Breed Profiles

The Basset Fauve de Bretagne came into my life with a name already: Gus. He was the color of toasted bread and about as tall as a loaf is long, and the first thing he did in my house was fall asleep on my foot. I had been warned he was a hunting dog. What nobody warned me was how funny a hunting dog could be.

This is a small French basset, wire-coated and red, built short in the legs and long everywhere else. Gus moved like a low-speed rumor, nose to the ground, tail up, certain that the world was a series of interesting smells arranged for his benefit. He was not fast. He was thorough.

People assume bassets are sad, those droopy eyes and long ears doing the work of a mournful portrait. Gus was not sad. He was busy. The ears, I learned, sweep scent toward his nose as he works, which is a neat trick of breeding I did not appreciate until I watched him track a treat I had dropped under the sofa and find it through two feet of wood.

The voice, though. Everyone mentions the bark. It is deep, loud, and built to carry across a field, which is a problem when your field is a one-bedroom apartment. Gus discovered that the mail slot was a speaker, and the postman became his favorite operatic subject. I trained "quiet" the way you train anything with a hound: slowly, with snacks, and without expecting perfection.

He was stubborn in the way that reads as comedy if you are not in a hurry. A walk with Gus was a walk at Gus speed. I stopped fighting it. We went where the nose led, which was usually ten feet from the door, and we came back when he decided the investigation was closed. He taught me to slow down without resentment, which is a rare lesson from a twelve-inch dog.

Grooming the wiry coat was easy, a quick brush and the occasional strip of the dead hair, though I confess I let a groomer do the stripping. The beard collected water, food, and the occasional unknown substance, and I wiped it after meals the way you wipe a toddler. The long body meant I watched his back, kept him off high furniture, and never let him jump down from anything. A dachshund-length spine on basset legs is a structural compromise that rewards caution.

Food was his religion. Gus would have eaten the table if it were edible, and he learned the sound of the treat jar with alarming speed. I measured his meals and kept him lean, because a heavy basset is a basset with back trouble, and I had no interest in that bill. The counter-surfing was managed by simply never leaving food where a determined toast-colored dog could reach it.

He got along with everyone, which is the breed's quiet gift. Children, other dogs, the nervous rescue cat next door, all of them met a dog whose only agenda was affection and snacks. He was the diplomatic option, the dog you bring to a party and trust with the guests.

Age came gently. The legs stiffened, the naps lengthened, and the bark lost some of its volume. I added a ramp to the bed and softened his world a little, and he accepted the help the way he accepted each change: with a tail wag and a look that said, this is fine, you are doing your best.

People ask if a Basset Fauve is good with children, and the honest answer is that mine was gentle to a fault, but every dog is an individual and every child needs teaching. Gus tolerated the grabbing phase of toddlerhood with a patience I did not possess, and he removed himself when it got to be too much, which is the correct response and one more adults could learn. The breed's size makes it a reasonable choice for a family, provided the family respects the back and does not let the dog free-fall off furniture. A ramp or a lift costs nothing and saves a spine. I wish someone had told me sooner that the cutest habit, the leap onto the couch, is also the one most likely to end in a vet visit, and that prevention is quieter and cheaper than repair.

The one thing I would tell a new owner is that the comedy is the point. A Basset Fauve will not impress anyone at obedience class, but he will make your hard days lighter, and that is a trade I would make again without a second thought.

Gus is the dog I tell people about when they ask for an easy first dog. He is not easy in the training sense. He is easy in the heart sense. A Basset Fauve will not make you look like a professional handler. He will make you laugh, and then he will fall asleep on your foot again, and you will let him.