Poodle Power

The Grand Tour . . . and a Puppy

It was 1957, Europe was still recovering from the devastation of World War II, when my husband and I took a delayed honeymoon to Europe. We were on the “Grand Tour” as it was called in those days. We boarded the Queen Elizabeth in New York City, disembarked in Le Havre and visited Germany, Austria, Italy, France, and Turkey. Our last stop was to be Paris, the plan - to bring home a French Poodle puppy.

By the time we arrived in Paris, we were exhausted, sick of traveling, visiting churches, museums, art galleries, charming villages and eating too much rich food. We were young and it was all too much. Paris was to be the icing on the trip: the Louvre, Arc de Triumph, Les Invalides, Notre Dame, Versailles . . . and puppy!

We rented a 2CV car and in every pet shop inquired who was the best breeder of poodles. It all came down to one Countess who lived outside of Paris, not far from Versailles.

We had a map of Paris and environs and were on our way. I can’t remember either the name of the tiny village, or the of the Countess, but we found it easily at the time. The Countess lived in a large manor house surrounded by a high stone wall with a closed gate and a long tree-canopied entrance. A scruffy looking man in the traditional blue workmen’s overalls and a cap, not a beret, opened the gate once we explained we had an appointment with the Countess. I had called in advance to make sure we would be welcomed after the long trip.

As we came up the drive, poodles of all sizes and colors ran and played on the vast property, stopping for a moment to watch us go by. There were toys, minis, standards, and a few huge royals, every color of the poodle rainbow as on display. My first thought was, how could she ever know who had impregnated whom? I imagined litters might often bring some interesting surprises.

A nice-looking middle-aged lady in a tweed skirt, pearls and cardigan waved at us and pointed where to park. As we stepped out of the car, we were visited by about a dozen sniffing noses, extremely interested in nosing into my handbag and my husband’s trouser pockets in hope of treats while the little ones sniffed our shoes and gave us those irresistible “I’m starving” looks. The Countess came over and waved the mob away. “Don’t pay any attention. They are all beggars and none are starving.”

I was looking at the dogs, all clean, brushed, groomed, not at all starving and very well kept. How she managed to keep this horde in such good condition was amazing.

We were ushered into the manor house, stone walls and floors, large windows, plants and flowers in the hall and the room we were directed to. A large study or library, books shelved along the walls, paintings of who appeared to be the former residents. Counts and Countesses stiffly seated, displayed in finery watched us with distain.

“So, you are Americans, no? How may I help you?” Very polite but get to the point and stop ogling the premises.

“We love dogs, poodles in particular, and wanted to bring a poodle puppy home from France.”

“Do you know what size you would like?”

Husband chimed in, “We were thinking of a standard.” We both liked big dogs. He wanted one to run with him mornings.

“Any color in mind?”

We had not thought that far ahead. “Not in particular. The dog and its personality are more important.” I answered.

“There are all sizes and colors running around here. The pups are all recorded by the Société Centrale Canine in its Livre des Origines Français. We are required to give them an official name beginning with a letter which changes each year so everyone knows how old they are. Are you looking for a puppy or a more mature dog?”

We both shrugged, being up in the air about that. We knew nothing about housetraining but figured we could learn or hire a trainer. But maybe a dog a little older?

“Well, never mind that now. Let us walk around and you can see all my darlings. Poodles, you know, all have vastly different personalities. Each poodle is unique. Some are sweet and loving, others are aloof or aggressive. Some want to cuddle with you all day, others want to run and play or go with the pack. I have this one who follows me every day, all day long.” She bent over and ruffled the top fluff of a huge cafe au lait colored poodle with beautiful soft dark eyes. “He is my shadow. When I am sitting, he has to put his nose over my shoe so I can’t escape without him. At night, he sleeps next to the bed and snores. If I let him, he would spoon next to me all night, and probably under the covers if he could. If he snores too loud, I put him out. Just like a man!” She huffed and giggled a bit and I saw a beautiful coquette emerge in the giggle.

We spent an hour or so walking and looking at all the dogs, their traits, colors and sizes explained in detail, questions about where we lived, what we liked to do so which size would fit better into our lifestyle. The Countess graciously invited us to join her for an aperitif and a light lunch in the garden. I thought I was in Paradise with the flowers, greenery and poodles everywhere I looked.

A kir vin blanc was followed by a salade Nicoise and a delightful Sauvignon Blanc. Then we all pushed back from the table and lit up cigarettes to relax and digest with an espresso.

“How long have you lived in this magical place?” I asked, petting two poodles simultaneously.

“This is my family manor. It has been in our family for at least twenty generations, back to the time of the Middle Ages.” She paused, puffed on her Gauloise, and lit another from the stub. “You might not know, but during the War, the Bosch took over all the manors and castles around Paris as living quarters for their officers and staff. Some were able to pay with gifts and money to have them stay away, but I was not so lucky. My father died fighting in the first World War, and my mother was killed on the battlefield driving medics to the frontline. I was only twenty-one, left with this place and nothing to buy them off with. We had raised poodles for generations, my parents adored them and I was desperate to save the dogs. Their blood lines are those of famous show dogs, with honors and ribbons all over the world.”

My husband and I leaned forward, we were interested in her story, someone who had been behind the lines and had to deal with the Germans?

“Did the Germans actually occupy this place?” I asked.

“Yes, they did and I was terrified when it happened, but it turned out to be an unexpected blessing.” We pulled our chairs closer to her as she began her story. “If it had not been for the poodles, I wouldn’t be here speaking with you today.

The Countess's Story

“The Obersturmbannfüher of the platoon assigned to our area was a young man, maybe a few years older than me at that time. I could see he was obviously from the countryside and loved animals. The first thing he did was pick up two of the puppies and carried them around as he asked me questions about the dogs, what crops we raised on the manor, who took care of the animals and did the farming, how many were staff, what happened to my family and where we got our food? Mostly, we raised on the manor grounds what we ate, I explained. We were in the second year of war and food was already becomming scarce. My staff consisted of a few old men and women, from families who had lived on the manor grounds for generations. They could all shoot a hunting rifle and were the extent of my protection from marauders. The poodles warned of intruders, but they were more likely to want a treat or to be petted than attack.

“The Obersturmbannfüher noticed I was stumbling over pronouncing his title — told me to call him Herr Michel, it was easier. After our tour, including the kennels, kitchen, pantry, manor and bedrooms, he waved in his platoon members. There were about twenty men. I was relieved, we had enough quarters for them and my small staff. It was then I noticed Herr Michel was walking tilted to one side and holding his right arm against his ribs. He saw me looking at him and said he had been wounded and was not yet fit for battle which was why he was assigned to this area for occupation. It was not commensurate with his rank, he assured me.

“I was afraid to ask questions at first, but he was a gentleman and seemed kind. I wanted to know if there were other manors in the area to be occupied. He didn’t seem to mind and mentioned several of our neighbors. I was mentally figuring how many Germans that would mean, but he explained since most of the effort was at the coastlines, his platoon was the only one in the area and his men would be split up to occupy all of the neighbors. I was relieved as it meant less men to put up here.

“It went so much better than I could have imagined. Most of the men were polite youngsters dragged into the war. They loved being here, especially with the dogs. Every night Herr Michel and I made rounds together and found anywhere from one to several dogs curled up sleeping with almost all of the soldiers. The men learned how to bathe and groom the dogs, and played with them whenever they were not making repairs on the manor or working in the fields to help provide for food for us all. Herr Michel made sure everyone worked hard when not practicing war games and target practice.

“To me, it was a Godsend. I had help with the dogs and the farm, we were far enough away from any area of military interest, protected by the Germans, and the dogs were being lovingly cared for. I was relaxing a bit while the rest of the world was in chaos. And best of all, we were out of both sight and mind, so the SS never came to check on us.

“Deep in my heart, I thought I should probably be figuring out ways to kill all our German occupiers, either while they slept, or perhaps poison, but I couldn’t do it. I made sure to not help them in anything military, or tell them anything of interest, mostly because I knew nothing.

“We went along like that for the better part of two years. Herr Michel made sure none of the men tried anything with me, and he himself was a complete gentleman. We eventually became somewhat like friends, as much as enemies can. We never discussed the war but listened together to the war news on the radio, but never commented. He told me about his wife and two small children, and his parents, his father deceased. He had no way to contact them when we heard of the American bombings on the shortwave radio. When a bombing was near his home, he would go outside and smoke. Once I went to join him and found him crying, holding one of the poodles against his chest, his face in the soft fur as he sobbed.

“By 1943 winter, we were running desperately low on food, no matter how much we had planted. Some of the people from the other manors wanted to eat the dogs once there were no cows, chickens or pigs left, and no game to hunt in the woods. Herr Michel forbid them even touching them, and he was backed up by his men. They then set up sentry duty, locked the poodles in one of the barns for the nights and kept them in small outdoor corrals where they could keep them under watch during the days.

“As the weather changed and the crocus began to bloom in the fields in the spring of 1944, Herr Michel came to me with a long face. He had received orders — his platoon was to be sent to Italy. Within a few days, they were packed and gone. As a present for being such a gentleman, I put a puppy in his arms as he left. I told him to take care of this one, a sweet red female, intact. His kids would love the puppy and she could give them more pups to play with when the war was over. He took the tiny creature, kissed its soft fur and stuffed it in his jacket, hugged me and left. I think he was sad to have to leave, and I felt the same way. My entire staff watched them go with tears in their eyes. One on the men turned to me, ‘Countess, I’d never thought I’d shed a tear about watching the Bosh leave anywhere, but here I am now.” He was wiping his eyes and shaking his head. ‘They were mostly nice boys and good workers too.’

“The manor felt empty without the soldiers around, their prattle in German, playing fetch with the dogs. The sounds of happy work in the fields. The poodles had no one to play with and they seemed listless and depressed as well. I worried more Germans would come to occupy the manor, and the next time we would not be so lucky. There were stories circulating about occupiers stripping the homes they commandeered of art, jewelry and anything valuable, as well as raping and abusing the owners and staff.

“I moved the staff into the manor for protection and we kept the dogs locked up at night. By June of 1944, the Germans left Paris. The defeat at the Battle of Normandy, August 1944 was the end of the war. I thought we had survived everything. Then there was a rumble in the town about me being a collaborator and helping the enemy. My neighbors, those who were also occupied by the men of Herr Michel’ platoon, all joined with me in assuring the authorities we had no choice — we were prisoners. I was a young woman alone with a few elders to take care of our manor, and the neighbors in a similar state. As prisoners of the Germans, not collaborators, we were very lucky to have survived.

“I believe it was the poodles who saved us. If we had been a usual manor with a fancy staff and a stiff attitude, and another platoon and leader, none of us would have survived, the staff and I would have been killed or worse. If Herr Michel hadn't been in charge, the dogs would have been eaten. I still have nightmares about it.

"It was the poodles who softened the hearts of the men, they provided unconditional love and comfort in the middle of chaos and destruction. The dogs created an island of peace, safety and sanity, and the men understood it.” She reached down and caressed the café au lait soft fluff on her guardian poodle, as always by her feet.

She gave a firm pat to his head, sat up and lit up another Gauloise. A puff of smoke clouded her face as she thought back to memories her face showed she obviously did not like. The story was over and life moved on.

I had to ask, “What happened to Herr Michel and his men? Do you know if they survived the war?”

“I don’t know. I was never able to find out. It has only been twelve years, a short time to straighten out life after a great war has taken so many lives and created such destruction. Who knows, maybe some day a nice gentleman will walk through the door with a lovely red poodle under his arm and ask if I recognize him. I would like that very much.” She put her head down for a minute but not before I saw her sadness.

“So, have you decided what kind of poodle you would like?” She asked, all business once again.

“We are going to be here for another week, let us talk about it together to decide and I’ll call you and let you know.”

A day later my husband ended up in the American Hospital in Paris with ulcerative colitis and severe hemorrhaging. I called the Countess and said we could not come back, my husband had fallen very ill. I thanked her profusely for her hospitality and time, explaining the next day we had to leave for the States and get him into hospital there.

Epilogue

It’s now so many decades later and I still wonder about the poodles, the Countess, and Herr Michel. After I changed husbands, jobs, professions and raised kids, many years later, when I was in Paris, I went to several pet shops and asked if they had ever heard of a Countess who bred show poodles in the country near Versailles. No one had ever heard of her or her poodles. In fact, I was rather haughtily informed— poodles were no longer in vogue. Perhaps they could direct me to excellent breeders of French bulldogs, Shi Tzu, Maltese, Jack Russell or even Dachshunds? I later tried the internet, also to no avail. The Countess and her poodles had disappeared into the mists of obscurity.

Two of my burning questions were answered: Had the poodles ever gone back to winning dog shows? Probably not, I could not find any records.

Next, did the Countess have an heir to continue the tradition of poodles? Also probably not, or, if they stayed in dog breeding, they might have changed breed. If so, I did not want to know.

My last question, and the most important — Did Herr Michel survive the war and come back to visit the Countess with a next generation red poodle under his arm? And to that, with age and experience, I have learned the answer — There are some questions in life forever unanswered, but nothing stops me from hoping he did.

(This piece is based on actual events. In 1957, while looking for a poodle puppy to bring back from France, my husband and I visited a Countess who raised pedigreed poodles, top show dogs. She told us her manor had been occupied by German military during WWII. The soldiers were kind to both her and the poodles, allowing them all to survive the war and occupation. The names and places have been changed, events embellished and dialogue added to make it a real story. My husband did get sick and had to be rushed back to the states and we were never able to return to the manor to buy a poodle in France.)