the penned-in populace. I saw that Happy’s paw was bleeding, someone in the crush obviously having stepped on him. I begged a policeman to let us go back to our hotel, but he barred the way. “This is a celebration of the people!” cried one outraged Frenchman in his own language. “Why are we again being held prisoner?”

But the ambulance driver tended to Happy’s paw, and we eventually were released via a tunnel that led to the other side of the street. “I hate this day,” said the concierge at the Plaza Athenee, one of the world’s great luxury hotels, recommending that I spend the rest of it at the Musee Jacquemart-Andre, the only one open that day, and, he assured me, as fine as any in Paris; Jean Cocteau had pronounced the museum itself a masterpiece.

*

My writer friend by now had gone her own way, so it was Happy and me against the world, or, more aptly, the art world. The concierge had assured me dogs were permitted, so once again I had gone purseless, only to find at the entrance a red circle with a slash through its center, inside it, a dog. “Not even if I hold him?” I asked the girl at the desk, who shook her head and told me how desolee she was. (I must say, theirs is a really fine language. Anyone can be sorry.) But in the gift shop, I bought a splendid gardening bag with many side pockets and, in its center, covered by a dish towel depicting Notre Dame Cathedral, I stashed Happy. The desolated girl sold me a ticket to the museum, averting her eyes from the bag. So it was that he saw how the upper middle class lived in Paris in the 19th century. The museum--a mansion designed by the architect who had lost the contract for the Opera, whose brilliant revenge this was--had been donated to the state with its tapestries, furniture, sculpture and paintings intact.

Happy quickly adjusted to his new environs, both the bag and Paris. We made daily outings and, when the walks were long, which they have to be in Paris if one has sense and eyes to see, Happy went by purse. And where purses were searched, as they were at the Louvre and the Musee d’Orsay, Happy returned to wait, unprotesting, at the Plaza Athenee, where the staff attended him in my absence and the chambermaids pronounced him adorable.

The concierge suggested that the two of us visit Pere-Lachaise cemetery, where all the greats in French history and artists who have felt more at home in Paris than at home (Richard Wright, Gertrude Stein) are buried. He said it was not a graveyard as much as a park, where people took their lunch and sat and talked of life. So I bought a sandwich and a Diet Coke, and Happy and I had lunch with Oscar Wilde, sitting on his magnificent tomb, a stone sculpture of a sphinx by Jacob Epstein.

That night we ate outdoors at a restaurant near the hotel, the Bouchon. A 14-month-old boy played on the sidewalk, making an occasional lunge at Happy, dashing into the street, pursued by his father. I started talking to the boy, telling him to be gentle with the dog but letting him pet Happy. An attractive, dark-haired woman came and gave me a glass of Champagne, to thank me, she said, for being kind to her little boy, Dorian. “Why is his name Dorian?” I asked. “After Dorian Gray,” she said. Lunch with Oscar Wilde, dinner with Dorian Gray? It seemed to stretch beyond the long arm of coincidence. As she was very pleasant, and the boy in his hyper way, engaging, we exchanged numbers, mine at the hotel, and hers at the firehouse (since her husband was a pompier, quite high up, and with rank in Paris, firemen get their quarters).

The next day I invited them for a drink. Dorian chased Happy around the hotel room. Territorial as dogs are in the presence of other males, Happy seized his favorite toy, a bone-shaped piece of fleece, took it in his teeth and started stalking, in his jungle mode. Dorian in like manner put his pacifier in his mouth and stalked Happy. But his parents pulled him back. Later Happy and I went to dinner at Stresa. We had gone only a block when he toppled over on his side, his legs outstretched and rigid, his eyes white-edged and wide with terror.

And suddenly what had seemed to be “Travels with Charley” turned into “Death in Venice.” I took him in my arms and tried to ease his trembling, quiet the shallow, frantic breathing, told him not to be afraid, that he would be with my husband, and Bo, the Yorkie who’d preceded him. We were just a few feet from the restaurant, so I phoned the hotel, and it contacted a vet, who called me back at Stresa and explained that Happy had gone rigid because he was struggling for breath, that strangling was common in dogs with the heart murmur I told him Happy had. As he was old, the vet said, and had kidney problems besides, we should put him to sleep. Then and there.

I gave back the cell phone to the waiter (Paris, city of lights, has become a city of cell phones). I sat at a sidewalk table, weeping, holding the quivering Yorkie against my breast. A woman at the next table asked if I would mind moving; she didn’t like dogs. She was not French.

I changed tables and cried and held him. He was calmer now, his breathing quieted. I asked the waiter for some water for the dog and a glass of wine for me. A couple at the next table said they understood how hard it was, but, really, I didn’t want the dog to suffer. Numbly, I ordered a pasta. Happy had recovered sufficiently to eat three strands of Fettuccine Alain Delon, which he really seemed to enjoy. I went back to the hotel and called our vet in Los Angeles, who talked about all the heart medicines there were and what we could do to keep Happy going and, finally, reluctantly agreed that I should have him put to sleep. Then I called the Parisian vet, who said the clinic would be open at 8:30 in the morning, and I should bring him in then.

I turned to the dog beside me on the bed, quiet now but still laboring for breath, stroked his sturdy little body and asked him please to help me, to not make me make this decision. Then I turned off the light.

When I woke at 4, I knew he was dead. The round little belly did not rise and fall, the snores, which had so long made me think sometimes in the night that my husband was still alive, were silent. I lay there stroking him until it was light, when I went down to the lobby for help.

There is a formal bag, very smart, black velvet, that I had custom-made to take Happy to the Literary Guild cocktail party in New York last year. The bellman helped me put Happy inside it. Then he carried him down to the package room, till it was time to take him to be cremated. The schedule at the crematory was very crowded, but the concierge persuaded them to make room.

So at 2:30 we took a cab to Vanves, Happy in his black-tie purse on the seat beside me. I stroked him through the fabric. The body was still sturdy. I could remember how it felt behind my neck on the banks of the Loire, at Chenonceau. I can feel it still.

It takes 45 minutes to incinerate a dog, even one that weighs only six pounds, the proprietor explained, because they have to get the temperature just right. They gave me his remains in a box. I took the ashes to Pere-Lachaise and put him with his fellow artists.