A Feast and an Odorous Beast - Fat Dogs and French Estates - page 109

Jack, on the other hand, was evidently untouched by piffling worries about tackling the
life-threatening precipice that skulked at the bottom of the drive. He proceeded to knock
back all the samples with gusto as he warmed to this new task of pleasing his host in a way
that only an Englishman can.
My surreptitious pokes in the ribs did nothing to restore his focus and as he became
merrier, my levels of anxiety began to rise. I shot a hopeful glance at Thierry but he wasn't
going to be much use either. With his financial calculator whirring away, he was clearly
consumed by the various bonhomie buying signals drifting around the table. He had no in-
terest in bringing the meal to any form of a close. Luckily, canine help was at hand.
Just as I was planning my next rib-poke, Sam came to my rescue. Since his puppy
days Sam had always been a highly efficient kitchen worktop surfer. As he got older, if the
smells were sufficiently enticing, he could still haul himself onto his hind legs and plant
his front paws on a worktop surface. From this position all food within reach would be de-
voured. This was obviously one such occasion which had backfired on him because judging
by the loud echoing crash of a metallic container, Sam had chosen the wrong vessel.
Taking the initiative I sprang out of my seat and with many melodramatic gasps and
désolés , I rushed to the other side of the kitchen to give Sam a severe faux (false) telling-
off. Luckily there had been no harm done but, because monsieur and Jack had now joined
me, I used the situation to take action. Theatrically raising my arm to look at my watch I
raised my eyebrows.
“Oh no, Jack,” I said, “just look at the time. We're way behind schedule. We must be
on our way. What a shame!”
“Hang on, I'm just in the middle of discussing trapping methods with monsieur .
Another half hour won't make any difference.”
“ So sorry darling, but that's just not possible. We've got hours of driving ahead of us
and I don't even know where Biff is. Come on - let's get going.”
With a murderous backward glance in Sam's direction, Jack returned to the table and
made our apologies for rudely cutting short the customary two-hour lunch. This was all
taken in perfectly good humour by our genial hosts, presumably encouraged by the thought
that any further trashing of the kitchen area would now be curtailed.
Monsieur , eye positively zipping around the room, announced that he would be de-
lighted if we became the new owners. But, if not, he had found a new hunting friend which
was much more important.
As we left the house the small matter of finding Biff still had to be tackled. By now,
being the very closest of buddies, we collectively shouted his name. This was a combina-
tion of the French “ Beeeeef ” plus the more conventional “Biff! Come now, you rotten little
sod,” from the English contingent.
Finally he trotted around the corner looking particularly self-satisfied and headed dir-
ectly for the car. We exchanged many hugs and kisses with our new comrades-in-firearms