The Story of Jules Verne (An excerpt)

When I was a boy we had a saying and because of our youthful ignorance we had occasion to use it a lot. It was an expression of such magnitude to us then that it stayed with me and to this day when invoked, continues to confuse and annoy people, particularly my wife. The expression or curious retort, to be more accurate, was coined by my old childhood friend, Paul Thornton, and it was called upon whenever anyone had the audacity to ask us a question that we didn’t have a ready answer for – “How should I know; I’m not Jules Verne!” Hey, we were kids and those were powerful-sounding words to be sure, especially if you didn’t know exactly what they meant. But smart-talking kids, short on information, occasionally need a device that baffles and bewilders – and stops the youthful inquisitor in his tracks (lest they find out the depth of your stupidity). Invariably, these surly interlopers had the strangest expressions on their faces. When we were very young they seemed to be thinking, “Who is Jules Verne, anyway?” And later on as we got older, “What in the hell does Jules Verne have to do with anything; I just want to know what such and such four-letter word means!” Whatever; however, the device seemed to work. We thought ourselves cool and our fragile little egos remained intact. Best of all, we had a hero in Jules Verne, the man with the plan, The Man with All the Answers.

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Jules

As natural as that first quivering puppy point, my early interest in the out of doors, and particularly the sport of bird hunting was instinctive. And like any kid who ultimately grows up to become a bird hunter, I wanted above all else to have my very own bird dog. From early on I looked forward to it. First I dreamed of owning a Setter; then a Pointer. Ultimately I got a Brittany spaniel. But that was 25 years later and, as I look back, he was a Brittany, I am sure, but at the time, he seemed one of questionable pedigree. At least, I questioned it then and to this day still experience twinges of guilt for those early feelings of doubt. How could a friend’s bloodline affect the way you feel about him? And if it did, were you even worthy of that special friendship to begin with?

He entered our lives that day, a skinny foundling no one seemed to want. I can’t even take credit for the find. My wife, Gay, rescued the one to two-year-old dog on her own after quietly watching him for weeks. The pitiful pup had been hanging out at the stable where she kept her horses, apparently living off cat food and the occasional luckless mouse. Extensive efforts had been made around the stable to locate the stray’s owner, but to no avail. Finally, after overhearing the old codger who owned the place brag that he was going to shoot “the egg suckin’ cur,” she made up her mind. After all, hadn’t her husband been obsessing about owning a bird dog for years?

While preparing to go home that late summer afternoon, Gay looked over at the scrawny little red and white dog sitting there all by himself in the doorway of the old barn. He in turn watched her as he had done so many times before. Painstakingly, she packed up her tack that evening, her mind seemingly lost somewhere else -but not really. Occasionally throughout the ritual she’d look up and, with some difficulty, gaze down the long row of horse stalls toward the stable opening. The same incredibly depressing sight always met her eyes.

Grace (Gay’s given name) Y. Simmons was not a casual thinker. Nor was she a casual doer. To her, motherhood and marriage, career and household responsibilities were all matters of extraordinary weight. Every move she made required deadly serious deliberation, usually followed by a good dose of self-doubt and further deliberation. A last minute inspection of the horses’ water buckets that evening found them brimming. Good. She was a stickler for that one. Finally, confident that all was in order, she got into her car, started the engine and slowly began to drive away. Only this time the old Volvo wagon faltered a little at the turn, then came to a stop. As the car door swung open, the nice lady behind the wheel beckoned to the object of her discomfort. Twenty-one pounds of starving dog crawled up into that car and with a sigh, curled up on the floor and immediately drifted off to sleep.

Meanwhile, back at the agency, yours truly, probably fatigued from fending off yet another impatient media bill collector was carefully scanning the want ads in search of the ultimate bird-finding, canine treasure. For me, non-work related activities such as this often punctuated the normal workday and usually centered on some sort of hunting or fishing endeavor. These escape maneuvers were carried out periodically throughout the day – sometimes in epic proportions. No, they didn’t call me “Mr. Duck” for nothin’! I’d earned that nickname fair and square. Normal people may rely on the occasional coffee break to ease the stress and monotony of the workday. But for me, no coffee was ever strong enough or its aroma fresh enough. My adrenaline rush came from a daily infusion of the Great Outdoors. And if I couldn’t be there in person to enjoy it, then I’d be there in some other form. At this juncture in my life, bird dog shopping was my drug of choice. It had always been this way. For me, there was no escape like the great escape found only in the trusty woods.

Ah yes, the advertisement read, “For Sale:  meticulously trained, impeccably bred Brittany spaniel male.” Perfect, no doubt, out of some elusive French lineage! … “$1000.00, firm.” Oops, next ad, please! About that time there was a faint knock at the door. Opening it, I was surprised to see Gay standing there.

“I’ve got someone out in the car I want you to meet,” she said with a sweet smile spreading across her face. “Oh, and who would that be?” I replied. “Why, Jules Verne,” she taunted. “Who else could he possibly be?”

Jules didn’t come with papers. He came with heartworms and an unappealing appreciation for garbage that was born of living on the street and in the woods. It was an odd predilection that followed him throughout his life. When I first laid eyes upon him I was shocked. I had never seen a hunting dog so small or pitiful, even a Brittany!

“What do ya think? You did say you wanted a Brittany spaniel!” she ventured.

“Gay, I want a quality dog, not some kind of scab dog!” Oh, the Guilt!

“Just look at those eyes. They bulge! A hunting dog’s eyes do not protrude. They are deep-set in order to protect the animal in heavy cover. This dog is obviously no Brittany. In fact, I think he may instead be a rather large Pomeranian.” The Shame!

It was then that I looked into those shiny monkey eyes of his and saw for the first time, just a glimpse of Jules Verne’s inner soul. A kind of quiet dignity resided deep within those rheumy brown orbs and somehow, even under the direst of circumstances, he maintained a calm, trusting demeanor. I suspected then that for some lucky family at least, a very special relationship awaited.

“Maybe we’ll give him a try after all,” I conceded.

Wayne Caldwell Simmons operates the Simmons Studio and Gallery near Ellison Bay. Sporting art, portraits of people and pets, wildlife and landscapes all have a place in his art, but it’s his dogs that are recurring themes in his work. This selection is from the author’s forthcoming book The Story of Jules Verne, which is also illustrated with paintings by the author and artist. The book will be available in stores throughout Door County in October.