Brie or Me? Bringing Brie to Monaco
Bestselling author and political insider Ann Bracken, author of How to Break Into the White House, talks us through her experience of bringing her dog, Brie, with her to Monaco!
A lighthearted personal story about bringing a lively Labrador from London to Monaco. Through humorous memories of past pets and family life, Ann reflects on the challenges, chaos, and joy that dogs bring, and how one energetic dog has made such a paw-sitive impact on daily life in a city.
By Ann Bracken
“A dog’s life is short, because they are born knowing the lessons we spend a lifetime searching for.”
I try to remember this as I settle my three year old yellow Labrador, Brie, into life in Monaco.
Brie has been living in London with a wonderful dog walker named Fernando while I spent most of my time in Monaco after my husband passed away. I was reassured that she was happy, well exercised, and spending her days running through Battersea Park chasing tennis balls.
Everything changed when Fernando told me he was moving to Portugal. Suddenly I had a problem. I can only spend four months a year in London, so Brie needed to move to Monaco with me.
On the one hand I would finally have a companion. On the other hand I had no idea what life with a large dog in Monaco would be like. I did not know a dog walker or a vet. I did not know where to buy dog food. I was not even certain whether my apartment allowed dogs. Monaco is beautiful but it is small and there are very few green spaces. I had already noticed signs on the beach that clearly stated dogs were not allowed. Brie is not the kind of dog who is satisfied with a short stroll. She needs hours of running and retrieving a ball every day.
To make matters worse, Monaco seems to favour tiny dogs that can fit into a handbag. Brie is the opposite. She is closer to the size of a small pony.
My apartment is also smaller than the house she is used to in London, with polished floors and white furniture that is definitely not dog friendly.
Five days before the trip, a veterinarian arrived with a mountain of paperwork required for Brie to leave the United Kingdom and enter France. There were documents confirming her microchip number, her rabies vaccination, and a certificate stating she was healthy enough to travel. I also had to provide copies of my passport, written permission for the driver transporting her, several consent forms, and detailed information about her journey. It seemed endless.
At one point the transport company called in a panic because I had filled out several forms incorrectly and missed a few completely. The confusion was made worse because I now use both my married name and my maiden name. The vet had written one name on some forms while I had filled out others differently. Even the dog’s official name uses my married surname. It took a long phone call and many corrections before everything was finally accepted.
While waiting for Brie’s arrival I found myself thinking about the animals I have shared my life with.
When I was growing up in Muncie, Indiana we had a chocolate Labrador named Guinness. We named him after a cycling trip my family took in Ireland. Guinness was an unusual dog who taught himself to ring the doorbell whenever he wanted to come back inside. Instead of playing in the yard he would step outside, ring the bell, and wait patiently to be let in again.
My mother often hosted bridge parties and the guests were puzzled when the doorbell kept ringing and she calmly ignored it. “It is just the dog,” she would explain.
Guinness also loved car rides and would happily climb into the passenger seat even if someone was already sitting there. My late husband once had to throw away a pair of trousers after Guinness simply pushed him aside with his muddy backside.
Years later, when my son was small, I decided he needed a pet of his own. We began with two guinea pigs, which were not terribly exciting companions but were very enthusiastic about chewing cardboard tubes.
Eventually we added a cat named Fluffy. Despite the sweet name, Fluffy behaved more like the cartoon character Garfield. He hid in corners, hissed when approached, and stalked the guinea pigs with great interest. At night he roamed the house purring so loudly it sounded like a lawn mower.
Fluffy also had a mischievous habit of lying on his back with his belly exposed, inviting a friendly rub. Anyone who accepted the invitation quickly discovered it was a trap. His paws would snap shut like a Venus flytrap, claws included.
After the cat came our first London dog, a Labrador named Cookie. When we visited the breeder, one small puppy waddled over and cuddled up to my son. The breeder turned the puppy over, announced that it was a female, and said, “She chose you.” That was all it took.
Cookie became a beloved member of the family. She considered herself a princess and behaved as if she were not actually a dog at all. She claimed the white leather sofa as her personal throne and looked offended whenever someone else tried to sit there.
She was well behaved most of the time, though once she ran two miles home from Battersea Park after another dog snapped at her. She was waiting calmly on our doorstep when the frantic dog walker finally returned.
Cookie lived for thirteen wonderful years before we lost her to cancer. My husband was devastated and immediately began searching for another Labrador. Soon he called to announce that he had found a new puppy. He even suggested naming her Cookie Two.
When my son and I met the puppy, we could not resist her. She was the only puppy in the litter, which meant she had never learned to share with siblings. We named her Brie.
Brie quickly proved that she had plenty of personality. As a puppy she dragged me down Elizabeth Street in Belgravia, stopping at outdoor restaurant tables in search of food. More than one diner lost a napkin during our speedy passes.
She also had a habit of attacking my newspaper at breakfast and trying to steal food from the table. One proud moment came when she graduated from puppy school. Less proud was the moment she ate the certificate.
Now, years later, Brie has arrived in Monaco after a long journey.
Within minutes of stepping out of the van she began barking at everyone and everything. She barked at the concierge, at passing dogs, and even at a row of parked motorcycles.
I have hired a dog walker named Teddy who takes her across the border into France each day so she can run freely. After her first few days she has already managed to break into her bag of food and eat far more than she should have. The aftermath of that mistake required several emergency cleanups.
Despite the chaos, she is slowly settling in.
Monaco is extremely tidy and strict about cleaning up after dogs. There are bags provided on nearly every corner and plenty of watchful eyes. I am careful to follow the rules. Brie is not allowed to swim here either, although we occasionally sneak across the border into France for a quick dip in the sea.
She has already charmed several of the building’s concierges, though two of them remain less enthusiastic about her enthusiastic greetings.
It has only been two weeks, but Brie has already changed my life here. She has introduced me to other dog owners and added energy and laughter to my days.
Of course she has also claimed the white leather sofa as her own.
I often think of a quote by the columnist Dave Barry: “You can say any foolish thing to a dog and the dog will give you a look that says, Wow, you’re right. I never would have thought of that.”
Life with Brie in Monaco is certainly an adventure.
And as they say in Portuguese, a luta continua. The struggle continues.
Follow @annieinthewhitehouse
