On a(nother) visit to the French farm one year, I was greeted upon my arrival by a small black dog barking furiously at me from the sofa where he had been dozing comfortably.
I knew it didn’t belong to the farm because the farm dogs were:
- all hunting dogs and brown;
- always friendly and happy to see me, even at the first meeting — sometimes too friendly, putting their front paws on my shoulders and walking forwards with me if I tried to make them drop their paws by stepping back;
- bigger than this small yappy thing;
- not allowed in the house, never mind actually get onto the sofa, let alone dozing, and comfortably to boot — most unthinkable.
They said this dog was from Lasseran, the neighbouring village on the parallel ridge to the north. He was stressed out from his home environment as his owners had lots of boisterous children, so they brought him to the farm for some peace and quiet.
A couple of days later, I noticed he was not around. They said he’d gone home, as he’d de-stressed enough from his stay on the farm.
A day later, I saw him coming back, trotting across the fields.
So, he’d come back to his spiritual retreat for another stay. And this time, he knew how to get to the farm himself.
(Gers, S.W. France, 2012)
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