Horace appeared to enjoy this gourmet treat just fine, and now his breath smelt of Great Dane mixed with Base Notes of Forest Floor. Unfortunately, he still could not be persuaded to get up and follow them into the garden for the next step in the Maurice Manchot Truffle Dog Programme.
“Out of interest, what was the next step going to be?” asked Arthur, as he made them another cup of tea.
“I bury small pieces of truffle around the garden, and Horace, he digs them up.”
“Given the number of bones he’s already buried and lost out there, I wouldn’t give that idea much hope, old chap. It’s no good. You’re just going to have to find another dog.”
He’d expected Chef Maurice to throw in the towel at this point. His friend was not, to put it lightly, an animal person. When pressed by, say, a young child to name his favourite animal, his usual reply was ‘Beef’.
But Arthur had underestimated the lure of
la grande mystique
, as the French referred to the mysterious draw of the truffle.
Chef Maurice bent down and offered Horace one last truffle-covered biscuit. Horace shuffled round and placed a paw over his nose. Message: I’m out.
“Very well,” said Chef Maurice, standing up and brushing himself off. “We must find another
chien
. Perhaps one”—he threw a glance at Horace—“of a slightly younger vintage.”
* * *
It was a pleasant, sunny drive over to the Helping Paws Pet Sanctuary in Cowton, the nearest decent-sized town to Beakley. The sky was clear and open, the leaves were slowly turning russet, and the local pheasants were too busy hiding from game hunters to bother running out in front of Chef Maurice’s car.
Still, Arthur was not entirely happy with this turn of events.
“Maurice, you do understand that a dog is for life, not just for truffle hunting?”
Chef Maurice turned around in his seat, a hurt look on his face. “
Mon ami
, I assure you, any
chien
who comes into my home will be treated like fam—”
Horns blared as a truck, bearing down on them from the opposite direction, swerved at the last minute to avoid Chef Maurice’s little red Citroën.
“Eyes on the road, please,” said Arthur, after he’d caught his breath and released his knuckles from their death grip on the side of the car.
“Me and my truffle dog, we will form a team
formidable
. You will see. We will work day and night to find the most delicious truffles. There will be a Cochon Rouge autumn truffle menu.” Chef Maurice sighed. “It will be
superbe
.”
The Helping Paws Pet Sanctuary was a low-slung brick building on the outskirts of Cowton, surrounded by unkempt fields.
Cheery, if slightly desperate, posters lined the windows, reminding visitors that dogs, cats, budgies, guinea pigs, rabbits and all other small furry friends were for life, not just for Christmas.
By the look of the busy pens inside, it seemed that some people hadn’t got the memo.
They pushed open the front door.
“Can I help you?” A spotty-faced youth, wearing a T-shirt proclaiming him ‘Barking Mad for Beagles’, appeared from around a corner, carrying a large bucket of dried dog food.
Chef Maurice waved his bulging handkerchief. “I am in search of a dog who enjoys the scent of truffles.” A thought appeared to occur to him, and he lowered his voice. “Do not tell anyone I said that. This is a secret,
comprends
?”
The youth looked disapprovingly at him. “Chocolate is extremely bad for dogs. It gives them heart trouble.” He looked Chef Maurice up and down. “Have you had a dog before? Done any training?”
Chef Maurice looked at Arthur. “Does training a commis chef count?”
“No, commis chefs don’t count.”
“
Non
, I have not trained a dog before.”
“Okay. Well, we do have—”
“But I am not looking for a pet.”
“No?”
“I look for a
collègue
. For the hunting of truffles.” Chef Maurice slapped his forehead. “Forget that I said that, too.”
“O-
kay
.” The youth picked up his bucket and started to back away. “I think you’d better speak to my manager . . . ” He hurried back the way he came.
Arthur and Chef Maurice sauntered down the row of kennel enclosures. A few ears pricked up, a few noses essayed tentative sniffs at the handkerchief, but none of the candidates seemed sufficiently interested to pass the preliminary interview stage.
They turned left into the Cattery section.
“I have always liked cats,” said Chef Maurice.
“You have?”
“They keep themselves clean. They value the beauty of sleep.” Chef Maurice ticked an imaginary list off his fingers. “They can climb high walls. And they are suspicious. This is a good thing.
Les chiens
, they are too trusting.”
A long-haired Siamese opened her eyes and blinked at them haughtily.
“Sadly,” said Chef Maurice, as he waved the handkerchief past the dozen or so lounging cats, “it appears they do not have the interest in truffles.”
Down the end of the hallway, they found themselves passing the Miscellaneous Mammals enclosure.
A pair of lop-eared rabbits wrinkled their noses at them curiously, and an extremely fat guinea pig waddled over for a closer look at the visitors.
Arthur peered into the ferret house, which may have looked empty, but certainly didn’t smell it.
“Egbert went off to his forever home last week,” said a female voice behind him. It belonged to a middle-aged lady in a green jumper, corduroys and sensible brown wellingtons. A plastic name badge introduced her as Tara.
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” said Arthur, taking off his hat.
She gave him a strange look. “I meant, he was adopted.”
“Oh. Well, er, good for Egbert, then.”
“For us too, frankly. He’d been with us for over four months, and I’m afraid it’s true what they say. Ferrets really do smell. Can’t help it, the poor things.”
Arthur nodded. He recalled a distant aunt who’d developed a ferret habit later in life. Relatives would visit with their pockets stuffed with potpourri and take frequent breaks to go outside and admire ‘what you’ve done with the garden’.
“So how can I help today? Looking to bring a ray of sunshine into your happy home?” She smiled at Chef Maurice, who was hunkered down next to what appeared to be an empty pen.
“We— I mean, my friend down there is looking for a dog,” said Arthur.
Tara clapped her hands together. “Splendid. Well, if you’d just like to follow me . . . ” She bounced away down the hallway.
“Come on then, Maurice.”
There was no answer.
Arthur looked back. Chef Maurice was in the process of poking his handkerchief through the wire fencing.
“What are you doing?”
The chef seemed to be engaged in a staring contest with the pen’s current resident, who was sitting in the far corner.
“Ah, that’s our little Hamilton,” said Tara, coming up behind them. “He gets a lot of interest, bless him, but so far no one’s quite taken the next step. They need quite a bit of outdoor space, you know.”
“Is it me, or is he a bit on the small side?”
“Oh, he’s a teacup variety. A micro breed, at least, that’s how they’re sold. Problem is, people think they’re adorable when they’re all cute and tiny, but then they get a bit older and some owners get a bit of a shock. They can grow to the size of an adult Labrador. Hamilton here is only a year old, we think. We don’t know too much about him, I’m afraid. Someone found him wandering around near the main ring road and brought him in. His collar said Hamilton, so we stuck with the name.”
There was a squeaky grunt and Hamilton ran over and grabbed the handkerchief from Chef Maurice’s fingers. He trotted around in little circles, snorting happily, then sat down and tried to make a bed out of it.
Chef Maurice looked up, as if noticing Arthur for the first time. “I think,” he said, beaming, “that I have found my truffle dog.”
“It’s a pig, Maurice. A micro-pig.”
“Then, I have found my truffle pig!”
In his pen, Hamilton stuck his nose into the handkerchief and took a deep breath.
This was what heaven smelt like.
With the pig-adoption paperwork duly filed, and Tara reassured that Chef Maurice, despite his professional tendencies, had no intention whatsoever of eating Hamilton, they departed the Helping Paws Pet Sanctuary with the little pig perched on Arthur’s lap, along with a new dog bed, a large bag of sow nuts—‘Pigs Go Nuts For It!’ claimed the cheery slogan—and a stack of leaflets on the care and feeding of teacup pigs.
“Washbasin pig, more like it,” said Arthur, shifting Hamilton to his other knee. “You’re a heavy little fellow, you know that?”
Hamilton, still holding Chef Maurice’s handkerchief in his snout, gave Arthur a hurt look that said he was merely big-boned, thank you very much.
That afternoon, Chef Maurice sent Alf out into Le Cochon Rouge’s rather overgrown vegetable garden to set up fences and clear the ground for Hamilton’s new home.
He prepared himself a late lunch of fresh pasta with grated truffle and parmesan, then picked up a knife and carefully cut several small chunks off the remaining truffle. These he buried all around Hamilton’s enclosure, while Dorothy, long-time head waitress and self-declared mother hen of Le Cochon Rouge, took Hamilton off for a much-needed bath.
All pink and scrubbed, Hamilton passed the truffle-detection test with flying colours, sniffing out every single piece Chef Maurice had hidden, as well as unearthing a few onions left over from last winter, an empty bottle of cognac (“How did this get here?” asked Chef Maurice, puzzled) and the spare keys to the shed.
Then it was early dinner—sow nuts for Hamilton, ox cheek stew for the kitchen crew—dinner service, then early to bed for all.
Arthur had donated Horace’s old kennel to serve as Hamilton’s new outdoor bedroom. Chef Maurice left his newly acquired truffle partner dozing happily next to a bowl of water and a small pile of sow nuts.
Time to get some rest, as tomorrow was going to be a busy day. Quite how busy, though, Chef Maurice had yet to find out.
* * *
A low fire crackled in the hearth, the only light source in the shadow-filled room. Two high-backed chairs faced the fireplace, at an angle suggesting that their occupants were rather more interested in the flames than each other’s faces.
A heated discussion was well underway.
“—said I’m sorry, how was I meant to know someone else would be—”
“You were
meant
to use your brain. What little of it there is left.”
“I’d never have had to be there in the first place if you hadn’t gone and sh—”
“You think this is
my
fault? After all your nasty habits and greedy little friends—”
“Fine. Fine! Look, we got what we wanted—”
“And then lost it!” The second voice was older, sourer.
“I’ll get it back. I know where to go—”
“After all the rain last night? No.” The second voice slammed down like a heavy trapdoor in a gale. “Leave it. You’ve caused enough trouble as it is.”
“Fine. Have it your way.” The first voice sounded petulant. And a little relieved. “When do you reckon they’ll find . . . it?”
“How would I know? All I know is”—there was a grim smile—“we’ll be sure to hear about it when they do.”
* * *
The next morning dawned, clear and brisk. Chef Maurice noted with satisfaction that Hamilton had finished off his midnight sow nut snack. There was no greater sin in his mind than an inadequate appetite.
Hamilton, who’d been running the perimeter, checking the fence in case the cows next door had invaded overnight, trotted over and nudged his empty bowl.
Chef Maurice shook his head. “They tell me I must feed you once a day only. Or else you become a fat
cochon
.”
Hamilton poked his bowl again with his snout, and gave his new owner a look so pathetic that Walt Disney would have been proud.
“
Ai
,
d’accord
, but if you become fat, it is not my fault.” Chef Maurice fished in his pockets, which were already bulging with sow nuts for this eventuality, and tossed a handful into Hamilton’s bowl.
While the little pig wolfed down his morning treat, Chef Maurice bent over him to fit a new collar around Hamilton’s stubby neck.
Gravel crunched and a large shadow loomed up behind them.
“And what do you think you are doing with that micro-pig?”
The voice was thoroughly thoroughbred, verging on braying, and belonged to a large tweed-upholstered woman with a clipboard.
This did not bode well, thought Chef Maurice. Nothing good in life, in his experience, ever came attached to a clipboard.
“We are going for a walk.”
Her beady eyes lit up. “And do you have a Pig-walking Licence?”
“Ah, a joke, yes?
Très drôle
,
madame
.
Non
, I have not a pig-walking licence. Now, if I may—”
The clipboard was thrust at his chest.
“Section XVI, part iii, sub-paragraph d), of the Registration and Movement of Livestock code, as issued by the Department of Environment, Food and Rural Affairs. All pigs, whether owned as pets or forming part of a commercial herd, must apply for and obtain a CPN reference number. In addition, pigs owned for pets or as a hobby must carry a Pig-walking Licence from your local AHVA office, which must be—”
“And who are you,
madame
?”
At their feet, Hamilton gave the newcomer’s boots a few exploratory snuffles.
“Helena Carter-Wright, founding member of the Friends of Our Fields Animal Welfare Trust. I was over at the sanctuary yesterday and Tara told me this little chap had found a home. So I thought I’d come see how he’s settling in. You know a pig is for life, not—”
“
Oui
,
oui
, not just for dinner— I mean, Christmas.” He glanced at the clipboard, then balanced it on top of Hamilton’s kennel. “But I can write for my licence later,
non
? Hamilton and I, we have most important business to attend.”
“I am afraid not,” said Mrs Carter-Wright, in the voice of someone who is most delighted indeed. “No licence, no approved walks. Health and safety is paramount, Mr . . . ”