ZÉMIRE AND AZOR is the title of a comic opera by the Belgian composer André Grétry, based on the story of Beauty and the Beast. First produced in 1771, the opera was a great hit first at the court of Louis XVI in Paris, then at the czar’s palace in St. Petersburg. As a result of the opera’s popularity, Zémire—after Grétry’s heroine—became, for a time, a fashionable name among well-bred female dogs, a trend that may have been started by Catherine the Great, whose favorite greyhound was named Zémire. The dog, like the empress, lived to a ripe old age, and was lavishly commemorated after her death. A porcelain figure of the hound adorned the Grand Hall in the Winter Palace and a marble column was erected to mark her tomb, inscribed with an epitaph by the French ambassador Count Ségur.
Zémire is an appropriate name for Grétry’s soprano heroine: it’s a version of the Hebrew name Zemira (sometimes spelled Zemirah), used for both men and women, meaning “song.” In fact, Grétry was not the only composer to use the name. In the late eighteenth century, Francesco Bianchi wrote a three-act opera called Zemira; this is also the name of an overture written around the same time by the Afro-Brazilian composer José Maurício Nunes García. The Zémire who interests me most, however, is one who came even earlier—the spaniel who belonged to Madame Antoinette du Ligier de la Garde Deshoulières, a French poet and intellectual acclaimed as the “Tenth Muse” at the court of Louis XIV. Her literary distinction was unusual for a woman—her work was praised by eminent figures of the time, including Voltaire and Corneille. Also unusual was the talent of her dog.
Madame Deshoulières, perceiving Zémire to be exceptionally alert, taught her the meaning of a considerable number of words, along with the objects to which they corresponded. When her mistress requested something (a glove, a shoe, or a handkerchief, for example), as soon as she named the item, Zémire would run and fetch it. If, when the dog returned, her mistress had left the room, Zémire would refuse to relinquish her precious cargo; the only people she would allow to take it from her mouth were those who she could be sure would deliver it directly to Madame Deshoulières, such as her lady’s maid.
Language recognition isn’t unusual in dogs, though it’s rare to find a canine with such advanced linguistic skills as Zémire. Some, however, are even smarter. A 2010 article in the magazine Popular Science describes Chaser, a border collie trained by psychologists to identify and retrieve 1,022 objects by name. Chaser can apparently even figure out what object his trainers want when he’s never heard the word before. He demonstrates the ability to use “fast mapping,” a skill usually found in young children, whereby a hypothesis is quickly formed about the meaning of an unknown sound. Chaser’s abilities suggest that, while dogs may be unable to learn language the same way we do, they have an understanding that goes beyond the simple association of sounds and object, and are able to come up with their own assumptions about the meaning of unfamiliar words.
Language learning was only one part of Zémire’s repertoire; she was also a convincing actress. When her mistress said, “Go to bed, Zémire,” the spaniel would go and lie down prettily in her basket, pretending to snore. At the words, “Wake up Zémire, and make yourself look nice,” the spaniel would jump out of her basket, stand on a footstool in front of a mirror, and gaze at herself in admiration, glancing around to make sure her tail was straight. Apparently, this display of feminine vanity wasn’t entirely a performance—Zémire, it seems, was a naturally fastidious pooch. If she got dusty on her daily walk, when she returned, she’d go over to the hand basin and put out her front paws one at a time, demanding to be washed with perfumed soap. Still, when she visited her dog friends, she’d run and play with the pack, happy to get dirty for once and forget about her courtly manners.
The French literary establishment finally acknowledged Madame Deshoulières after she spent many years struggling for recognition. The greatest honor came with her election as a member of the Academy of the Ricovrati of Padua; shortly after this tribute, she was invited to attend a formal literary function at a private home, an occasion that was definitely not dog-friendly. For the first time, Madame Deshoulières left Zémire at home overnight. The dog remained in her mistress’s bedroom with plenty of food and drink, but the following morning, she was discovered lying dead on the bed, her food untouched. Upon discovering the tragedy, Zémire’s mistress reportedly declared she’d gladly give up all her honors and rewards to have her pet back by her side.
The story of Zémire’s death may well be apocryphal or exaggerated, but dogs, like humans, have really been known to die of a broken heart. Whatever the truth of this particular tale, it functions as a warning not to place too much value on academic achievements. Madame Deshoulières was highly intelligent herself, and perhaps for this reason, she valued intelligence in her dog. Yet in the end, it was not Zémire’s cleverness that mattered but her loyalty and devotion. Intellectual honors, however prestigious, mean nothing to a dog, and perhaps this is a sensible attitude. Grisby, as I’ve mentioned before, isn’t the smartest hound in the pack. He recognizes his name and understands the commands “sit” and “stay” (which isn’t to say he obeys them), but these achievements, when compared with those of dogs like Chaser and Zémire, are remarkably unimpressive. Still, if he were smarter, Grisby would be no happier, nor would we be more attached. In both humans and dogs, intelligence is overrated; most often, it leads not to a better quality of life but to neurosis, anxiety, and stress.
The Greek philosopher Diogenes said that humans would do well to study the dog. This is excellent advice, and Grisby is a perfect case in point. He never worries, for example, about where his next meal’s coming from or where he’s going to sleep—he’ll eat almost anything and makes his bed wherever he happens to lie down. He has no shame about toilet functions—in fact, he evidently enjoys them. His lack of self-consciousness makes him a joy to watch. When he finds an old dog chew under the couch, his delight is palpable. He’ll slobber over it for a while, give it a good chomp, then, crouching in a play bow, he’ll toss it up into the air, pounce on it, catch it, and run across the room with it in his mouth, as if his wad of slimy rawhide were a prize that everyone wants to steal.
To Plato, this capacity to find delight in small pleasures makes the canine “the most philosophical” of all beasts. In his prologue to Gargantua and Pantagruel, the French author Rabelais chews on Plato’s epigram. “Did you ever see a dog with a marrowbone in his mouth?” he asks. “If you have seen him, you might have remarked with what devotion and circumspectness he wards and watcheth it: with what care he keeps it: how fervently he holds it: how prudently he gobbets it: with what affection he breaks it: and with what diligence he sucks it. To what end all this? What moveth him to take all these pains? What are the hopes of his labour? What doth he expect to reap thereby? Nothing but a little marrow.” Right now, as I write, I can hear Grisby on the floor at my feet, demonstrating the truth of this, chewing on his favorite rawhide bone. The noises are symphonic: grunting, slurping, snorting, snarling, smacking his lips.
As humans, we can’t abandon ourselves so readily to our pleasures, mainly because we live in time. We always have one eye on the clock or calendar so we can plan our days, our weeks, and our years. Everything we do takes place within the context of an unknown future and a past that can’t be changed. Still, we dwell on both, fretting and festering—Why did I say that? What did I miss? What if I get sick? Will I be late? Why did I wear these shoes?
While she sits, making “signs on paper that no dog can read,” Princess Marie Bonaparte observes that her chow Topsy would sit at her feet and “simply inhale the scented June air.” This, she concludes, is why Topsy, “whose happiness is confined to the narrow limits of each day,” is wiser than her mistress, who feels compelled to capture each moment in words. This capacity to inhabit the present is one of the things I admire most about Grisby. He always seems so delighted to be in the here and now, to engage in life itself. This is best seen in the way he falls asleep. He goes from waking to snoring immediately, anywhere, at any time. The period between waking and sleeping states is when we humans lie going over things in our heads, replaying the day’s events, worrying about the future, about money, relationships, family. Did you ever know a dog with insomnia? This ability to go immediately to sleep is one of the many signs of Grisby’s carefree nature. He’s categorically untroubled. In the morning, he wakes, takes a stretch and a shake, and he’s right in the middle of life again. He never wonders where we’re going, or misses where we’ve been. For him, each moment stands alone, with no reference to the moments before it or the ones to come. The richness of his existence is especially remarkable given the fact that he does almost the same thing every day.
Every morning, for example, our routine is the same: I take Grisby around the block for a walk. Yet every morning, when he realizes that—yes, we’re going outside!—he runs to the door happily, looking up at me as if he can hardly believe his luck. He dances around in excitement while we’re waiting for the elevator; when we get to the lobby downstairs, he rushes ahead, straining on his leash. Out in the street, he bounds along excitedly, snout in the air, ears alert. He crouches or cocks his leg to urinate, then takes a big, happy dump. As soon as he’s finished, he kicks his back legs and dashes ahead with glee. He’ll stop at the parking meters, cock his leg again, and sprinkle a few more drops on some deserving post; then he’ll trot ahead, casting a backward glance at me that seems to say, “Hey, isn’t this great? Aren’t we having fun?” If we meet another dog, he’ll be overjoyed, bounding up for a shared sniff, as if to say, “Hello! Are you taking a walk? Guess what—we’re taking a walk too!” I’ve always been a depressive type myself, with a cynical disposition, but I can never be cynical around this bouncing bulldog. It’s impossible to be in the presence of so much joy without being lifted up by it, if only a little.
Yet although he may be a god to me, Grisby is mortal, like the rest of us, and starting to show his age. He’ll die, no doubt, in the next four or five years, a thought that makes me less unhappy when I remember how unaware he is of his own mortality. I remind myself to follow his example and live in the present instead of worrying about what life will be like without him.
This morning, we went to the park and he ran through the grass happily as usual, throwing me joyful glances from time to time. In Grisby’s mind, things have always been this way and will go on this way forever, the two of us together, having adventures every day. And in a way—a real way—he’s right. If it’s true that most of our feelings for our dogs are based on projection—if a dog’s “personality” is largely produced by our own unconscious—then I have nothing to worry about. Every dog I ever own will be a Grisby.