My Dog Stupid (Mon chien stupide)

My name is Henri Mohen.

25 years ago I wrote a bestseller.

It broke all sales records and won every literary prize.

Since then, I write shit.

3 novels killed by the critics

and scripts I'll deny any connection to until the day I die.

It was raining cats and dogs.

I was in Paris, where my agent was hawking a crappy film

I felt I'd already seen 1,000 times.

I thanked him for his interest in me,

forgetting to say "fuck off"

so I could get home quickly.

We had a house on 5 acres of land,

close to both ocean and mountain,

which on a clear day you could make out.

Pretty, isn't it?

I was dying to sell it all off

and leave the country on the first Alitalia flight to Rome.

The Villa Medici, best years of my life.

I wrote my first novel in this inner sanctum of creativity.

Rome,

far from my wife Cécile, long before my four children.

Come on, enough already.

Come on... Enough, I said!

Every day I dreamt of a new life on the Piazza Navona.

Cécile had a lot going for her.

For 25 years she put up with me and stayed gorgeous.

Her beauty secret? A glass of white

and a new antidepressant every day we stayed married.

She gave me 4 children, 1 daughter and 3 sons

that I'd happily trade for a new Porsche.

Because now I knew

my depression, my backache, my lack of libido

and my writer's block was all their fault.

Because my 4 kids,

whatever the circumstances, had the knack of screwing up

all my attempts at happiness.

I lingered on the coast.

Despite living here for 20 years, I'd still get lost in rain and fog.

Fuck...

So, as usual,

I began the desperate routine of looking for my house.

Fuck you, Rommel.

6 months ago, that fucking Doberman

slaughtered Marcello, my favorite bull terrier.

Worse, he took pleasure in attacking me whenever I dared go home.

I was still dreaming of Italy.

But on that stormy night I still didn't know

that a big change was coming.

WEST OF ROME

MY DOG STUPID

- There's something here! - What?

- Come. - Why do you have that?

I said to come!

Why not call the fire department?

And die before they get here?

You drank too much again!

I don't drink. I get drunk.

See it?

Stop pointing that rifle at me!

A dog.

- Why is he here? - How the hell should I know?

Come on, boy!

Poor dog!

How could you bring that here?

It wasn't me! He has no collar. He's a stray!

I don't want it here!

We'll leave him alone.

He'll go when he feels like it.

He's dying. I won't let him die in my garden!

- So what should I do? - Call the SPCA.

They're closed till tomorrow.

- And? - Cécile... it's just a dog.

We'll leave him. He'll be gone tomorrow.

I'm sick of seeing you depressed since your dog died.

For 6 months, you're like a zombie, rude to everyone.

Are the kids back?

Just Raph.

Why not ask him to deal with it?

Don't be silly. He's a child.

A child?

He's 25!

If he's old enough for tattoos and weed,

he can get rid of that fucking dog!

- Who is it? - Me.

- Me? - Not, you. Me, your father.

I gave you life and half your DNA.

Family

Open the fucking door!

And turn off this music.

- Sup? - Go back to the casino?

Remember you owe me 200 euros.

Pay me back and I can skip these Paris meetings

that harm my mental well-being.

Okay, Dad.

Mess! What did you do today?

- Just chillaxed. - What?

- I don't understand you. - I saw Marie-Lise.

The stripper?

She's a dancer, not a stripper.

How about her? Dancer too?

Think about your mom and sister.

Mom always checks out my history.

Think I don't notice?

And my sister's room isn't near yours.

Enough. Get rid of the dog in the garden.

What?

There's a dog in the garden. Get rid of it.

You need me to get rid of a dog?

I give you a roof, weed, rubbers

and for once I ask a favor of you.

I'm too wasted.

Wasted again?

- It's for my back. - Your back is fine!

- Because I smoke weed. - Raph, deal with the dog.

You're such a coward.

You do it. You're in charge of me.

I'm not the father. You are.

You're stoned!

He's sucking himself. I'd love to be a dog.

- You and your dogs! - This isn't me!

I'll get him out.

He stinks. I like it.

Come on, buddy.

Come with me.

Come on...

Motherfucker! I'm not going near him!

- What now? - Sick of your dogs!

It's not my dog.

Why doesn't anyone listen to me?

Leave the door open and he'll go.

He'll follow me. Close the door behind me.

Come.

Come on...

Look what I made for you.

Come on...

Look how good this is.

It's so good...

Look, doggy. Look how good this is.

Fuck...

You deal with it.

Tonight's dinner?

Hugues will know what to do.

We're not sending him to Guantanamo.

- We're starving. - Hey!

Order pizzas.

- Problem? - The canine kind.

You got another dog?

- Pains. - Hugues, can you put it outside?

Yes... affirmative.

Find me a big towel or an old coat. I'll get him out.

- You don't have to. - Don't worry, baby.

I saw worse in Syria.

This okay?

Fine.

My raincoat!

Let him.

Come on, doggy.

We have stuff to say, don't we?

Come, doggy.

There you go.

Do something!

What is he doing?

Fuck!

Help me, dammit! Get him the fuck off of me!

You okay?

You were his bitch!

Shut up, Raph.

Mr. Mohen,

sorry to have to tell you,

but your dog...

is a fag.

Sorry to have to tell you,

and I understand...

it's a little...

but it's not my dog.

It happened to you. It could have been Cécile.

It'd have been a nice change.

Give me your rifle.

I'll use his brain as paint.

I don't think so.

- Mom? - Gaspard, a gay dog!

He just tried to fuck Hugues.

Shut up.

- He's into him. - Where's Mom?

Shut up!

In her room.

Jesus!

What's this essay you wrote for me?

- What now? - Wanna know?

You betrayed me. How could you write such shit?

I wanted it to look like you wrote it.

It looks like a retard did it.

- So he doesn't get suspicious. - I got an F.

He thinks a dunce wrote it.

It may not be my best...

I have an idea, Gaspard.

Write your own essays. Don't ask Mom.

She knows it by heart. It takes a minute.

It wasn't that bad. What do they want from me?