We live in a little house in Nepean. The back yard is big and the gardens are ripe with daisies, ornamental grasses, and black-eyed Susans. There are lilacs, of course. It’s after dark and we are in bed upstairs. With Karine in her kerchief and Joe in his boxer briefs, we are reading science fiction and fading fast. We hear the thump-thump-thump-thump of someone coming up the stairs.
“Oh, we are blessed,” says Karine as Capucine clicks in and collapses on the ground with a huff and grunt. “Hey, pretty girl.” The dog glances at us and smacks her lips a few times before grunting. It’s one of the best sounds in the world, that contented pig snort. She falls asleep and we turn off the lights.
When given the chance—which we often offer—Cap would rather walk with both of us. Both her people, one each side, so we can watch her zig-zag the blocks and stop whenever she wants. If it’s a rainy day, we go slower. If it’s garbage day, we go much slower. She doesn’t always want to come inside the house at the end of the walk either, especially if there are travel bags waiting to be swept into the car. She is the furry, living piece of luggage that gets stuffed between suitcases and sleeping bags, sometimes between people.
When we pack her and our nephew Lucas into a cottage-bound car, Cap is most comfortable with her head on his lap. Lucas, who is about seven or eight, says, “I like her name, Capucine. When I say it, I feel it in my heart, you know?”
Oof. Yeah buddy, we know.
« C’t’une Capucine, » lui dit Papai en frottant sa poitrine. Elle lui regarde dans les yeux, son cul sur ses pieds. Ça fait cinq ans qu’ils se sont vu. « C’t’une Capucine. »
“I can watch her any time,” says Mom, stroking her chin. And she does—she is our number one.
“Do you need a dog sitter?” say the strangers on the curb and in the elevator.
“J’aime pas Capucine,” says Madeline, who has been terrified of dogs from a very young age. I remember pulling her around in a sled before she could talk, and Cap grabbed the rope in her jaws, trying to play tug of war. Madeline screamed and screamed at her terrifying teeth. For a long time, when Cap came running Madeline ran in the other direction.
When she can talk, Madeline looks me in the eye, smiles sweetly, and emphasizes, “j’aime pas Capucine.” “Mais Capucine, elle t’aime,” is all I can think to say. “Oui mais moi j’aime pas Capucine.”
But in later years, every now and then, I spot Matt and Ainsley’s little girl touching my little girl. Quietly, so no one (not even Cap) notices. Just a quick pet. Cap is very soft. It turns out that Madeline’s favourite memories of Capucine are when she was under the table, tickling her feet and legs while we ate.
Ma marraine Brigitte a souvent le mot juste: « Elle était fiable. »
Quand on rentre chez des gens, Capucine va directement à la cuisine. Les comptoirs ne sont pas encore hors limite et les règlements de la maison ne sont pas encore mis en place !
Quand on rentre chez quelqu’un qu’on connaît qui a un chien, elle va directement au bol de croquettes et les aspire.
Quand les bagages accumulent à la porte d’entrée, elle se plante devant la porte. Vous n’allez pas partir sand moi, là.
Quand Karine rentre et sort sa mitaine dans un banc de neige, Capucine y enfonce son nez. Karine fait une dizaine de trous dans la neige. Capucine les checkent toutes.
Capucine, mangeuse de neige, avec une barbichette et une chenille blanche sur son museau.
C’est l’hiver. Nous courons ensemble (elle beaucoup plus que moi) dans un champ de soccer enneigé. Elle me watch de loin quand on se promène, mais elle est coquine aussi. Elle ne vient pas quand je lui appelle. De très loin, elle me lance un regard qui dit, I see you. Nez penché, des pas lents, elle cherche quelque chose à bouffer. Dans tout ce blanc, je lui appelle une dernière fois et elle ne vient toujours pas. Elle me lance un regard vite vite—et c'est à ce moment-là que je me place derrière un bonhomme de neige. De son point de vue, je disparais ! Elle sprinte dans ma direction, en me cherchant.
It’s mid-summer and Madeline doesn’t exist yet. Her older sister Chantelle sits in her pyjamas on the floor of our dining room. She’s about a year and half old, just a few months younger than Cap, who is nibbling her PJ cuffs and tiny feet. They are playing. The kid goes in for a squealing hug of her head but the dog playfully huffs and growls in her face. Chantelle stiffens, flinches, and scrunches up. Then turns up to me and laughs. The whole room is relieved: mom and dad and aunt and uncle all go “hohoho!” Cap lies down and swivels her head to our laughter, and Chantelle moves in for more, slamming her tiny heels down on the carpet and shaking them in the dog’s face. Try to bite me! Cap goes for the left, then the right, then the left. “Capucine, sois gentille!” “Doux-doux, Chantelle! Doux-doux!” Like two peas in a pod.
It’s early spring and Carmen Sandiego is now a show on Netflix that my four-year-old godkid loves, and maybe that’s why she wants to play “secret passage”? We run secretly around the exterior of my house together. We can’t be seen and we must be quiet and we look for clues. We sneak around the front yard and slip between Ami’s vehicle and the Vegepod. We pass beside the woodpile hidden between the pines and the garage. I lift Jasmine over the rabbit-holed fence there and follow her: she always leads. We peek around the corner into the back yard, to make sure no one sees us. Manu is not yet two, so easily avoided. Karine is just as blind. Often Ami and Myriam turn to look at us creeping from the garage to the shed and Jazz stands tall, points at them, and shouts: “Tu ne peux pas nous voir !” They obediently turn away. But when Cap sees us, she sprints over as though (because) she was looking for us, for me. “Capucine va toujours nous trouver, hein?” says Jasmine, repeating my words. Cap joins us on the rest of our secret passages. Jazz steps over the rabbit-bitten fence on her own while I lift Cap over. The happy dog leads and we sneaky spies follow.
We live in a brick rowhouse condo. The back yard is tiny but the deck is solid and there is a blueberry bush surrounded by bleeding hearts, Siberian iris, and tulips. There are lilacs, of course. When we are reading on the couch, scrolling on our phones in silence, we hear the soft boom as Cap jumps off the couch. She pauses at the stairs to our bedroom to look at us. “Good night, booboo,” says Karine and she goes thump-thump-thump-thump to bed.
Two of her commands are similar but distinct:
Off! — Drop it or stop trying to eat that.
Out! — Get out of the kitchen while I'm making food.
She stands near the sink, nose pointing to the counter. “Out!” She backs up unwillingly, head twisting back and forth to see if there is actually something in my raised hand. I’m in my apron, holding a spatula. She wiggles backward to the edge of the kitchen, constantly trying to stay close to the action. “Assis!” Her butt crawls up to her forelegs, closer still. “Couchez!” Front paws take mini steps to slide forward, closer still. Sigh… Her elevated nose, still hoping my hand will reveal some treat, hovers in various directions and vacuums up the air. Her tongue darts out, like a snake’s.
She begs like this for beef, chicken, fish, tofu, tomatoes, cucumbers, noodles, cheese, crackers, croissants, chips, popcorn, chocolate, peanut butter, pickles, cabbage, peas, carrots, etc. etc. etc. She even begs for shrimp, until she finds out what it is.
The perennial question in our household becomes: “Is the kitchen safe?” To the back of every counter we shove our plates, full or finished, and our loaves, buns, pitas, and cakes, our roasts, patties, pies, and soups. The oven opens: “Allez! Out, out!” The tuna can cracks: “Ey, ey, ey! Reste!” A bite into a banana: “Sors de ma cuisine! Sors! Out!!” She does get some tuna juice, though, and several bits of banana. We learn to keep her away as we mix, plate, and serve. She follows us as we carry our meals to the dining room and she settles under the table. Finally—is the kitchen safe?—we can relax. I savour my first bite and...
Oh. My hand reaches to my mouth. I pull out a dog hair.
The idea of her eating after us is laughable. She is an ardent advocate for earlier dinner times. Her dinner used to be at 6 p.m. Then it became 5. Then 4:30. Then 4. Some days, what we call “the campaign” begins at 2 p.m. She lies behind my desk chair and stares at my back. Good dogs deserve dinner, her eyes say. Then she lifts her head, brown eyes gleaming. Gets up, walks closer, sits beside me. I see you, she says. Do you see me? She yips gently if this goes on for more than five minutes.
God forbid I move my chair away from my desk just to get something or use the toilet: she is up and spinning. Her body aims at the kitchen and she pants, Dinner for one! Dinner for all! She starts to celebrate as soon I am up and walking, licking her chops, moving slow and low near me, excited for what’s next.
It’s early November and Thomas is replacing a rotten roof on his mother’s cottage’s outhouse. He smashes at it and shards of rot and shingles go everywhere—all over the toilet seat, the toilet paper roll, the edge of the seat, and the floor. I am there to watch and wonder about his methods. Cap wanders over, maybe because we are near the cars. The parking is also near the trampoline, and the outhouse is about six trampoline lengths away from the cottage: a rustic log cabin with interlocking corners. One side, the right one, is half screened porch. The other side, the left one, is where you turn to enter the cottage at the wall facing the lake.
I brush the rot and shingle crumbs into a grocery bag. Thomas moves metal sheets around like puzzle pieces. Then, Cap perks up. She’s been lying in the grass, damp from our swim. There is no sound that Thomas nor I can detect. Her nostrils flare, her head vibrates with focus. And she is off—from lying down to flying away in half a second. Her front paws grab the ground and pull all of the land toward her. Her hind legs thrust as far back as they can, backward and upward, tearing up dirt. In three seconds, she is around the corner of the cottage.
What is going on?
In the cottage, only Karine notices Brisket has stopped eating. She leaves Susan and Gabbie playing with baby Ruth and finds, on the screened porch, our dog aspirating croquettes from Brisky’s tupperware. Cap opened the screen door with her nose. She chugs the dog food as the younger, less hungry Bernese Mountain dog watches her. And when Karine stops Cap and pries open her jaws, she pulls out a great slimy cork of kibble.
C’est un jour normal pendant l’année anormale 2020. Je suis sorti de la maison que Karine puisse essayer sa robe de mariée avec sa chum Serene. Elles sont au troisième étage : la fiancée sur un pouf élevé dans une coupe à la fois sexy et divine et la demoiselle d’honneur qui approuve. Les sons d’un kidnapping retentissent soudainement dans la cuisine au deuxième. Karine est prise dans sa robe : « Can you go check? » En descendant les escaliers, Serene voit Capucine et Capucine voit Serene. Elles figent et se fixent. Et, lorsque Serene rompt cette connexion en regardant ma miche de pain au levain dans la gueule du chien, Capucine s’envole.
C’est aussi dans cette cuisine que Myriam retourne en premier d’un esti d’party de mariage au Whalesbone sur Bank avec une petite Jasmine endormie et où elle ne trouve plus son pain aux betteraves. Dans le salon il y a des bouts d’aluminium un peu partout et un plat vide et une Capucine bien contente, excitée pour la suite.
Pendant la cérémonie de notre mariage, au mois de septembre, elle est un chien restraint dans le coin du champ. Elle est en laisse avec Tanya, une de ses premières gardiennes, et elle porte pour l'occasion un collier en cuir rouge, avec nos alliances à la place de plaque d'identité. Ensemble elles font partie d’une petite foule sur le bord d’une clairière où Karine et Joseph se chuchotent des petits mots et des promesses. Personne ne peut les entendre. Ils sont tout seuls à se marier. Mais quand les mariés rient, la foule rit. Quand ils versent des larmes, leurs bien-aimés pleurent aussi.
Capucine est témoin en silence, calme avec la présence aimante de sa matante. Finalement, lorsque les deux s’embrassent et la foule s’anime, Joe dit « Almost! We need Capucine. » Tanya la libère et elle court vers eux, ses préférés, ses humains. Elle se faufile entre eux, elle s’assoit gentiment sur un pied, elle ne ressent même pas les alliances se faire coupé de son collier. Finalement, pendant que ces deux s’échangent des bagues, elle croque une ou deux pommes jaunes qui font partie du décor.
We live in a country house. The back yard is an acre. There are silver maples, dogwood, cedar, oak, apple trees, a willow, and a wall of poplar between us and the neighbour. There are lilacs—of course! Picking blackberries, Cap chomps on the unripe ones next to us. Weeding dandelions from the garden, she mows the tallest grass at the berm’s edge. We show her where the wild strawberries are coming just to watch her bite, yank, and grind them. The daintiest, sweetest berries made for savouring—chomp, chomp, chomp, smack, chomp.
Where is she? The shrubs are shaking near the green barn. She methodically chews and licks her chops as she tours around the blackberry bush. By mid-July, she tours the middle of them, like a duck in her pond. When I call her name, she gives me a look that says I see you—and keeps chomping.
She always knows where I am. I always know where she is. Sometimes, we try to get the jump on each other. She sneaks into the kitchen and eats a cinnamon bun off the counter. I quietly open the back door to just grab something from the garage. Inevitably, we find each other out: I put my hands on my hips and growl while she licks her chops and slinks away. She’s at the top of the stairs, her head bent in reproach, her legs ready to spring outside to be with me.
I only have to look into the room where she is sleeping, and her eyes find mine. I can point to the ground, silently; or snap my fingers; or just freeze, eyes wide, and turn away quickly. And she jumps off the couch toward me. I am beginning to learn what it means to have a dog, how special it make you feel.
Capucine is learning how to be Capucine. She is always hungry, very sweet, and always excited for what’s next. She drinks from the watering can. She chases milkweed fluff on the wind, eats birdseed below the feeder, and finds our vegetable seeds in a plastic bag in the basement. She is a pollinator extraordinaire.
She is, however, not sure about the forest. Karine takes her to Ferguson, where she walks warily to the boardwalk on leash. Then, unleashed, she runs back to the car with her tail between her legs.
She is, at first, not sure about swimming. Our property sits at the corner of farmland and features that barn. This is a farm, I think. And she’s our little farm dog. But when we take her to a real farm with a stone house, root cellar, and chickens and ducks running around, Capucine—who is a foot-warming dog, an office dog, a curl-up-at-the-end-of-the-bed dog—spies the birds and says she is a hunting dog. Round and round and round the pine tree, and up the steps and down the steps, and into the undergrowth and out of the undergrowth. She roots around and catches a rooster, which we make her drop. So she goes for the ducks, who take refuge in their pond. And Cap forgets that she doesn’t know how to swim or, more to the point, she learns on the spot. (She does not catch the ducks.)
She is good at moving—in all directions. Here is where she really shines. Bounding through the snow like a dolphin in the surf. Scaling the steep banks of a river. Launching to the top of the snow pile and balancing there. Sprinting down leaf-strewn trails, she runs past me, collar clinking, breath shooting out. She loves the forest. She loves to jump off the dock, which Mom taught her. She expends herself with great joy.
She comes in the house at three speeds: normally, with the pace I’m setting; in leaps and bounds, rushing to get in; and dragged in, like a pig to the abattoir, smelling treachery. She smells it strongest when we take her into the bathroom, for a much needed bath. She learns to avoid the bathroom.
Today, it’s late fall and we’ve walked the whole acre. She is young and I’m new at this. We check out the sleeping gardens, peek into the barn, she fucks with the willow branches swaying in the wind, and we stand at the corner of the property, looking into the farmer’s now empty, dusty field. I will teach her to jump this wire fence and we’ll go running there. But not yet.
At the apple trees, I pick one, take a bite, and hurl it hard. Capucine flies and devours it. Then, she joins me at the end of the gravel driveway, in the opening between the cedar hedges, where I make her sit.
“Reste,” I say, palm toward her. “Reste.” I keep my palm up as I look both ways and walk backward into the road. She watches me intently and stays. My hand comes down as I cross Crozier. She twitches and shifts her butt—"Ah-ah-ah!”—and sits back down.
I get to the mailbox. Its red flag is up. I pull out enveloppes and flyers. Cap is sitting still, eyes locked on mine. At our next house, the brick rowhouse, she’ll sit tight as I check the mail just across the road. At the house after that, the little house in Nepean, she’ll watch carefully as I check the mail three houses away. She stays while I go. She will never, ever break this contract, and she never really stops watching me. Her face is patient or focused, or maybe it’s full of worry, or full of love.
That look. It makes me giggle. It makes me feel calm. I feel it in my heart and I feel blessed. Capucine looking at me makes me feel proud, honoured even. She makes me feel special. And loved, of course.
I will miss that look. Because one day I will stay and she will go.
But not today. Today she is here and we are together. I walk back across the road, and say “Okay! Bon chien!” Her whole body cocks like a spring, then launches into our yard. She is stoked. Let’s go jump that fence. Let’s go run through the fields. Okay. Let’s.
Good girl.
La fin
Une Capucine aimée , aimée