Ariège Aude Forum

NO GOOD DEED……

 

He was tied to a tree near the railway station in Quillan; an empty feeding bowl and a bottle of water nearby.    There was a collar, but no name tag: no means of identifying those who had left him there, abandoned to the chill of a late winter in the Languedoc.

 

No ordinary dog, this.   Thirty inches tall at the shoulder, more than five feet from nose to tail, he weighed a conservative ten stone.    He was, we later discovered, a pure-bred Beauceron – famous for guarding sheep from wolves in the foothills of the Pyrenees, and for carrying supplies of ammunition under fire for the Resistance during World War II.

 

We had no sheep, no wolves, and no need of an ammunition carrier.   What we did have was an unspoiled acre or two of land and much more around it: ideal habitat for a big dog who needed his exercise.    This fact was not lost on two English friends who lived in Quillan and had been befriending the poor creature for the past three weeks.    Would we, could we, adopt him?    Like idiots, we said yes.

 

We called him Jude (after the patron saint of lost causes).   Overnight we became his flock, to be guarded against all comers – including, unfortunately, the neighbours.   Off to the vet for the treatment of a few minor ailments, and the discovery that Jude was only 12 months old.   He was, she said, going to be a big dog.   Oh dear.   The general consensus was that he was quite big enough already.

 

Not only big, but boisterous with it, and with an unfortunate puppy habit of chewing everything in sight.   Rugs and toilet rolls, plus the occasional small tree, were the favourite prey of those massive jaws, followed, unfortunately, by hands and arms.    After he had drawn blood for the first time, purely in play, my wife had had enough.    Either the source of his testosterone had to be eliminated, or else.    It was not quite “the dog goes or I go”, but close.

 

Poor Jude.   It was back to the vet, a charming young lady with a young female assistant, who viewed the prospect of operating on our monster with some alarm.   She was right.   It took twenty minutes for the three of us to hold him down long enough to administer the anaesthetic.    Three hours later – two hours earlier than predicted – came a phone call in frantic French.    Could we retrieve our dog?   Now.  He was very angry.

 

The vet’s surgery was a picture.   Jude, so groggy from the anaesthetic that he could hardly stand, had pinned the two girls in a corner (luckily near the telephone), baring his teeth and growling with obvious intent.   He was not a happy puppy, and clearly resented what had been done to him.   It was hard to blame him.   Most males would feel the same way.   Luckily the scent of my hand restored a semblance of good humour, and he was loaded into the car and carried home.   The vets, somewhat richer, seemed relieved.

 

Jude does not bear grudges; at least, I think not.   But two days later, when he was back on his feet, all the lights went out.   The source of the trouble was traced to a live power cable, neatly bitten through.    Jude was apparently immune to electric shock and I, unfortunately, discovered that I knew too little about French fuse boxes.    It was, of course, the weekend – which in France lasts until Tuesday.    We bought a camping lantern and read books rather than listening to the radio or watching television.   No doubt this was good for us.    Jude seemed content with his achievement, and spent the time happily knocking over chairs with his enormous plastic collar.    Ultimately, after 36 hours in the dark ages, a kindly French neighbour pointed out that the button to restore our power was located in an anonymous grey box at the bottom of our driveway.    Hey presto!

 

It has been more than a month now.   Jude is still with us and seems likely to remain so.    Curiously, we discovered that he responds to commands in English, not French, leading us to believe that he was abandoned by some British couple.    If you are reading this, shame on you!     And no, you can’t have him back (though a contribution towards the 300+ Euros he has cost so far would be very acceptable).

 

As for my wife and I, we have come to realise the truth of that ancient saying: No Good Deed shall go Unpunished.

By William Norris

To read more about the author and about his books please visit

http://www.williamnorris.eu/

Other books by William Norris are:

 

The Man Who Fell from the Sky

http://www.williamnorris.eu/fell.html

Willful Misconduct

http://www.williamnorris.eu/willful.html

SnowBird

http://www.williamnorris.eu/snow.html

The Badger Game

http://www.williamnorris.eu/badger.html

A Grave Too Many

http://www.williamnorris.eu/agrave.html

The Gonzago Principle

http://www.williamnorris.eu/gonzago.html

Special Relationships

About the author

William (Bill) Norris has been a professional writer since joining his local newspaper as an apprentice reporter at the age of 16. After working for a variety of newspapers in England and Africa, he was appointed Parliamentary Correspondent to the prestigious Times (of London) ten years later - one of the youngest ever to gain this position. He held the post for seven years, revolutionising the art of the "parliamentary sketch", then transferred to become Africa Correspondent for The Times, covering political events and wars in Biafra, Nigeria, Angola, the Congo, Mozambique, Botswana, Zambia, Tanzania, and Zimbabwe.

Growing tired of being shot at............  read more

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