What Up, Dog?

“Yessir, I’ve hit on a great scheme. The idea of a thousand years.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to train dogs.”

“Train dogs?”

“For the music-hall stage. Dog acts, you know. Performing dogs. Pots of money in it. I start in a modest way with these six. When I’ve taught ‘em a few tricks, I sell them to a fellow in the profession for a large sum and buy twelve more. I train those, sell ‘em for a large sum, and with the money buy twenty-four more. I train those--”

In the short story above--“Ukridge’s Dog College”--Stanley Ukridge explains his plan to get rich to a skeptical friend. As in any P.G. Wodehouse story, things don’t go as planned. Wodehouse was a master of both the English language and humor, whose rich cast of characters included dimwits of both the English upper classes and lower classes and a menagerie of animals, from prize pigs to angry swans to destructive dogs. Wodehouse could be extraordinarily funny while gently mocking British society’s foibles because of the truth in his observations. And the British are just as barmy about dogs in 2009 as they were in 1909.

Americans could also be described as crazy about dogs. If you don’t believe me, just go to a dog show. Or failing that, rent the DVD “Best In Show.” Dogs are both pets and family members. They get to lie by the fireplace on cold nights and in front of the fan on hot days with their legs in the air. They sleep on our beds and couches whether we let them or not. We buy them special gear, send them to special dog schools and take them to special dog parks like we do our children to soccer practice.

Much the same is true here; Luxembourg dogs appear to lead a charmed life. But there is one rather large difference between Luxembourg dogs and American dogs. In America, despite their coddling, dogs occupy a lower social order. You can’t take them into restaurants, malls or movie theaters, unless they are service dogs. Last year I saw a woman get politely ejected from a QFC supermarket in Seattle because she had her Bichon Frisé propped in the child carrier of the grocery cart.

That wouldn’t happen here. In Luxembourg (and many other parts of Western Europe, for that matter), dogs go everywhere their owners go. When I was out with my son Trevor for lunch a week ago, a little pug not far from us relaxed in his own little rattan shopping bag while his owner enjoyed a salami panini and a Bofferding beer. His patience was rewarded with occasional panini tidbits.

Dogs actually appear to have more rights than children in European hotels. When we traveled to Paris not long ago, it was difficult to find a hotel that would allow two children in the same room with their two parents. However, I could have packed the Citroën with hounds and it would have been okay. It’s a little baffling. Our kids, being generally well-behaved, won’t poop on the carpet or chew on the furniture. They even bathe regularly. I can’t say the same for your average Citroënload of hounds.

However, there is a dark side to doggy love.

Another difference between America and Luxembourg is that America has pooper scooper laws in most cities. Not so here. The sidewalks are littered with turdmines of a canine nature, just waiting to go off on unwary boot heels. Once in a long while, city workers with push brooms will tidy things up. Most of the time, rain, sun and inattentive pedestrians take care of the problem.

Every now and then you’ll see dog and master out for a walk, the one with opposable thumbs carrying a plastic baggie. But that’s pretty rare. And with the high percentage of foreigners who work in Luxembourg, odds are they’re from somewhere else. Somewhere with a higher level of turd guilt. Lest you begin to think that Luxembourg is like the feudal England of “Holy Grail” lore, (“Denny, there's some lovely filth down here!”), where the walking surface was composed of mud and assorted excrement, Luxembourg is really clean and put together. There’s just this one messy quirk....

Thomas Jefferson once wrote, "The price of freedom is eternal vigilance." In Luxembourg, eternal vigilance is the price for freedom from crap-encrusted soles. I encountered the ultimate close call the other day--a doggy land mine in the central walkway of an indoor mall. Some poor soul had already made contact and paid the price. I thought of the English martyr John Bradford, who famously said, “There but by the grace of God go I.” A trail of brown footprints faded into the distance.

John Bradford