Dogs and la vie en France. . . .

“It is sometimes difficult to know who commands in a family—the husband, the wife, the mother-in-law, or the cook. But the dog is never mistaken.” --Marcel Pagnol, French writer known for his stories about Marseille.

Dogs are the sine qua non of French existence (in addition to champagne and chocolate). Some have pedigree, some are mixed breed, but all are happy, welcomed and loved. They jump to attention at a moment’s notice, show unconditional love and never complain. And the French love their dogs—the men might leave their wives in the car or at home while they stop at the café for a drink, but never their dogs.

We can’t say enough good things about our dogs, but cats are pretty cool too. What types of pets do you have?

Dog Days on the Riviera by Jane Tolbert

Most of us want to return to this life as a French dog—loved and pampered and stay-at-home.

I adopted my first dog when I lived in the French countryside near Grasse. The masons who worked on my house had Brittany Spaniels, which they used for companionship and for the hunt (pheasants, water birds and others). They brought their dogs to work every day. Nana climbed ladders and would sit on the chimney while her master Robert worked on the tile roof. Roger’s puppy Sophia ran through wet cement, chased lizards or chewed the seats in his Peugeot 204.





One day the masons asked if I wanted a dog. Their friend planned to get rid of his Brittany, Pink, who had committed two egregious sins—she had eaten a tiered cake, which he had prepared for a wedding, and she had spent the last hunting season hiding under his car. Pink loved pastries, and she did not like guns. She became my companion and nanny to my two kids for many years. She rode in the front seat of the car, went on family vacations in Florida and continued to scarf down pastries. She took the bus with me to Grasse (dogs rode half price). Sometimes she wandered off to the village café, the Pergola, at Pre du Lac. Usually someone brought her home.




When we moved to Melbourne Beach, Pink moved with us. She wandered down to the beach one day. Since her tags still had a French address, my dad commented that anyone who found her would have marveled at the distance a Brittany could swim.

When I later returned to France to live in the city, it seemed the growing emphasis on clean public streets and the “no poop” policy had forced people to opt for smaller dogs just because of logistics. Toy poodles, papillons, terriers and chihuahuas, now the vogue, were in boutiques, cafes and even in backpacks on scooters.



In France, with its population of nearly 62-million people and an estimated 19-million dogs, canines are an integral part of life, as much as the apértif and baguette. Even on the coldest days, shivering pooches accompany their owners to the Monday morning flea markets in Nice or for a walk on the beach. Some watch passersby from shopfront windows in Juan-les-Pins. Still others sit on their owners’ laps on the boardwalk or wait patiently outside a grocery store. One dog even had a security clearance at the research park of Sophia Antipolis. Patrons bring dogs to cafes and restaurants, and both eye the menu with a hint of gourmandise. Sugar cubes? Two orders of croissants? One large café au lait and a hot chocolate followed by a walk in the sun.

As I prepare for an early morning commute to my day job, I realize a dog’s life sounds pretty good.