Postcards from "Pension Milou'

The Case of the Vanishing Inner Ear

2010-01-09T09:09:00.014+01:00

Mia

Every day - well, at least twice a week - I tell myself I must update 'Postcards' but there's so much to tell that it becomes overwhelming...and so I do nothing. There's the Irish wolfhound who refused to come into the house, the dachshund that drove me insane with his barking, the labrador pup who is staying for 5 months and I don't take puppies... There's never time to sit and tell it all and so I don't write anything.

Of course there's always time - let's say I'm disorganised. But caring for other people's dogs takes time (although I do take less dogs than I used to) and there are my three photo blogs (two are updated daily) and now, as some of you know, I work as photographer and one of several journalists for a great new Monaco and Côte d'Azur website, providing articles and photographs. Take a look CITYOUTCotedAzur - it's currently in Beta and goes into full mode in March.

So, a new year and time to wish you a very happy one and to update you on my own dogs, Beau and Mia. Beau has been incredible sick - let me tell you.

Beau is the Bruno de Jura who came to live here about 4 years ago. He was living, at the time, in a dirty caravan at a refuge in the Var and was in a sorry state. Enormous abscesses under each ear and it was obvious nothing was ever going to be done for him. After three weeks of antibiotic treatment he underwent massive surgery - four and a half hours on the table - where he had both eardrums removed. The idea being it would remove the source of infection and it helped a little. Even so for the next two years a massive abscess appeared, every four months, on one or other side, below the closed ear cavities. We must have kept the pharmaceutical companies in jam with the amount antibiotics he consumed. Eventually after two years one side healed but the other side got worse in that the abscess became an 'open abscess' that is to say it never healed and 'ran' pus all the time. The vet said this was no bad thing as it would eventually drain. It never did and it stank. Poor Beau.

The vet agreed to open him up and see what he could do. By this time he'd been operated on twice. When I went to collect him my vet told me he'd opened him up, taken one look at the mass of scar tissues with nerves wrapped around it and realised he could do nothing as he only had to damage a nerve and Beau wouldn't shut his eyes again or be able to swallow. So that was that.

By now, he was totally unresponsive to all antibiotics and so I tried the homeopathic way. Changed his food, gave him all sorts of weird and wonderful homeopathic remedies. Nothing helped. And then about 3 months ago it was obvious he was in pain. I'm told that hounds have the highest pain threshold of any dog. Did you know that? I didn't. This meant poor Beau really was in pain.

The vet said the only way we'd discover the depth of the problem was to give him an ultra-sound which he had a few days later. That showed a large fistula running from the ear towards the throat but it didn't show a clear enough picture of what was going on deeper into his neck and head, so a few days later he went to Cagnes-sur-Mer, just along the coast from Nice, for an MRI - the nearest place on the Côte d'Azur with such a machine for animals. The next one is at Marseilles.

Meanwhile Beau was on morphine and quite happy in la la land. I wonder what visions he had and how many sangliers (wild boars) he chased.

Beau after the operation

The news wasn't good. His inner/middle ear was full of pus - an abscess - and the vet said it would be a massively invasive operation that had its dangers - again, the risk of his not closing his eyes for instance but it was that or put him to sleep and I knew he wasn't ready for that, despite the pain. It seemed to me that this poor dog had been in pain - less or more or at least discomfort - for most of the four years he'd lived here. Maybe this operation would finally give him a pain-free and comfortable end to his life. Beau is a wonderful dog, takes such a joy in life, is patient and kind and he's so funny he has me in fits of laughter at times. Would it work?

So off we went to Nice early one morning. I brought him home that evening, one very poorly dog - so poorly, he scoffed his dinner in five seconds. The next day most of the stitches broke open even tho he was wearing one of those protective collars. He'd not scratched the wound, it had simply not held because the flesh was so rotten from the years of abscesses. There was nothing to do - it couldn't be re-stitched. I had to clean the wound four times each day. I can tell you I did this with my eyes half closed. The wound was enormous and I seemed to look into his brain (I exaggerate of course but it wasn't much fun and far less for him, I'm sure).

Apart from wearing the protective Victorian collar, he also had one of his beautiful long ears fixed up over his head to allow air to get to the wound. This bothered him as it needed plaster on the inside of the ear flap to keep him up. Put a dressing there first and the ear immediately fell down. However, apart from a little discomfort from this plaster pulling a bit, he was - even from the day of the operation - so much better because the pressure inside his head was gone. The vet had removed the whole of the inner ear.

It took a long time to heal and it was a month before the vet removed the remaining few stitches.

Now, he's a new dog. There is no guarantee the infection won't return as Beau is riddled with staph and strep infections and always has been - at least since he came here - but for the moment it's pretty much healed, occasionally weeps a little fluid but not the dreadful pus we had before, so he's a happy camper and so am I. People assume he is totally deaf but if the other dogs bark, he is up with them. If I call him in a high voice, he doesn't hear. In a lower voice, he does. Perhaps to do with vibration but he hears and amazingly (!) he knows when the biscuit tin gets opened. Aren't dogs clever?

And what of Mia, I hear you say. Time flies. It is exactly a year since she and Mistral arrived. Mistral had to be put to sleep after three months as you know, leaving Mia behind. You can read about Mia's trials and tribulations and the dreadful Hell Hole she came from, by going back on this website. But just to tell you - and you can see it on the photos on this page, she is in amazing condition now, no physical problems at all. Of course she is still terrified of people and when I have a visitor she rushes outside, past the dreaded intruder and down the steps. Then she comes back to the French windows and barks endlessly. I leave the door open and she puts her head in but isn't brave enough to enter the house. This isn't fun in winter when it's cold and the door should be closed. But if I close it the barking starts again. Have you heard a hound bark? Huh! The solution - there is always a solution - is to go outside with a lead and the second it's on her, she pulls to get into the house. Go figure. Then she hides in a corner and occasionally, when she knows someone well, will come up to them, sniff and then lick their hand but then she runs back to her corner again.

When we are here alone she is the most contented adorable dog. Snuggles up to me on the sofa and when I come home, unlike most dogs here who just rush out into the garden, she always puts her big wet nose in my hand and wants me to fuss her.

It used to be I couldn't leave her in the house as she wrecked the place but lately I've tried it a few times and it's working. She's a terrible thief tho, but at least she isn't wrecking the place anymore. Oh happy day. Her thievery goes back to the days she was starved so I need to remember to put any food away. The first time I left her in the house with the others she got hold of a large pot of powder that a kind client had given me - something to help cleanse Beau's system. The dosage was a teaspoon a day. Mia ate the lot and worse once it got wet, it stuck to her ears, her legs, the sofa...great fun!

Mia is very attached to Beau but Beau could live without Mia. No matter - it works fine - two wonderful dogs.

Anyone who thinks it's not worth taking a rescue dog, she's an example of how wonderfully worthwhile it is. They both are. And whilst it may seem I've done a lot for these two dogs, believe me, they've done far far more for me.

Mia, showing off her double chins

Gator, the Service Dog...+ Mia Update

2009-08-22T12:41:00.010+02:00

Pension Milou welcomed two American 'allergy' dogs this week. One to visit and she'll stay here shortly. The other - Gator - he arrived yesterday. Both are Goldendoodles. Labradoodles and Goldendoodles - and other mixes - are dogs specially bred for people with allergies. How it is that the Poodle manifests itself in the coat and not the Golden Retriever (which is the allergic bit) I'm not clear.

And then I learned that one of them - Gator, the beautiful two and a half year old dog you see in these photos, is also a registered Service Dog.

Gator is trained to visit sick people in hospital and retirement homes - in other words, a therapy dog. He also does rescue work. His owners hoped he'd also be trainable as a water rescue dog but unlike poodles and golden retrievers (of which he's both) he's not crazy about water!

One of the massive side benefits of owning a service dog in America is that the dog is permitted to go everywhere with the owner - this means restaurants, hotels, shops, all places normally forbidden to a dog in that country. And airplanes. So when Gator flew first class with his owner from Florida to Nice, he flew in the cabin, lying at the feet of his owner. Now you know why he's called Gator...he comes from Florida.

Today, his family are taking a cruise from Monaco to Corsica and were really surprised Gator wasn't allowed on board. France and Monaco doesn't recognise the American Service Dog badge - or at least the owner of this cruise ship didn't. Apparently a small dog would have been allowed (Gator is a BIG boy) and perhaps a Guide Dog for the Blind (not sure about that tho) - so that's why he arrived at Pension Milou yesterday and he's a pleasure to have around. He's so good, so obedient - as you gather, I'm all for Service Dogs staying here...he's one beautifully behaved dog, yet he's having great fun playing with a little Westie pup who is staying here. As you can see from these photos, he settled in immediately.

Update on Mia: Mia has now been here for 8 months and you'd not recognise her. She is in great physical condition - adores playing with the other dogs. Sometimes I think she's a puppy, she so loves playing. She's still scared of strangers who call, but is getting better and better - rarely barks at them and 'wants' to come into the house when they are here but isn't quite brave enough. But still there is a vast improvement. And now, when I go out, I can leave via the front gate, rather than lugging up the back garden and out the back way. Such progress. And best of all, she is the most loving adorable dog when we are all here together - just the dogs and me - finally, she's happy. Again, thank you so much for all the comments and support during the last months with Mia and earlier with Mistral.

The Solution

2009-05-29T11:23:00.008+02:00

As I mentioned in the last post, things got pretty difficult for Mia. When I went out I couldn't leave her shut in the house as she wrecked it, suffering as she does (since Mistral's death) from chronic separation anxiety. I couldn't leave her downstairs because she was so fraught that she passed blood - and lots of it (I even took a photograph but don't worry I'm not showing it to you!) and I couldn't leave her in a cage upstairs because she cut herself to pieces trying to get out.

I tried her again downstairs, with even more medication to calm her, but it was even worse than before. Not only did she pass blood but when I got home and let her out she walked around the garden, stomach in spasm, passing blood every five minutes.

What to do? I couldn't leave her and yet I 'have' to go out. Around three weeks ago I was ready to put her to sleep. In fact I'd spoken to the vet about it. Sounds awful I know, but she was so fraught, so sick when I left, it was no life. A dog sitter wasn't an option. I'd be wary of leaving other people's dogs with a dog sitter - it's such a responsibility - and anyway, I never go out for very long and often it's at short notice, depending on the weather, for instance - when I want to take photographs.

Then my American friend, Candy, suggested I try leaving her outside in the garden/terrace area. I couldn't imagine that this would work. Had visions of Mia fighting to get out of the gate, howling (believe me, she has a real hound's howl) and upsetting the neighbours with the noise, perhaps even hurting herself even more than she already had trying to get out. However I had noticed that when I walk up the track to get the newspaper and mail, she didn't seem to bother if I went up the back way and out the top gate. If I left by the main gate, she went bananas. So one day I walked up the back way, drove the car to the top of the track ready for my escape. I came back down, shut all the dogs in the house except Mia and Beau - it seemed she would do better with company. Then I walked back up, as if I was simply going to the mailbox. My wonderful neighbour, Agnès, was on full alert, listening for crying, barking, scratching. I sat in the car up the top of the track for a while but all seemed well. Eventually off I went and when I got back - miracle - Mia and Beau were fast asleep on the terrace chairs.

Mia is saved!

Since then I've been out endless times - always walking up the back way to the top gate (great fun if you are a dressed up and it's raining) but now, instead of having to come back down the same way, I can drive down the track and enter by the main gate. I can also drive away from the parking area (no need to take the car up in advance) - she knows I'm leaving (I presume?) and if I go out the back way, no problem. Don't ask me the logic of it. I don't ask, I'm just happy. If I ever go out the main gate though - even for five minutes - she goes berserk.

She's in super condition now, skin healed, eyes clear, ears clean, she's put on weight and she's even stopped eating the Jade plant. She's terrified of people as I said but has no fear of the vacuum cleaner yet hates brooms. And she has started playing, particularly with little Choupette, the pug, who is a new client. They just love playing together.

Choupette had a tough start in life - she had to be operated for kidney stones at 8 weeks and also had demodectic mange (fortunately not contagious) which is now cured. She's put up with a lot in her young life but like all pugs, is so brave and such fun and has no idea she is a little dog. She started the games with Mia and Mia just loves her. When Mia plays with Choupette, she's like a puppy.

And now that we've solved the problem of my going out, I do believe she is a happy dog. What happens in winter, when it's cold, I don't know. I'm not addressing that problem yet. One step at a time...

Thanks so much to everyone for their support with Mistral and Mia. It's really been so helpful - you have no idea. Certainly Mia has had the most problems of any dog I've ever adopted but happily it seems to be working out for her at last.

The Melodramas of Mia

2009-04-24T10:45:00.002+02:00

We've had a lot of rain lately - grumble, grumble - but now the sun is shining and summer appears to be on its way. Soon I'll be complaining about the heat! Dogs love to eat young fresh grass and we've got than enough of that. Sometimes I think I'm looking after a herd of cows rather than a bunch of dogs. I've heard people say there must be something wrong with a dog if it needs to eat grass. I've never found this. In the wild a dog would first eat the stomach contents of their 'kill' and that would include grasses. My late lamented Milou ate grass once a month and then vomited bile. His way of getting rid of it. Far better than buying medication at the veterinarians.

Mia, not only eats grass, she chomps happily on my Jade plant - a succulent, often called a 'money tree.' There is a Chinese tradition that you place a Jade plant outside your front door to encourage the money to come in and another outside your back door to stop it leaving. Thanks to Mia my Jade plant is getting smaller and smaller. Perhaps a bad omen for my bank account. Maybe the world is in such a bad financial state because all our dogs are eating the Jade plants. Now that would be something new to blame, wouldn't it?

Mia has problems though. When Mistral died, she seemed not to bother at all - didn't look for her, didn't seem to miss her and then I realised she was becoming more and more attached to me. I had become 'her Mistral' and so when I went out, she suffered massive separation anxiety and then went berserk. It started small and got bigger until one day, returning from a trip to the market, I found curtains pulled down, curtain rail down too - bent screws, no less. Paintings off the wall, books all over the place, chewed this, chewed that. A nightmare.

I called the vet who told me there are two medications for 'separation anxiety.' One I was familiar with. Bosun, a dog I used to look after was given it but it made him very dopey, almost depressed and his owner eventually stopped using it. Sadly Bosun is no longer with us but you can read about that wonderful dog by clicking on the link.

The other drug is called Zylkene and is apparently made of a product that resembles the chemical in mother's milk and so, in theory, calms the dog. I started Mia on this and the next time I went out left her downstairs in a spare room. This room has an internal kennel - something I installed years ago in case I ever had a difficult or a sick dog needing isolation. It's not been used in years, in fact, it was full of my old suitcases. I cleared it out and made it comfortable for Mia. I left her down there for short periods to begin, got her used to it. When I went out though, it didn't work - she'd poop and pee and make a dreadful mess and the poop had blood in it. The vet told me this is because she is so upset, the poop gets bloody.The next time she'd poop - in the garden - perfect.

So then I hauled a very large cage upstairs into the living room so that she could be confined but would be with the other dogs. En principe, I don't like cages but I know they have their uses as a training device and some dogs see them as a secure sanctuary. My hope was Mia would do this. I started feeding her in the cage and she's quite happy with that but wants to come out immediately. I practiced with her during the day. 15 minutes at a time and eventually left her in the cage when I went out. For a couple of short periods, it worked, but then one day I came home from visiting friends for lunch - I was out 3 hours - blood everywhere. Not from her rear end but from her nose where she'd bloodied it try to get thru the bars. Her front feet were swollen too, where she'd gone crazy trying to get out . She had difficulty walking that evening and she was in one hell of a state about it all.

Since then I've not been out.

But obviously we have to solve this problem. I have to go out at times. We need food, I love my photography, I like to see friends. I've already cancelled a four-day trip to Italy and have declined several social invitations locally. That's all OK but we have to solve the problem. Indeed, five blogger friends are coming to visit in a couple of weeks - two will stay here, three in an hotel in Menton and I will be 'tour guide' and so will be out a lot of the time. I'm really looking forward to their visit. So, the problem of Mia has to be solved. Mia hates the cage and hurts herself. She's not happy downstairs but at least she doesn't hurt herself. But then she is alone. She can't be left upstairs, free, with the other dogs, because she goes bananas and wrecks the place. Oh dear.

I called the vet. We've doubled the dose of medication. Friends suggest a Kong toy filled with some interesting food to occupy her. Another suggested a hollow bone. I happened to have one of these and tried her in the cage yesterday (I didn't go out) but her concern at being shut in the cage was far greater than her greed for food.

On the other hand, there are improvements. When strangers come to the house, she doesn't stand outside barking non-stop. Yes, she stands outside but at least she doesn't bark. When she dares to enter the house, she'll sneak past the dreaded visitor and go sit in an armchair. This happened last night when a friend came to dinner. After dinner, he went up to her, gently - but she jumped off the chair, over the coffee table, onto the sofa. She is capable of relaxing tho - remember how she was with Mister Brian?

She is also in much better condition physically, she's put on weight, her skin is better although still quite dry but she has Omega oils for this. And when we are all here alone, she's content - even plays with other dogs on occasion but rarely takes her eyes off me.

This afternoon I have to go out as I need more of her medication. I'll put her downstairs where she can't hurt herself and with that hollow bone stuffed with soft cheese which I know she likes.

Let's hope it works.

Mistral

2009-03-25T10:47:00.012+01:00

It's been nearly a month since the last Mia and Mistral report.

At first, the days passed pretty well - life was good. Mia was still scared when a stranger arrived, yet there was and is improvement. She now plays with other dogs when we are all here alone. Mistral just ate (always hungry) - and the pair of them decided thievery was their forte. One day. whilst I was out, they broke into the kitchen area, pulled down the rubbish and wrecked it, grabbed a 15 kilo sack of dog food off the counter and promptly ate a quarter of it. Mistral's stomach was 4 times its normal size - I don't know how she walked. After that, I invested in four chains and four padlocks and now have to lock each babygate when I go out.

Then I noticed that Mistral seemed to be deteriorating.

To go back to the beginning, or rather the beginning of their new life here which seems ages ago but actually it was on the 30th December that they arrived here from their Hell Hole. Not that long ago.

On the day they arrived I remember thinking that Mistral could be pregnant. Her stomach was too big for her body - distorted somehow. Or perhaps she was full of worms but then she'd been wormed the day before she left Beziers.

When I took her for the first vet's visit we talked it over, we both knew she couldn't be pregnant and I put forward the idea that perhaps she had a tumour. The vet said she'd take a look when she opened her up to sterilize her. In the event, she wasn't able to do this as she was only dealing with the area of reproduction. When I collected her she suggested she should go on a diet. I put her on a Light Diet but within a week she started losing weight around the ribs yet that distended stomach never left her. I wondered if perhaps it was her disgusting habit of eating poop but I have to say the thought of a tumour never left me.

Last week I took her to the vet for a checkup. Her mammary tumours seemed hot (the vet had told me these can shrink back after sterilisation and mostly they had - the idea being that eventually they'd need removing). My vet took one look at her and said she had gone downhill since she'd last seen her. Her skin was much dryer and more flaky, and her stomach was bigger. She made an appointment for her to have an ultrasound. On Tuesday mornings (yesterday) a specialist in ultra-sound comes with her machine from Cagnes-sur-Mer to Cap d'Ail.

I knew we were going to find the worst so for the last few days, Mistral has been thoroughly spoiled eating whatever she wants and as much as she wants. You can see in the photograph above - taken three days ago - how big her stomach was and that's before spoiling her with extra food.

We got her up on the table and within a minute, the specialist found a tumour on one of the adrenal glands, which are attached to the kidneys. The ACTH hormone, produced by the pituitary gland, moves through the blood stream and signals the adrenal glands near the kidneys to produce corticosteroids. In a healthy dog, it is a self-balancing system. However, when a tumor develops in the pituitary or adrenal glands, the level of required corticosteroids is compromised. This leads to Cushings disease and that is what Mistral was showing signs of - poor coat, distended stomach - eventually it would lead to worse symptoms.

These tumors send inaccurate signals to various systems and cause an imbalance in the otherwise balanced body functions. All attempts made by the body to restore normalcy are of no use, and once Cushings disease has been contracted, it doesn't go away. This is why Mistral was crazy for food - (and eating poop) - all the wrong messages were being sent to her brain.

Some of these tumours are benign and can be treated to a degree, with the dog having a reasonable quality of life and some are malignant. The expert told me Mistral's was malignant and that eventually it would spread to the liver and lungs.

Mistral wasn't going to get better. I asked if she was in pain and the vet said probably not pain but that she'd be uncomfortable. I'd noticed an awkwardness in her walk and some difficulty in getting up off the sofa. We talked long and hard and I could see it was the moment - that it wouldn't be right letting her get sicker. Mistral has never been a happy dog, incredibly needy, craving affection all the time and never playing with another dog. She always had a look of desperation in her eyes - she always looked so sad. Even when lying next to me on the sofa - me stroking her - she was never able to relax and enjoy it but was continually tensed, pushing me, pawing me for more even as she got it. Nothing was ever enough. I don't know if this was caused by her early life - the endless litters she had and the abuse she suffered - and perhaps by her illness too - desperation for food, desperation for affection - the messages to the brain had got muddled.

So yesterday morning, she went to Doggy Heaven, eating a handful of biscuits as the vet put the needle into her.

I'm glad now that the vet didn't find the tumour earlier - at least she had nearly three months here living in comfort. I do wish though she'd had longer. God knows, she deserved more, so much more. But thank God that at least she didn't die in that dreadful place - she'd have suffered so - they'd not have taken her to a vet, they'd have left her to die.

In the photo below you see Mia on the coffee table with Dotty and Peggy, pug visitors - Mistral is yawning on the sofa behind her. So you can see how well Mia has come along. Mia, who was absolutely in the worst condition of the two on arrival, is now glowing with health physically - and learning to cope with people, albeit slowly.

And since yesterday, I have worried that Mia would keep looking for Mistral but so far - and it's now over 24 hours, she doesn't seem at all bothered.

I'm sorry to give such awful news. And thank you so much to everyone who has been so encouraging. You know, despite all this, I'd do it again. At least we got her out of that dreadful place and she had nearly three months of comfort and good food and love - yes, I'm sure she knew she was loved. Poor sweet Mistral. I do so wish it had been longer...

Kindness

2009-02-20T08:12:00.010+01:00

The two new dogs are doing well. Both are now spayed, stitches removed. Mistral has no obvious physical problems and isn't scared of people although she is a much sadder dog than Mia and incredibly needy, frenetically needy, and goes up to everyone for affection. She has been beaten tho and if I tell her off for eating poop (yeah!) she cowers, sure I'm going to hit her so we need another solution. Jicky, a reader of this blog, tells me Tabasco sauce will stop it for good and when I find a place that sells it in France, I'll be out in the garden sprinkling it on you-know-what. As it is, you'll find me half the day rushing about with a pooper scooper trying to beat Mistral to it. And you thought life in the south of France was sitting by the Mediterranean sipping champagne, didn't you?

Mia is terrified of the world, but at the same time, when no 'Big Bad Stranger' is here to scare her, she finds joy in life, she's naughty, she's funny. This morning - drum roll - she was playing with another dog for the first time. (see last photo) She's slowly gaining weight even though she eats three times the amount I give other dogs her size but I've seen this before. It can take a year for a very out of condition dog to come right. Her skin is much better, special baths no longer necessary as she rarely scratches now.

This though is the story of Mister Brian and Mia.

Some of you may have read 'The Day Lou was Stolen,' which tells the story Brian's French bulldog, Lou. Mister Brian has a wonderful food shop in Monaco called - you guessed it - 'Mister Brian.' Brian is Monaco's famous caterer, supplying superb prepared meals to everyone - from the person living alone who doesn't want to cook, to a party on a luxury yacht in the harbour to a full-scale society wedding. His chefs are superb and in all the years he's done this, he's never lost his personal touch. Any Brits reading this might have seen the ITV programme, Piers Morgan on Monaco, where Brian was interviewed several times.

Inviting Brian to Sunday lunch means you get a response such as, 'I'll bring the first course so do you prefer prawns, salmon or crab?' I wish I had more friends like that. Of course when he arrives, there's usually a to-die-for chocolate dessert and a bottle of very good wine as well. He and Lou came to lunch a short while ago. Brian's girlfriend, Ester, is in Costa Rica at the moment. If you'd like to see a photograph of the two of them wearing plastic bags (!) - honestly - click on the link.

Mia, as I said, is terrified of any stranger and in particular, men. When a visitor arrives, she'll bolt out of the door as soon as she can get past them, and then she'll stand outside on the terrace barking non-stop. Not helpful. Later, she'll come to the open door, peer in and run away again. When I go outside and catch her, which is no easy task when a visitor is here, as I go to put a lead on her, she'll cringe, eye tight shut, waiting to be beaten. I'd like to get hold of the person who did this to her...

After Brian and I had lunched - and lunched very well, as you can imagine - I got Mia back indoors. Brian adores dogs - he's rescued dogs in Costa Rica and it goes without saying that Lou and he are inseparable. Whilst I was making coffee, I looked up and saw Brian trying to make friends with Mia. He spent a very long and uncomfortable time sitting on the edge of the coffee table, talking to Mia (sweet Lou putting up with it). Mia was on the sofa (yes, there's something wrong with who sits where in this house). He stroked her, he kissed her, he worked on getting her confidence. He was determined she'd not end that day without knowing a man can be kind to a dog - and how kind is that.

Well the photos say it all really. I'm sorry they are rather blurred. It was the way the light was that day - well, that's my excuse, but I did want to show you.

Brian's time with Mia is an example of how patience and love can sometimes overcome anything--even something as horrific as Mia's previous life. Of course, she's still scared of every new person, and it's almost a pattern that needs breaking, but I feel sure time and good friends will help her. And sometimes she's scared of me - for instance if I put on different clothes to go out, then she'll run away from me. Who is this 'new' person? But Brian's time with her has really helped her on her way.

It's so worthwhile to adopt a dog from a refuge. Mistral and Mia's Hell Hole was an extreme situation but most refuge dogs just want a home of their own again. The rewards of opening your heart to a shelter dog are beyond category. When you see them relaxed, in good condition, asleep or better still, playing and having a good time, it's so worthwhile. So if you are looking for another dog, do go look in the shelters - you'll find old dogs, middle aged dogs and puppies. There is a choice but no one ever wants the old dogs, so do consider one of those. People don't want old dogs because they'll not have them for long and they don't want to go through the sadness when they die but when they die, get another in their memory because that's what they'd want - the love continues - we don't run out of it. Suffice to say we get back far more than we give - that's for sure.

'Les Girls'

2009-02-04T08:24:00.008+01:00

And update on Mama Mia and Mistral - 'Les Girls' as Virginia, their avid supporter from Birmingham, Alabama calls them.

Mistral - well basically she's fine. She was spayed and is now over that. She in pretty good form - incredibly needy (more so than Mia who was in the worst condition of the two). Mistral weirdly has an uneven face. One dewlap is normal and on the other side, it's very short. The vet doesn't know why any more than I do. Was she born like that, was she beaten? There doesn't appear to be any scaring but she's certainly one lopsided looking dog.

Mia has problems (she's the one photographed here) but on the other hand you can see she is looking much better. She has been eating three times the amount of the others yet has only gained a little weight. Her skin is improving but it's not right yet. Last week she went to the vet for a check-up and the two special baths she was having have been stopped. The vet felt they were perhaps drying her skin too much.

And on Monday she was sterilised. (these photos were taken before the operation) She bled a lot and she needed a lot of anaesthetic. When the vet opened her up she found enlarged lymph nodes - perhaps not good news, we have to wait and see. She also wanted to remove one toe. It's infected and is three times the size it should be. After x-ray, it was hard to tell if it was a tumour or what, so removal seemed the best option. Because she bled so much tho and because she needed so much anaesthetic, the vet decided not to do anything with the toe for the moment. The x-rayed showed it's not a tumour but is badly arthritic and could be painful for her. So we'll see how it goes. At the moment it doesn't seem to bother her and as the vet said, if she has lymphoma why bother her with another operation. Once she's over this op, she can be given anti-inflammatories, of course and that might help. She also has a heart murmur. Lots wrong with our lovely Mama Mia.

And Mia is a dog who is sick in the car. Boy is she sick in the car, even if she hasn't eaten, she'll manage to throw up something...

Yesterday, the day after the operation, she was still poorly but today she is much better, eating well and taking note of life.

So sad if she does have cancer but on the other hand, even if she doesn't make much older bones, at least she has a comfortable sofa to sleep on and that was the whole point - to give these dogs a good ending to their hard lives.

She is still terrified of men, of course, and the camera - she looks at it and thinks a bullet is about to hit her between the eyes.

So everything is now done. They've both been sterilised, they've had their innoculations, loads of wormings, skin treatments, good food. Now it's just a question of time and getting healthier. I know from the past, this takes time and we've lots of that.

Thanks so much to everyone who has been so encouraging and taken such an interest in these two dogs - they say Woof Woof and thanks to you.

The Blind Dog

2009-01-24T10:30:00.004+01:00

No, the light hasn't caught her eyes, Goldy, the cocker spaniel is completely blind. (I didn't see the grass on her nose till later but then Goldy uses her nose all the time).

Goldy has been coming to Pension Milou for a few years now. She's eleven years old and was bought in a shop in Nice when she was just four months. She lives with a beautiful French lady called Catherine and her two children in Monaco and in La Turbie where she enjoys the garden. Two years ago when Catherine went through a divorce, sweet Goldy was there for her. And Catherine has always been there for Goldy - it's a relationship that is beautiful to see.

When Goldy was one year old, she was diagnosed with degradation of the retina and Catherine was told she would eventually go completely blind. She deteriorated but for years still had the tiniest amount of sight and so she managed very well here, finding her way down the steps to the garden. She'd even go on the ski lift with the family when they visit Valberg - and she still does.

Catherine and I used to discuss how Goldy would manage when she went completely blind and I told her I was sure , because she was so familiar with her Monaco apartment and with this house and garden, that she'd do fine.

I was wrong. One day Catherine called to say that Goldy had suddenly gone completely blind and that she was at a standstill. She wouldn't move. It took a month before she found her confidence and could find her way around her apartment alone. The same happened here. She was terrified, frozen to the spot, and I had to guide her everywhere for the first few visits.

But you know, dogs are amazing. Goldy is so brave. She now walks around, nose glued to the ground - that's how she finds her way about - she moves slowly, especially going down the flight of steps to the garden. But she manages. She won't be rushed. She trusts her nose more than me. She sleeps in the kitchen, behind a baby gate. I feel that is best for her. She has security with no other dogs to bother her. I was concerned some of the dogs wouldn't understand why she doesn't react as other dogs do and so perhaps could hurt her. In fact, at times, when she's with the dogs outside, they are fine and she always likes to sniff them and say hello. She knows the kitchen area though - she can find the water bowl, she knows where her bed is located.

Her head is always on one side, cocked, listening for sounds. When I go into the kitchen, she perks up - is it food time? Goldy loves her food. And she is so trusting. When it's 'biscuit time' before bed, she stands there waiting - she knows I won't forget to give her a biscuit. Or two.

Dogs astound me. They are brave, they don't complain, they even enjoy life despite their physical problems. Didn't someone say, 'Everything I learned, I learned from my dog?' That is surely so.

Every dog I've owned has taught me something different and some of the dogs who come to stay teach me too. There are new challenges with Mistral and Mia. With Mistral I'm learning patience as she won't allow me to relax on the sofa. If I'm reading she'll paw the book out of my hand for attention. She isn't yet able to sit beside me, me stroking her, she has to continually push and prod me for yet more. Not very relaxing when I want to watch the television. Patience, Jilly.

Mia is scared of strangers and has obviously been beaten by a man as she goes crazy when she sees one, wanting to get as far away from him as possible and telling me with her continual barking that this dreadful creature is in the vicinity. Yet, she's not as needy for affection as Mistral. She's happy to sit alongside, just so long as she knows where I am. With her though I have to deal with her mad crazy barking when I prepare the food. Any other dog I'd tell to be quiet. With Mia, I'm trying Cesar Millan's (The Dog Whisperer) technique of saying quietly and calmly - but definitely - 'Psst' - and slowly we are getting there. There is improvement with strangers - she too is brave - she sometimes ventures up to sniff a hand, but then runs away again. We'll get there...

From our dogs, we learn how to love unselfishly. We learn compassion, patience, how to fall about with laughter and so much more. Goldy taught me about courage and not to complain. It can't be easy for her to stay at Pension Milou and when Catherine comes to collect her, she goes crazy and is truly happy again. It's almost as if she knows Catherine has to go away sometimes and so she bravely puts up with the time spent here. Goldy is a kind dog. Another lesson.

Post Op Blues

2009-01-16T11:08:00.008+01:00

Update on Mistral...yesterday she was sterilized and whoopee, no bad things were found. The vet did remove a polyp from her insides and explained that is probably why I saw blood coming from the vulva.

She does have loads of mammary tumours though but the vet said these might get smaller now she's been spayed. Apparently they are hormone dependent, so fingers crossed. If not, she'll need those stripping out at some point. Hopefully they are not cancerous. She's obviously been over-bred and has also had puppies left on her for too long.

And she's also on a diet but I've not told her yet. Now that she's been sterilized I know from experience how important it is to keep weight off during those first months whilst the hormones are going crazy. If you don't, it's so hard to get it off later. In Mistral's case, she really had too much weight before we started but there was no choice - it had to be done.

She's doing well today, staggering about a bit but wouldn't you? She must be very uncomfortable but she ate some breakfast, so all appears well with the world.

In the not very good photograph below, you see the Pension Milou Sick Bay - Beau on one side with his bandages and Mistral on the other - a small plaster in the centre of her stomach.

Mia, meanwhile, is progressing. She needs more weight, the skin needs to improve but it is. Time is what she needs and hopefully we've both got plenty of that.

So far so good at Pension Milou. And thanks again to everyone for their support. En pension at the moment, is Maya, the Golden, Maggie, the Red and White Irish setter and Daisy, the Border Terrier - all are spayed so they are all being most understanding of Mistral!

Beau's Bandage

2009-01-15T08:36:00.007+01:00

This is Beau, doing his best to look pretty pathetic. He's had enough of the new girls hogging this blog and decided it was his turn.

In fact, this operation had been planned a while ago. When Beau first came here from the refuge nearly three years ago he had a four and a half hour operation to remove both eardrums - his ears, neck area, down to the saliva glands, were full of infection. Indeed he still has a staph infection within himself. For two years following that operation he still kept getting abscesses on each side, just below the ear area. Then about 9 months ago one side (fingers crossed) finally healed up and since then no more abscesses but on the other side, he's had what the vet calls an 'open abscess' for months. The vet offered to operate again - free of charge, which is much appreciated - to see if it could be cleaned out and so solve the problem. Antibiotics by the way did zilch. I should think Beau has kept one of the pharmaceutical companies who manufacture antibiotics in business these last two years or so.

So a couple of days ago he was operated on but really there wasn't much the vet could do. Apparently he has loads of lumps and bumps - scar tissue - (he'd already been badly operated before the ear drums were removed) and this scar tissue is muddled up with nerves that operate the eyes, the throat etc. The vet said that unless we do an MRI scan and then micro-surgery it can't be done. It's too delicate and dangerous. So he's all bandaged up and really that's that. As the vet said, at his age - we don't know Beau's age but think he's over 10 - we'd not put him through a fourth operation. So hopefully, the clean-out might have helped a little, if not, we are back to cleaning the area every day as it oozes pus and sometimes, if we are lucky, just clear liquid. Beau accepts all this and even wags his tail when I bring the bowl of water to clean the area - he's that used to it now.

Note, in the photo below, Beau sitting on my coffee table. This cushion was put there for small dogs, not big ones! Note also how scratched the wood is. I suppose you could say it's dog antiquing. So, not only do I not have a proper sofa (you see the wrought iron daybed in the background) but I don't have a coffee table and I also don't have a comfortable chair. Beau takes that when he's not on the cushion and the new girls take the sofa along with various dogs who stay here en pension.

Update on the girls: Today Mistral goes to be spayed. Hopefully the vet will not find anything amiss and I'll report on this blog tomorrow. Mia, meanwhile, is eating like the proverbial horse but not putting on any weight that I can notice. Her skin is marginally better but she has a long way to go yet. In herself though, she is a much happier and more relaxed dog, unless a man appears and then she is terrified. Thank you so much to everyone for your comments and support. It means so much.

The Visit to the Vet

2009-01-08T11:31:00.000+01:00

Mama Mia and Mistral have now been here for 10 days and today we went to the vet for a check-up. We got back half an hour ago but as both were sick into every nook and and cranny of the car, I've been busy cleaning up. Yuck. I should know better and not have fed them this morning, but they weren't sick on the drive from the Languedoc so I thought they'd be OK. In hindsight, probably they weren't fed before that trip. Thank God, for leather car seats.

The day after they arrived, Mistral came into season - or so I thought. The blood tho stopped within a few hours then about 4 days later it started again. This time I checked her thoroughly and whilst it was coming from the vulva, she definitely isn't swollen or in heat. Two possibilities occurred to me - 1. that she has something wrong inside, like a tumour. 2. That she's pregnant and is aborting a re-absorbed pup!

So the vet checked them both over thoroughly.

Mistral: She doesn't think she's pregnant and we've booked her in for sterilization next Thursday. If she does have pups, they'll be removed. (If you are 'Right to Life,' sorry, there are too many adult dogs seeking homes, let alone unborn pups) Mistral is in far better condition than Mama Mia. Mistral's heart is good, teeth pretty clean, no ear problems, skin pretty much healed and she is even getting too fat now. We have to wait and see what the vet finds when she opens her up.

Mama Mia: She's in a far worse state even tho there is vast improvement from when she arrived. She has a heart murmur, her skin is still very bad although it's far less inflamed than before. We continue the baths for both of course but Mia has been given some special fatty supplement to help her skin. Her ears are disgusting and we now have a different treatment for them. She also has an infected toe which I didn't notice till this morning so that needs treating. She doesn't appear to be putting on weight but she is looking better. I can't give more food else she gets an upset tum.

Both continue antibiotics for several more weeks. Both cough occasionally but vet says it's a throat problem, not heart - simply from the conditions they've been living in. Should improve with luck. They cough after drinking water.

Getting them into the car was easy. Getting them out was easy but walking them through Cap d'Ail was a nightmare - at least it was was Mama Mia. My friend, Laura, met me and she walked Mistral (Mistral loves everyone and was no problem). Thank you, dear Laura, I couldn't have managed without you. I took Mia's lead and she practically had a heart attack every time she saw a man. Really I had to drag her through the street. She is absolutely terrified of men. If a man comes here she runs off and doesn't stop barking until he leaves. Last night a new dog arrived for interview (all guests at Pension Milou have to undergo an interview) - well she was terrified of the husband. Next time a man visits, I'll shut her in the kitchen, behind the babygate, and hope she settles. She's obviously been beaten, abused, whatever and by a man.

As for Beau, my beautiful Bruno de Jura, he didn't speak to me for two days after they arrived. You can see Beau - big black hound - in the smaller photo. How he knew they weren't normal visitors but were here to stay, I don't know, but he did. Beau came from a refuge nearly three years ago so he's a needy dog too. Then suddenly on the third day (and of course I fussed him like crazy and told him he was my very best and number one dog) he relented. Wagged his tail, came and sat with me and amazingly now totally accepts the two new girls. He doesn't care for dogs approaching his chair (re-read that - he doesn't care for dogs approaching MY chair) but now, when Mama Mia and Mistral approach, he accepts them - indeed, some mornings I find all three asleep together on the sofa.

Mistral has been trying to escape. Someone needs to tell this dog she's onto a good thing here. I told her if she keeps this up, she goes back to the Hell Hole. Only kidding... Hunting dogs have such a strong instinct to hunt and all around here are wild boar and all sorts of good smells so it's understandable. Anyway, she can't escape even tho she looks and hopes.

Progress. Now to air the car out and try and get rid of the smell. What fun...

If you think saving these two dogs is good news, I tell you it's nothing. Please take a look at Bibi from Belgrade's post today. This woman is a saint! 250 dogs and counting - all looking for a home.

So where am I supposed to sit, then?

2009-01-04T09:47:00.006+01:00

These two poor dogs are getting somewhat above their station. After the horrors of the Hell Hole, you'd think Mama Mia and Mistral would be happy with the two comfortable beds I provided for them. Nice and big, with soft cushions and vet beds on top. Oh no! Yesterday they got up onto the sofa twice. Twice I told them to get down. And then, when I woke up this morning, there they were - and so here they are... (Please click on the link if you are new to this story).

So Beau has my chair and sometimes the cushion on the coffee table (usually the domain of the smaller dogs) and now the sofa has gone too. So where do I sit?

I hear you say this is a very strange looking sofa and you'd be right. I used, in another lifetime, to own a normal sofa, but when you look after dogs for a living it doesn't work. Someone comes in and pees against it, another is sick on it. Forget it! It's easier to have a wrought-iron day bed like this - you can wipe it down if necessary and change the bedding all the time. I keep telling myself that one day I'll get one of those deep sofas, enormous soft cushions, preferable white - but of course I know I never will.

Yesterday I went shopping for the first time since the new dogs have been here - left them for just over an hour. I so hoped they'd behave, not wreck the place, not pull stuff off the kitchen counter, not attack the closed door. I so hoped because tonight the plan is to leave them and go out to dinner in Menton with friends. When I got back, I listened outside the door. Not a sound. Opened the door and nothing...everyone was fast asleep. Mama Mia opened one eye and went back to sleep again. Mistral got up slowly. Beau didn't move, as per normal. The three little bichons, en pension, barked like crazy and Goldy, the blind dog in the kitchen, got up to say Hello. All was well. What luck, eh?

Another two baths each tomorrow and then to the vet mid-week for a check-up to see how they are doing, how their skin in particular is doing. I'll report after that.

Heads down, Tails up!

2009-01-02T12:54:00.006+01:00

More progress...today is the first day Mama Mia walks around the garden with her tail up all the time. Apologies for her head being blurred - she's the one in front. Mama Mia has yet to hone her modeling skills.

Yesterday was bath day and thanks to my wonderful neighbour we managed it. They were shampooed in two different products, each left on for 5 minutes and today Mia's skin is so much calmer - less red, less inflamed. Mistral doesn't have anything like the skin problems of Mia. Next bath on Monday.

I walked up the track to the mailbox just now and shut the front door with a key as if I were going out for a while - just a test. I was away perhaps 7 or 8 minutes and when I got back, much barking and howling was going on and papers pulled off the kitchen counter. Next time I leave, I'll go for a little longer and slowly they'll realise I'm not abandoning them. Mind you, I've a feeling they might be enjoying the chance to get into what they shouldn't...

Looking outwards...to their new lives

2009-01-01T10:38:00.008+01:00

It's the morning of their third day and already they are getting more confident. (Scroll down for the dreadful story of Mistral and Mia - which gets better by the day!)

Last night, when they heard fireworks, they barked (howled) like crazy and wanted to go out. Most dogs are scared. They went off to investigate - I think they thought they heard gunshots and were off to hunt...

And a clean house this morning and already Mia, the worst at walking, is beginning to trot about the garden so much more easily.

Today is bath day - two different products for the skin and each to be left on for five minutes. This should be fun!

Thanks for all the kind comments, but you know looking after dogs is what I do - so it's easy for me.

In the last photo, you see Mia with a couple of the dogs en pension for the New Year - Maya the golden and little, Snowy, the bichon.

Meet Mistral and Mama Mia

2008-12-31T10:09:00.009+01:00

Meet Mia and Mistral. They were called Maya and Miss but for their new lives here, they have new names - but names that sound similar.

When they were taken out of their Hell Hole yesterday, the owner had to sign papers and apparently he shed a tear when they left! Oh really! As my best friend, Candy, in America wrote:

"I truly think the guy who kept them in that condition should bloody well be put in a pen and forced to live on top of his own shit for 8 years. Punishment fits the crime. Asshole." Too right!

Within about 15 minutes of their arrival, they seemed to know it is 'OK' here and since then have followed me everywhere. A miracle! Their temperaments are absolutely superb. Mistral (the blacker one in last pic below) is confident with everyone. My neighbour came to visit them yesterday evening and she went right up to her. Mia on the other hand is terrified of people, but as I said, now trusts me. They freely wander the garden, even tho, they wobble a bit. They have absolutely no muscle and when they wake up, they have some difficulty in getting up. Hardly surprising as they've been confined to a 2 metre square area of excrement for 8 years.

Both are in bad physical condition, particularly Mia who continually scratches and bites herself, poor dog. Her skin as you'll see in the lower photograph is very bad. Both are on antibiotics, have had special baths after the flea infestation was removed and tomorrow, they get more baths. It will take time. They have a bacterial skin infection caused by the conditions under which they have lived for so long. They have both had loads of litters too, as is obvious by their large nipples - particularly Mistral.

Feeding time is crazy - both are frantic for food, even tho Mistral is actually quite fat - fat with bad quality food tho. They are used to eating out of the same bowl but I've learned I have to separate them - and then encourage Mia to eat. She is the timid one and it is Mistral who has eaten most of her food in the past.

I woke to two enormous puddles this morning - tonight I'll let them out in the middle of the night, which is no big deal for me as I wake up anyway. And Mistral is in full heat today. Wot fun! Once they are in condition, they will be sterilised, of course.

Tomorrow, pictures from the garden and more progress - and a big thank you to everyone for their encouragement. It will take time but really the main thing I worried about was their temperament with other dogs and it's perfect. They totally accept and interact normally with other dogs. Just people are a problem for Mia. As for letting them out free in the garden - they love it, wander about and come back in when they are ready.

Out of the Hell Hole

2008-12-30T13:03:00.006+01:00

Today is going to be a big day at Pension Milou. Two new dogs are coming to live - forever - at Pension Milou. And no, that's not Pension Milou in the photograph - that's the hell they've been rescued from. (Thanks to Michele for the photos)

The dogs - two female hunting dogs around 8 or 10 years of age - have been living (if you can call it that) in the Languedoc - around Beziers (about 4 or 5 hours from here) - in a roughly 2 metre square run for about 8 years. Never let out of this small area, never cleaned out and living on top of 8 years of their excrement, estimated at about 2 or more feet of it. Can you imagine?! Their food and water bowls filthy with poop too. The food was simply thrown over the top of the fencing and was mostly stale bread and I suppose some dog food, else they'd be dead. Look at the photos and look away - happily they were taken out of here yesterday morning.

Let me explain how it is they are coming to live, for the rest of their lives, at Pension Milou.

Two nights ago I got an email with the photos you see here. I nearly didn't open the email. I can't bear to look at suffering animals and we all get dreadful emails, don't we? This was addressed to me though (not spam) by a great lady called Michele, who runs an animal rescue organisation (Comite de Soutien a la Cause Animale) in this part of south -western France. She'd been told to write to me by another organisation, Sans Collier Provence, who knew I already had a rescue hound.

Well life is good or bad timing, isn't it? First of all, I had several trips away this year and even though I had a good time, for the first time in my life, I found myself missing home. Old age? Anyway I'd made the decision I don't want to travel again. To say never, is a long time, but that's how I feel at the moment. In addition to this, I missed out on saving an Old English Sheepdog last Christmas. I still think about that and regret it dreadfully. With hindsight she could have been saved, although at the time circumstances didn't allow it. Hindsight is a fine thing! She was put to sleep. One day I'll write about but it's still painful to think about and caused me sleepless nights for months. 'My breed' too, as I used to show and breed Old English, which made it even worse somehow.

So when the email arrived, with photos of these poor dogs, I had to do something. Not just for them but for me.

After one phone call, Michele said she'd arrange to get the dogs out the following day - that was yesterday. I had one proviso tho - they must be tested for mange. There is no way I could take a dog with mange, particularly sarcoptic mange, as it is highly contagious and difficult, if not impossible, to eradicate properly.

Getting the dogs out and into a car was not easy. The dogs were traumatised. Imagine living in such a tiny space for 8 years, never let out. They were taken to the vet immediately. Just think of the smell in the car? The vet treated them for their massive infestation of fleas. He took skin scrapings and after checking under a microscope, confirmed there is no mange. Thank goodness. They do have a dreadful bacterial skin infection tho. Later they were taken to a dog grooming salon where they were bathed in an anti-bacterial veterinary shampoo and again in a special gel to help rid the skin of bacteria. This must be done twice a week for a month. They are on antibiotics for their terrible skin and also they've been wormed and this morning, apparently, they passed loads of tapeworms (hardly surprising with all the fleas on them as the flea, of course, is the host for the tapeworm). Thankyou so much to the ladies who coped with getting these two dogs out of this hell and into the vet and later to the grooming salon and then back to one of their homes.

The story of these two dogs is that they used to belong to a hunter who gave or sold them to a woman in the area. She wasn't cruel as such (meaning they weren't beaten and they were fed) - although I would definitely consider these conditions to be cruel. NO question. She recently died and her son wanted the dogs OUT. Either he would kill them or send them to another hunter, who apparently keeps his dogs in even worse condition. The mind boggles. There are four other dogs left behind but living inside the house. Apparently in dreadful conditions too but at the moment, he won't allow them to be removed. I've been involved in these situations before and whilst there are veterinary authorities, too often the attitude is, 'Oh they are country dogs' and so it's OK. It's NOT.

The brown and white hound is an Ariégeois and is called Maya. The black one is called Miss and I'm told is a Basset Bleu de Gascogne but I think her legs look too long to be truly that breed? I may change their names just slightly - so they recognise the sound but so they have a new name for their new lives here.

Of course I'm a little worried. I've been told to walk them in the garden on lead as they don't understand the concept of space and would freak out. I'm also told they are very strong and I have an arthritic neck and shoulder (caused by an untreated whiplash injury forever ago) - so I worry I can cope with strong dogs on a lead - but then someone sensible said 'Worry is interest paid on trouble before it becomes due.' Try telling that to a worrier... In fact, I plan on walking the dogs around the whole garden tomorrow and hopefully it won't be long before they can go out off-lead and be FREE.

I had a call about an hour ago and they are en route. Should be here mid-afternoon. Come back tomorrow and I'll show you photographs of them living in a bit more comfort than before... I've been cleaning for them all morning although this place at its worst would be the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo for these poor dogs.

Nice-Matin's article

2008-08-27T07:35:00.011+02:00

Bienvenue!

Vous avez vu ma photo et l'article qui parle de moi dans Nice-Matin du 27 août 2008 et j'en suis très contente.

L'article cite un des mes blogs dont le lien correct est: Menton Daily Photo. Chaque jour, vous y trouverez une photo accompagnée d'un petit texte sur Menton, Gorbio, Roquebrune Cap Martin et les autres villages. proches. J'habite la région depuis 18 ans. J'en suis tombée amoureuse et j'adore la photographier pour vous faire partager mon plaisir.

-----------------------

Nice-Matin today shows a photograph of Yours truly and my dog Beau - that's him in the foreground and little Rolf, who is staying here, near my feet. The interview was about local bloggers and in particular my Menton Daily Photo blog but, this blog was mentioned instead. Please click on the link above to enjoy photos of Menton and the nearby villages.

There is also a Monte Carlo Daily Photo blog if you live in Monaco and Riviera Dogs.

And for regular readers of Postcards from Pension Milou - apologies - you can see the photo blogs have been taking me away from my writing. I'll get back to it soon, I promise!

Article in Nice-Matin - click on the link.

The Dog who loved Carrots

2008-04-14T12:29:00.009+02:00

Taco, a Welsh terrier mix, was a regular client at Pension Milou and proudly shared his birthday, March 14^th, with Prince Albert of Monaco. Prince Albert celebrated his 50^th this year but Taco missed the day by three months - on December the 7^th, three months short of his 17^th birthday, off he went to doggy heaven.

Taco had Cushing’s disease and he had a tumour but he was a game little dog and you’d really not have known anything was wrong with him. When he stayed at Pension Milou, he’d play like a puppy, flirt with the lady dogs and roll on his back with the simple joy of life. He always told me what he wanted with a very definite bark. Every day, at 4 p.m. for instance, he had a raw carrot and perish the thought that I might forget. If I did, I soon got to know about it – woof woof.

Taco was Xavier and Sheila’s first dog, although Sheila had had childhood dogs. When Taco died they were devastated. For Xavier, Taco was the dog of his life and he’d never have another one. Sheila thought – perhaps, one day?

As often happens when our dogs leave us, we eventually start to make surreptitious little enquiries. In January, Sheila started browsing the Internet looking for Welsh terrier breeders - a rarity in France. One day she found an advertisement for Welsh terrier puppies in the Pyrenees. The pups’ photographs were displayed and of course, they were adorable. Xavier, though, wasn’t interested but he did take a look. Suddenly he said, ‘Look, these puppies were born the day Taco died.’

Gucci & Peggy, the pug, at Pension Milou

No further mention was made of the pups and soon Sheila and Xavier went off to Ireland on holiday. When they got back, Xavier said to Sheila,’ Well, when are we ordering the puppy then?’ At first, Sheila didn’t know what he was talking about. ‘What puppy?’ she asked. ‘The puppy that was born on the day Taco died.’

So, the decision was made. Taco was re-incarnated! They would get a puppy. Taco would come home. Sheila called the breeder and found there were two boys available. They booked one and when the puppies were old enough, off they went on the long journey from their home almost on the Italian border to the Pyrénées, way over on the Spanish side of southern France.

Once there, they booked into a hotel for the night and then drove to the farm to see the puppies. They’d make their choice that evening and then pick up their new puppy next morning.

All the puppies were in pens. There were Welsh Terriers, Airedales and Jack Russell terriers. He let out the two available Welsh terrier puppies and their mother, a beautiful gentle creature with a superb temperament. The pups though came out of the pen like bats out of hell. One instantly came running to Sheila – jumped on her lap and starting licking her face. The other puppy was more aloof.

After spending time with them, Xavier and Sheila made their choice. They chose the puppy they considered to have the better head and foreface – he had the look they were after and he was a stronger puppy than his brother - the one who’d jumped on Sheila’s lap and given her little kisses.

Back at the hotel after a nice dinner, doubts set in. Had they chosen the right puppy? Surely the puppy who’d licked Sheila’s face was Taco saying, ‘I’m back, I’m back – choose me!’ She didn’t sleep all night.

Next morning, they collected their puppy, who’d been bathed and was ready for the long journey. Now called Gucci, it was not an easy trip for him, as he threw up endlessly on the 69 kilometres of windy roads, until they got to the motorway.

Eventually, they got home and Sheila, who’d been worrying if they’d made the right choice, if perhaps it was Taco who’d licked her the night before, decided to test Gucci. You’ll remember that Taco adored raw carrots and had one every day at 4 p.m. She took a carrot out of the vegetable rack and handed it to Gucci. Sheila says puppies don’t normally like raw carrots. Personally I don’t know, as I don’t recall ever giving a carrot to a puppy.

And what happened? Gucci ate it immediately.

Taco/Gucci was home.

Taco

'Pearl Drift'

2008-02-14T14:00:00.010+01:00

Milou & his friend, Tallulah, the fox terrier

At last we have sun again after a week of rain. Goodness knows the garden needed it, although rain and a pile of muddy dogs don’t make for a clean house. Milou’s rose, however – he’s buried under a rose called Pearl Drift – needed rain to break into leaf, and it is doing just that. So perhaps I’d better stop complaining.

It’s nearly three years since Milou was put to sleep. The dreaded deed can be done properly and kindly or very badly. It’s always something we don’t want to think about but thank goodness we can help our dogs on their way to a peaceful end with no more suffering. But it must be done properly.

The veterinarian who put Milou to sleep made a botch of it. I’ve not written about the way it happened till now because it was too painful and it made me upset and angry just to think about it. Read this and remember. Don’t go thru what I did and more to the point, what Milou did. When we put a dog to sleep, we shouldn’t have to be worrying about ‘how’ it is done (that’s the veterinarian’s job) – it’s bad enough just going thru it but I learned a lesson on the day Milou went to doggy heaven. Even when we are desperately upset, we have to take responsibility.

I’d taken him down to the vet that morning following a dreadful night. I knew it was his time without asking the vet but she x-rayed him and confirmed that the tumours in his lungs had multiplied. Mindful of the night before, when he’d been gasping for breath, I had no intention of letting him go through another night. I’d had him up on the bed with me trying to soothe him so he could breathe more easily. So I was prepared for what had to happen and had put several small biscuits in my handbag. [I’ve always fed my dogs their favourite treat when it’s time for the needle to go in. That way they are so occupied with eating they are not watching what the vet is about to do. Of course sometimes a dog is too sick to eat but if not, I’ve found this to be a helpful and distracting thing to do.]

It’s always difficult to choose the right day to put a dog to sleep. Ideally it’s before pain gets too much but not too soon. If in doubt, look in your dog’s eyes. He’ll often tell you. Indeed, sometimes – not always - when a dog is really ready to go, he’ll get a film over his eyes as if he’s blanking out the world in advance.

Hiking on the hills above Gorbio

And although it’s not easy, we owe it to our dog to be there with him at that final moment. Some people simply can’t face it but if you can, your dog will leave this world in the arms of the person he loves most - you. Let him think this is no more than the usual yearly jab – or at worst, the taking of a blood test.

The decision was made. ‘Put him on the table, Jilly,’ my vet said. I lifted him up, cuddling him, crying. Milou was the dog of my life. I’ve had many wonderful dogs but had never had a relationship with a dog as I did with this wonderful American cocker spaniel. My handbag was already on the table and he could smell the biscuits. He’d always had a wonderful ‘nose’ and whenever Candy, my best friend in America, sent him tennis balls, he could smell them before I'd removed the wrapping paper, let alone opened the box.

So he was digging his nose into my bag, trying to get at the treats. How can you put a dog to sleep who is healthy enough to want a biscuit? And now, he was breathing quite well too. No matter, I’d seen the x-ray, I’d witnessed the difficulty he’d had during the night and I knew we had to go through this before he deteriorated further.

The vet prepared the needle. The first would send him off to sleep the instant she withdrew it from a vein - an anaesthetic. Then when asleep, she’d inject a further chemical to stop the heart. Easy peasy.

I gave Milou half a biscuit, which disappeared in a trice. Then another half. Then another half. The vet seemed to be taking a long time with the needle. I looked up. She was standing there, ready, needle in hand. ‘What are you waiting for?’ I asked. ‘I’m waiting for him to stop eating,’ she said. I’d explained to her earlier that this is the way I like my dogs to go – distracted by food and doing what they enjoy most – eating. ‘It doesn’t seem right that he should be eating when he dies,’ she said.

Of course, I should have insisted but I was totally choked up. I couldn’t argue with her. I shut my bag and put it on the floor. ‘Hold on to him,’ she said. I held him and she put a tourniquet round the top of his leg. He immediately started struggling, fighting, desperate to get off the table. It took all my strength to hold him. Probably, looking back, the tourniquet was far too tight. Was a tourniquet even necessary? ‘Hold him tighter,’ she said. I wanted to yell, ‘Stop, you can’t kill a dog like this – it should be a gentle easy passing – there shouldn’t be a struggle. He deserves better than this.’ And then I thought – all in a split second of course - ‘But he’s got to go and I’m just being stupid.’ And all the time, sobbing, sobbing. One of Milou’s legs had come off the table in his desperate attempt to get away. I got it back and held him as tightly as I could. Eventually, and it seemed like minutes but of course it wasn’t, she managed to get the needle into his leg – I manoeuvred myself around, whilst holding him and the last image I had of my darling Milou was his face, eyes wide and staring, scared and fighting - fighting so hard, for this not to happen. And then he collapsed. I’ll never forget the terrified look in his eyes. Then she put the chemical into the vein to stop the heart, took my money and I brought him home to bury him on the hillside above the house. And today his rose is about to burst into leaf.

But I couldn’t forget the fear in his eyes. My darling dog deserved to go gently into that good night, not with terror as he did. Of course, I’ve re-lived it a million times. I should have brought him home, let him relax for a while, fed him something he loved. Then later, given him sedatives before taking him back to the vet when he’d have been too sleepy to know anything. Or I should have got the vet up here and made her do it gently, allowed me feed the biscuits. But most of all I should have stopped it that day. I was appalled at myself although I’d never had a ‘bad’ death before and just hadn’t allowed for such a possibility. I wasn’t prepared and so didn’t stop it – couldn’t get beyond my emotion. I can’t forgive myself for not stopping the fiasco. He deserved better, my kind, beautiful Milou.

Two days later, and still distraught, I went back to the vet to ask her why she’d allowed this to happen – why she’d let him suffer so much in his last minutes. She said, ‘You are a dog person, Jilly, with years of experience and so I didn’t think it would have bothered you.’ She was plainly amazed that two days later I was still so utterly distressed. Good God in heaven! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I told her that had this been someone else’s dog (in other words had I not been emotionally involved) I’d have stopped the process immediately until the dog was calm – then we’d have started again but with Milou, I was too upset to even speak. To be fair to her, she then told me that she'd seen I was upset and just wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. It wasn’t right though; it wasn’t the way it should have happened. I don’t think she’ll put another dog or owner through a death like that in a hurry. At least I hope not.

She sent me a note of apology a week or so later. Too late - too late.

Obviously, she didn’t intend for this to happen - any more than I did. She should though, with her experience, have done it properly. I’m not sure I’ve forgiven her but the anger has gone. Milou, who was the kindest dog in the world, has doubtless forgiven me long ago. He loved me too much – and me him. I haven’t yet forgiven myself though and certainly I can’t bring myself to go back to that particular vet even though it’s convenient as she is far nearer to me than the vet I use now. I never will go back to her.

Of course it was the vet’s fault. Not mine. We should all be able to trust our veterinarian to do things properly and kindly. But I wish I’d stopped it and I didn’t. My advice would be to discuss, in advance, exactly what procedure is used - just to put your mind at rest.

Since Milou died, Flavia, my lovely old retired Guide Dog for the Blind, went peacefully and easily on my terrace, thanks to my current vet. She munched carrots, which she adored, as the needle went in and she knew nothing. That’s how it should be done and when it’s like that, you don’t feel terrible. You feel relieved you were able to ease a dog beyond its suffering.

That’s how it’s always been when I’ve had to put a dog to sleep, except with the one dog that meant so much – Milou.

Pearl Drift, Milou's rose - plus his, now, very weathered tennis ball

Breakthrough!

2007-12-28T14:46:00.000+01:00

A word of advice. If you want a dog that will trot obediently behind you - off lead - then whatever you do, don't get a hound. Hounds are born to hunt. Their sense of smell and their need to follow a scent is all-consuming.

One of the many joys of owning Milou, an American cocker spaniel - and the dog of my life - is that once we were away from a main road, he could be let off his lead - he'd explore but he never went far - always keeping an eye out for me. He'd wander about Gorbio village whilst I had a coffee in the bar and he loved walking in the hills above the village, amongst the olive trees and the wild thyme - especially when his best buddy, Candy, was visiting from America. My Milou went to doggy heaven a couple of years ago and I miss him still.

When I adopted Beau from the refuge in April 2006, the furthest thing from my mind was the word 'walkies.' I just got sucked into the look in his eyes and how needy he was. And he was. Once home and following three weeks on antibiotics, he had to have both eardrums removed - 4 and half hours on the operating table. It took a year for him to get reasonably healthy but still - every four months - he got massive abcesses below each ear. Things are better now and since July, he's not had another abscess and that's because they've never quite healed - each day both sides drain just a little. The vet suggests this is a good thing and I agree. It's a simple matter to wash the areas each morning - far better than painful abscesses for the poor dog.

So when it came to walking - and I did take Beau on several walks soon after the swelling had gone down and the stiches were removed - what did he do? As soon as I let him off lead, his long big beautiful nose went down and off he dashed into the undergrowth. Beau is a Bruno de Jura which is a Swiss hunting dog - bred to hunt, bred to follow a scent. Fortunately I was with a friend when he ran off and we managed, between us, to get him back. Since then I tried a couple of walks with him on an extension lead which wasn't much fun cos he'd dive into the undergrowth and the lead would get twisted around twigs and rocks and he'd need to be rescued. Now he walks on a normal lead, albeit quite a long one, with me getting dragged into the woodland everytime he wants to 'follow his nose.'

And then suddenly things changed. Some of you know I have several photo blogs. One of them is Menton Daily Photo and I decided to photograph the Promenade le Corbusier which goes from the point of Cap Martin all the way to Monaco - a walk and takes about 2 and a half hour each way. It has to be one of the most gloriously beautiful walks in the world and you can take the walk with Beau and me on Menton Daily Photo in January. It occurred me to me that perhaps Beau wouldn't run away on this walk because in the first place, it's right by the sea, so hopefully no wild boars about, and secondly, it's fenced on the inland side of the walk - ie all the beautiful houses and gardens protect their wildly expensive properties with wrought iron railings. So off we went. Beau had a breakthrough - and so did I.

We parked by the sea, and I walked Beau, on lead, to the beginning of the 'walk.' There were several other dogs running about and I knew I had to let Beau off as dogs feel vulnerable when meeting new dogs if they are on a lead and the other dogs are running free. He stopped dead, allowed the other dogs to sniff him and then I called him to follow. Beau, whilst he has no eardrums can - amazingly - hear a little. The vet explained there is some mechanism left to allow him to do this. Certainly when the other dogs at Pension Milou bark, he pricks up his ears and follows them - barking along with them. So he followed me for a bit. Great. We continued the walk and soon he was ahead of me, but every so often, he stopped, turned and looked around for me. A miracle. As soon as he saw me, he'd continue. Sometimes he'd take off down one of the little tracks to the rocks and the sea, then he'd stop and look for me again. One time, it was the other way around - I was ahead of him, went around a bend - later I looked back - no Beau. I ran back. No Beau. Ran further. No Beau. I asked people if they'd seen a large black dog with very long ears and they pointed down a track. There he was, on the rocks just waiting and when he saw me, he bounded over - so joyful. And then I knew. Miraculously I have a dog who wants to be with me. He's become 'my' dog. Now I know we can go for walks together - I can trust him off lead so long as there's no traffic and he can trust me to look after him.

I'm looking at him now. He's sitting in MY chair. Yes, I lost my chair soon after he got here. He doesn't move his majestic head but I know, if I were to walk past him, his eyes would follow me around the room. This dog loves me. I look at this beautiful dog and remember that poor old dog I first saw in the refuge. Beau is about ten years of age. I remember how he staggered out to greet one of the volunteers, then slunk back to his corner of a filthy carvan where he lived because he was so sick, the sides of his head massively swollen with infection. The filthy caravan I might tell you was considerably better than the kennels the other dogs had, which were only airline crates giving no protection from the cold and rain. I didn't want to take him. At the time I had two other rescue dogs and they were a handful. I hesitated - twice. Imagine if I'd left him there?

If ever you are given the choice between buying a puppy or giving a home to a refuge dog, don't hesitate, please give an unwanted dog a home. You'll never know the joy you will get when you nurture a dog to full health and then watch him grow into his potential. And then there's the love you get back - and sometimes it's overwhelming - but I'm not complaining. I was told Beau had had four homes before being put in the refuge and he'd been in the refuge a long time. I really don't know if this is true or not but I can't imagine anyone giving up this beautiful dog. Anyway - it's all worked out beautifully. We suit each other, my dog and me.

I must go - from the terrace I see the sun shining over the sea - and Beau wants a walk. So do I.

This is a watercolour of Beau by British artist, Katie Lancaster. Katie is based in the South of France and creates contemporary dog portraits from photographs. Each drawing is an original piece of artwork, drawn with sensitivity and focused attention to detail. Katie also designed the Pension Milou website. To see more of Katie's beautiful dog portraits (in water colours or pastels) please click on Pet Portraits | Katie Lancaster.

The Caves of Balzi Rossi

2007-11-16T13:42:00.000+01:00

Balzi Rossi beach

I blame the bridges. Some of you know I post a photograph every day on Menton Daily Photo and also Monte Carlo Daily Photo. Well, on the first day of each month, the City Daily Photo family run a Theme Day. For instance, in the past, we've had to post photos on such diverse subjects as: a tombstone, street signs, the colour blue, a typical breakfast, a public mail box, men at work - and so on.

The Theme for December is a bridge. I had a few ideas but decided to ask my knowledgeable friend on all-things-Menton, Marie-Hélène. M-H is a talented Dutch painter, who has been living in the south of France for about as long as me - at first in Menton and now in the beautiful medieval village of Roquebrune.

'There's a bridge at Balzi Rossi,' she said. 'Drive to the border, turn right towards the Restaurant Balzi Rossi and park. On the left you'll see the bridge and tucked into some of its arches is a café, now closed. M-H told me that this restaurant had a strange sort of licence where they weren't allowed to serve outside, so they used to call out people's names when the food was ready. Customers then collected the food themselves, sat outside and ate it, and so the licence was adhered to. Sounds very Italian to me.

So I settle the dogs and off I go. I find the bridge, take a few photographs and then wander on, past the Restaurant Balzi Rossi and I see, on the left, the Museo Prehistorico dei Balzi Rossi. I've lived here for 16 years and never knew it existed. I walk past the museum and on to the sea. Rugged, with the sea bashing against the rocks. So unlike the calm coastline in Menton. Every time I cross the border into Italy, it amazes me how different the feel is from one side of the border to the other. Not just rocks and sea, but the whole atmosphere is different, the people are different. A few miles and you are in a different world. I confess I often wish I'd chosen Italy over France but it's a bit late now and anyway it's only a hop, skip and jump across the border, so stop complaining Jilly. And again, what's wrong with France and especially Menton - and of course the answer is nothing. It's all wonderful.

I take a few shots of the rocks and sea and look up at the great red cliff face. Balzi Rossi means Red Rocks. I decide to pop into the museum for a few moments on my way back to the car. I enter. There's a well-padded friendly lady behind the counter. Standing near to her is a rather stern-faced gentleman. I look the length of the museum and realise I'm the only visitor. I get out my purse and ask the lady, 'How much, please.' 'Two euros,' she says. Seems cheap to me and I open my purse. She looks at me and then asks, 'How old are you?' I tell her. 'Oh, then you can go in for nothing,' she says. Well there I was in my Polo jeans, my nifty pale pink t-shirt, my trendy waistcoat from Diesel in New York and she's guessed my age. Dammit. Well of course there are advantages to being older - many - but really I'd rather it wasn't assumed. People, when they see me, are supposed to throw up their hands in surprise and say 'Oh no really, you look so much younger.' Fat chance.

So, I'm two euros richer. The lady gives me a gratuito ticket and I'm free to look around. I notice all the exhibits have explanations in Italian, which I don't speak. I ask if there is a brochure in English or French. The lady points to a revolving stand with A4 sized plasticized explanations and photos in many languages. 'You can borrow one,' she says, 'but you can't take it away with you.' I ask if I might photograph it (I need the information for Menton Daily Photo). At this point, the stern-faced man rushes up, 'No, no, no. No photographs allowed,' he says. I explain I have a blog and would like to mention the museum and so need to have the information. 'No, no photographs allowed.'

I know it's forbidden to take photographs in museums, but a photograph of a brochure - for heaven's sake. So I get out my notebook and pen, but there's nowhere to write. Obviously I can't lean on any of the display cases, some of which I've already noticed contain fossils of dead bodies. Hardly the thing to do even if they are 240,000 years old.

The friendly lady, as opposed to the unfriendly man, tells me there is a table at the far end and I can use that. I walk past wall displays and start to write.

"The Balzi Rossi caves are at the southern limit of the hilly massif of the Alps, which separate Liguria from what is now known at the Côte d'Azur. This particular topography meant that the caves were en route - as well as a convenient stopping point - for those who travelled through or lived in this region over the millennia. The famous 'triple burial' - the skeletons of a Cro-Magnon adult male, girl and young boy, were discovered in the Barma Grande cave."

I continue writing for a while - if you are interested in more information and more photographs, please visit THIS LINK and scroll down to read the various entries.

By now, I'm feeling just a little daunted. Nice Lady and Not so Nice Gentleman are looking at me, talking about me. I need to show some real interest in the displays but I know nothing about palaeontology. They continue to watch me. Do they think I want to steal a fossil? In any case, everything is behind glass. I wander about looking at the various displays; fossils of so many animals - elephant, rhinoceros, reindeer, bear, groundhogs - and flint tools, photographs - all of which are fascinating.

Eventually I'm done and I go to leave. I make a few polite comments, 'How amazing' and 'Incredible to think...' and 'Very interesting museum' - all of which I mean. It is indeed fascinating - I was struck by how small the skulls are of the 'triple burial' mentioned above. The Not S0 Friendly Gentleman seems pleased. Perhaps he isn't so unfriendly, after all, and is just so proud of his museum. Don't always assume people are as you first find them, Jilly. Mind you, he could have let me photograph the brochure.

'Now you go and visit the caves,' says Nice Lady. And I thought I was done for the day and could go home to the dogs... and lunch.

She takes me outside and indicates a car. I'd noticed a lady sitting in this car when I walked past earlier. It turns out she sits in the car all day waiting to take visitors from the museum to the caves. I assume I'm to get in and be driven to wherever the caves are, not realising I'd walked past them earlier and that they are simply just above the museum. Nice Lady puts out her hand and stops me opening the passenger side fo the car. 'You walk,' she says.

A skinny lady, messy blond hair, smoking a cigarette gets out of the car. She's wearing black boots and a black coat. Not your typical museum guide I feel. Unfortunately she doesn't speak one word of French or English and so we converse in sign language and with gestures and, with the little understanding I have of Italian, we somehow manage. Note to self: must learn Italian - it's such a beautiful language.

It occurs to me that three employees to show one visitor around is a mite excessive. Talk about overstaffed. No wonder the Italian economy works as it does.

We walk up the ramp to a bridge, which I discover is over the main railway line that connects the French and Italian Rivieras. At the entrance to the bridge is an iron gate. She takes a large key from her pocket and unlocks the gate. She gestures me to walk thru and she turns around, takes another cigarette from a packet in her pocket and walks towards a white plastic chair where she sits and lights up. She is obviously going to wait for my return. I'm on my own now.

I breathe a sigh of relief. At least I don't have to pretend I'm a visiting academic from America - not that there's any chance of that, I might add. By way of an aside, I've noticed some French people have a problem distinguishing accents and can't tell if we are American or English - or South African or Australian, come to that. I remember when I lived in the Pyrenées I was watching an American film on television. It had subtitles in French and one of the Frenchmen in the room asked me, quite seriously, 'Do you understand that language?' 'Of course I do,' I replied, 'it's in English.' 'But it's an American film,' he said, 'I didn't know you understood American.' It astounded me that he didn't realise American and English are the same language. But hey, come to think of it, perhaps he was right.

I cross the bridge and walk up some fairly steep steps and then up a sandy track. The view is fabulous, the rock face extraordinary. First I come to the Grotta del Caviglioni where elephant and rhinoceros fossils were discovered. I walk further - more steps and a longer sandy path and come to Grotta di Florestano. Florestano, Prince of Monaco, excavated this cave between 1846 and 1857 where the discovery was made of a fragment of thin bone belonging to a pre-Neanderthal woman, who walked erect. Ths is the oldest human fragment ever found in Italy.

Were I braver, I'd probably have entered one of the caves but I would have brought a torch with me and preferably a dog to protect me from the ghosts of the prehistoric creatures. I'd love to do so actually as I understand there are some cave paintings to be seen. But I'm not brave, so I walk back to the lady in black, who is still smoking her cigarettes.

The entrance to Florestano's cave

I'm done. Home to the dogs and lunch But no, my guide now takes me to a second building, also part of the museum, where she indicates there are two floors of exhibits for me to view. I can hardly refuse. She will wait for me, doubtless smoking as she does so.

Here are many photographs and graphs and explanations of the caves and the cave-dwellers. There are some figurines too - miniature sculptures of well-rounded female nudes, fashioned - depending on the region - from ivory, antler, or soft stone. The treatment seems to have followed certain rules, the most obvious being an over-emphasis on the fleshy parts of the body (buttocks, stomach and chest) and at times, an explicit portrayal of various sexual attributes. Plus ça change. The most famous is the Grimaldi Venus, fashioned in serpentine and which depicts a pregnant woman.

I sneak a few photographs when I'm on the upper level of this building and eventually I'm done. I leave. The guide locks up behind me and walks back to her car. I linger, enjoying the view and trying to get my head around prehistoric man who lived here forever ago and how I want to try and write about it on a blog that will somehow be read by you in an instant. I give up trying. Time to go home to the dogs - and a late lunch. I can get my head around that. The dogs need a run in the garden and I'm hungry.

Losing the plot

2007-07-30T13:01:00.000+02:00

Lucky, the American cocker spaniel

‘This is the Monte Carlo Bay Hotel. Am I speaking to Madame Bennett?’ the voice asked - in French.

‘Oui, c’est moi,’ I replied. This is not the first time I’ve had a call from the Monte Carlo Bay Hotel, Monaco’s newest resort – very grand, very expensive.

‘Madame, we have a client who has arrived today with a rabbit. Do you take rabbits?’

‘A rabbit?’ I say, stupidly. Perhaps I misheard. I think wildly – lapin? Lapin IS French for rabbit? Yes, I heard right the first time.

‘Oui, un lapin, Madame.’ I wanted her to laugh, but she didn’t.

‘I don’t look after rabbits,’ I say. ‘I look after dogs. I think the dogs might eat a rabbit.’ Go on, laugh, lady - but of course she can’t. The owner of the rabbit is probably standing by her desk. Maybe the rabbit is listening too. I suggest she calls a veterinarian for the name of someone who might look after Flopsy and we end the call. The mind boggles. Who would take a rabbit to such a grand hotel?

Monte Carlo Bay Hotel & Resort

I used to know an American lady who came to stay in Monaco for months at a time. She stayed at the Hotel de Paris with her little Yorkshire terrier dog. Amongst her luggage she always brought an enormous Louis Vuitton trunk, each shelf laden with tins of his special brand of dog food and at 5 p.m. each day – never a minute later, never a minute earlier - a waiter would appear with a silver tray on which sat a porcelain dish from Limoges. The waiter opened a tin of food, spooned it carefully onto the dish and served it to the little dog, who sat waiting on his chair at a table on the terrace overlooking the Place du Casino. The rich are different. And so are their dogs.

Here, life goes on. Lucky, the American cocker spaniel is on a diet but fat chance, excuse the pun. The 100-year fig in the garden is shedding its fruit about 5 weeks early. So far I’ve collected 4 buckets of hard figs. Doubtless because we almost no rain in spring and none since. Nutcase world. Floods in England, people dying from the heat in Hungary, Greece, Italy. Here’s it’s just plain hot so we are lucky. And the dogs – why, they rush out each time I open the door to be the first to grab a fallen fig. I used to think this would give them diarrhoea but in fact it does the opposite. Figs may be a good source of vitamins but not the ticket for a greedy fat spaniel.

Maybe there's a fig in a flowerpot?

The place is a tip. Piles of books lie about waiting to be sorted. Why? Well, a friend of a certain age has now left the south of France to take up residence in West Virginia with the new 70 year old love of her life. She’s like a kid, madly in love, and it’s good to see, but rather her than me. She came to Pension Milou to collect a travel crate for one of her dogs and asked if I wanted anything in return. Actually it wasn’t mine to give away but happily the owner, now in England, was happy to let it go. Would I like a blender? How about a television? No, no, no, I said. I’ve too much stuff already – but, if you’ve any books… So now, there are books on the terrace table, some on the dining table, a few lie around the bedroom. There are ninety or more to sort and I’ve too many books already. Books are impossible for me to give away so I sure don’t need ninety more.

Lucky munches her fig, whilst Lou looks on

The majority of my books are ones I’ve read, so of course I can’t give them away because I might want to read them again. Or they are books I couldn’t get into but of course I’d better keep them, as one day I might like them better – I’m always sure it’s my fault I can’t get into a book - perhaps my mood, perhaps lack of concentration when of course what I should do is chuck it out. Life is too short to read a book you don’t like. But then, maybe one day…

I exaggerate slightly - some do get given away – to the English church library in Monaco or the one in Menton and there’s a network down here of women (always women it seems) who swap books. I love that. Some have my taste so I know if they like something, probably I will too. And it’s fun meeting for coffee and doing the change over of heavy plastic bags, which give promise of future nights spent getting lost in the wonders of good writing.

I’ve a client who brings me magazines. I never buy magazines. Some I like – Vanity Fair for example – great photography and often good in-depth articles, particularly if you don’t like the Republican party. But I ask myself, do I need Hello magazine to improve my life? How many Voici and OK!s do I need to waste more time?

Frankly, sometimes I think I’m losing the plot. The days whirr by in a blur of dogs and paperwork and emails and cleaning up the place and whilst I don’t seem to stop, I get nothing done. I hurry slowly and then crash out on the sofa, six dogs vying for attention, and fall asleep. It’s a gift from God to know how to do nothing. It’s that work ethic I was brought up with. No matter, the decision has been taken and, drum roll, I’m going into semi retirement mode from next January.

My new friend, Isabella had written me:

…if you still have unfulfilled dreams (places to go, things to do) - don't postpone your retirement. To quote Oscar Wilde: Work is the refuge of people who have nothing better to do.

How right she is and as for Wilde, well I have a ton of stuff to do but perhaps work was my excuse for not getting on with it. Writing a book, for example.

So I’ve bitten the bullet, written all my clients, told them which months I’m working and which I’m not. It wasn’t easy. Clients become friends – the dogs know and trust me and now they will need to find a new carer. But it’s time. I’ve made plans to visit America, Italy, Spain. I’ll buy a laptop so I can write whilst travelling. Perhaps I’ve not lost the plot after all.

Tango - just cos she's cute

Plus ça change…

2007-06-07T15:39:00.000+02:00

Rosie, the bearded collie

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Sell dog food, make lots of lovely money and cut back on caring for dogs. Just take the easy ones. After all, you can go out to dinner and leave a load of dog food in the cupboard but you can’t leave other people’s dogs alone in the house. It was an attempt to get back to a slightly more normal life, perhaps give me the opportunity to socialise more than I have over the last 10 years. Even go away a little more.

I shouldn’t complain. I’m lucky enough to live in a beautiful place and I love dogs but I’m getting older. I’m forever turning down invitations and most importantly, I keep promising myself I’ll find the time to write ‘my book’, so the dog food idea seemed the way to go. Give myself a little freedom.

And it went well. Amazingly well. Orders and re-orders came in – the suppliers were delighted. I even got a gift after I’d sold my first 500 kilos, but it simply wasn’t worth it in terms of the work/money ratio. For every 100 euros worth of dog food I sold, I had to first of all buy it, then pay 24.50 euros in social charges to the French government, which left around 10 – 15 euros profit before petrol, advertising, printing. All that lugging, all that paperwork – and I hate paperwork. It wasn’t worth it. Looking after dogs, even if it was hard to get away from the house, was easier. I was better off to be more selective in the dogs I take, not so many who yap endlessly, preferential treatment to oldies who lie about all day, puppies probably a no-no. Ease up, ease up.

I’m still recommending Arden Grange dog food – I so believe in it. But it wasn’t on to be working so hard for so little and giving myself even less time to do what I wanted to do. Friends say that France’s new President, Monsieur Sarkozy, may try and make life easier for small businesses, micro-enterprises like mine, but hey, I’m not holding my breath and I’m not prepared to wait.

As you may recall, I ordered a new car specifically for this new venture. Couldn’t be making deliveries to Monte Carlo in my battered old car – after all, got to look the part. Well it arrived at the dealership the day before I left for the Euro-OES-Show in the Vosges, northeastern France. I collected it the day after I got back. [I’ll write about the show in the next posting.]

The last car was 16 years old and I loved it. Yes, it looked battered but it was easy to drive and to understand. Frankly you’d need to go back to university to understand all the bells and whistles on this Golf Plus. There are 8 tiny buttons on the steering wheel alone – like you’ve got time to look at them whilst you are driving. One is to turn the volume of the radio higher, another to lower it. I haven’t investigated the other six yet. What’s wrong with reaching across and turning the knob on the radio itself? It took me an hour to find out how to open the cap to fill the car with diesel. Christophe, who sold me the car – a charmer, of course - handed me the 4-inch thick manual and told me to go away and learn it by heart. Huh! It’s in French, natch.

So I drove home and adored the car – responsive, powerful, it felt safe. I loved that I could sit ‘high’ – I’m only a titch for those who don’t know me. I loved it till I got home, that is.

Normally I reverse down my steep track. I’m so used to it now and it’s easier than turning in the small parking area half way down. I live down a dead-end track so can’t drive down and turn around. Often, in my old car, when I reversed down, I’d go wrong and have to drive up a little to correct the descent. Naturally, I went wrong in the new car and so I knew I needed to drive up a bit and get myself in the right position to carry on down. My track is not only steep but slightly windy too. So, as per usual I changed from Reverse to Drive and bugger me, the car continued to roll back down the track and nearly hit a stone wall. I grabbed the handbrake at the same time as I stuck my foot on the footbrake and just saved the situation. This wasn’t supposed to happen! The Rover, if you changed from Reverse to Drive, ‘held’ in Drive on the steep track. The Golf didn’t. Now, you should know that the whole reason I ordered an automatic car is that I have an arthritic neck and shoulder on the right side (caused by a stupid accident yonks ago) and this is the arm/hand that has to grab a handbrake. I can’t do it. Eventually, though, it was parked and next day I had a few more goes with it to be sure I’d not made a mistake. No. Every time I put the car into Drive it wouldn’t hold on the slope – it rolled back. Equally if I was facing downhill and tried Reversing, it continued forward. I needed to use throttle and the handbrake at the same time and I simply wasn’t used to this. I was cross. Very cross.

Back to the Volkswagen Garage and the dishy Christophe. I wanted him to see the problem. He hadn’t told me the Golf wouldn’t hold on a hill, so there had to be something wrong with it. There is a slope – quite a steep slope – down to the VW garage. He drove up the slope in Drive, stopping it with the foot brake and then letting go to see if it would hold, it didn’t. Ha! I thought. Now he sees it and it will get fixed. But he got out of the car and said, ‘ C’est comme ça.’ Very French, Christophe, but that won’t do. He offered to get the technicians to look at it but insisted, ‘that’s how it is.’ The French love saying: c’est comme ça. He then said I could rectify the situation by using the brake with my left foot and accelerating with the right – i.e. just like a manual car. ‘I don’t want a manual car! It’s not what I bloody well ordered.’ So I said ‘Right, take the car back. Give me my money back. I’ll start again elsewhere. I need a car that will hold on hills.’

Christophe looked at me askance. Funny word ‘askance.’ I don’t believe I’ve used it before. Obviously been reading too many bad novels. I digress…. So he said he’d call the manager and out came a nasty piece of work, Monsieur Nasty-I’m- Going-To-Intimidate-You. Aggressive, rude, got into the car, very angry – said of course I must use the handbrake. That’s how you start the car. That’s how you use it. What an idiot I am, except he didn’t say that but obviously implied it. I told him my Rover held in Drive on ANY hill and he said he didn’t know about Rovers but that Golfs are ‘comme ça.’ Since that day, speaking to friends, I know other automatics do indeed hold on hills. So put that in votre pipe and smoke it, Monsieur Manager of Volkswagen Motors, Menton.

At this time I’d got one of the worst sore throats I’ve ever had. The drive back from the Euroshow the day before had been hellish – snow at the entrance to the Gotthard tunnel, rain for 8 hours of the 10-hour journey, I wasn’t at my best. So, anyway, I drove away with the car, not a happy camper but thinking he must be right. After all, I’m a mere woman and women don’t know about cars, do they?

On the way home I had to stop at the pharmacie to get some medication for my throat. The pharmacy on the route de Gorbio is tucked away and it’s always tricky to park. I wasn’t about to try with so little confidence in my ability to drive this car. So I drove up the steep road alongside it, sure I could find somewhere easy to turn around and be facing the right direction to drive away again. I couldn’t. In the end I had to turn in the tiniest space, the car rolled forward – of course. I heard a horrible noise, dammit to hell, I’d bashed the front of it. Damn! Excuse my French. I’d had the car two days and now it’s bashed. Oh grrrrrrrrr. Now I can’t even change it if I wanted to. Oh grrrrrr a thousand times. My new car is dented in front because it doesn't hold on steep hills and why the hell would anyone (thank you, Christophe and Monsieur Nasty) sell such a car to people (little ol’ me) in the Alpes – goddam – Maritimes which, let’s face it, is nothing but steep hills?

Eventually I got home and decided to ring David, who with his wife, Pamela, is the owner of Rosie, the bearded collie, who comes to stay at Pension Milou. David and Pam are fabulous people and always look out for me. He seems to know everything about most things and what luck, he had a good relationship with a VW garage in the UK. And further good luck, David told me when he phoned back, the guy in England had exactly the same model Golf Plus as me. ‘Drive your car up to the top of your track,’ he said – ‘so you’ve room if the car falls back. With the handbrake on and your foot on the brake, put the car into Drive. Let go of the brake and handbrake and the car should fall back just a few inches and then it will lock.’ He told me if it fell back more than that, something was wrong. I did all this. The car rolled back 6 feet before I jammed on the brake and grabbed the handbrake. I called him back. ‘Leave it with me,’ he said. Sometimes I wonder what I’d do without friends like David and Pamela. He called back about 10 minutes later. His contact at VW in the UK had got in touch with the technicians and word came back, the Golf Plus won’t hold on a hill that has a steeper gradient than 5%.

So now we know. I waded thru the manual and there it was on page 149 - …’un déclivité d’au moins 5%.’ That was it. Nothing was wrong with the car at all, but I should have been told. God knows, this part of France is all hills. How stupid. Christophe really should have told me this except I honestly don’t think he’d thought about it or even knew. See how I trust car salesmen. David said he thought I’d get used to the handbrake. He also told me that whilst it was hard on my neck and shoulder at the moment, the hand brake would gradually ‘bed in,’ whatever that meant and that it wouldn’t be as difficult for my bad arm as starting in a car with a manual gear shift.

I persevered. Now I can do a hill start like a pro. The car positively purrs as it gently takes off. I still can’t do a turn on a slope. Bugger that for a lark. I reverse down, not as advised looking in the side mirrors, though. My brain won’t work looking at something that is back to front it seem to me. I lean out of the window, will get wet on rainy days, but tant pis, it’ll be okay.

I reckon this nonsense of the car not 'holding' on more than a minor slope is a major design fault but then I really know about cars, as you’ll gather. It seems it relates to the weight of the car. Of course it’s all those gizmos and gadgets. Keep it simple, stupid. Keep the weight down and the car might work. No matter, I’m stuck with it but I’m getting used to it and the good of the car – and it IS a super car – makes up for these early disadvantages.

So, here I am with a posh new car, a bashed front fender and no dog food to lug about.

Life goes on. Plus ça change…plus c'est la même chose.

Scupper

2007-05-12T14:59:00.000+02:00

Scupper at Pension Milou

This is the story of Scupper. It’s a story that actually began many years ago when a black Labrador called Bosun used to come and stay here. Bosun had a best friend at Pension Milou – a Jack Russell terrier called Alfie. Bosun and Alfie were inseparable. Alfie was a very special dog with a wonderful temperament and Bosun’s owners often spoke about getting a Jack Russell puppy as a friend for Bosun. Well, that never happened. Alfie went first to Australia and then home to England where he still lives with his family and a new lady friend, another Jack Russell terrier. Bosun sadly died and life, as it does, went on. You can read more here: Bosun - le chien pêcheur de Monaco.

Sometime later, when a group of Brits were trying to help the Refuge de Flassans in the Var, several of us went there and adopted a dog. Bosun’s owners, Nicholas and Victoria went along and adopted THE most beautiful black Labrador - Neptune. You’d not expect that such a good specimen of a breed would be in a refuge, but Neptune was originally from a breeding kennel where he’d been used at stud. He was and is a beautiful Lab. He’d probably been chucked out because he’d got too old to be of further use. Well, he landed on his feet when Nick and Victoria, and daughter, Daisy, gave him a new home.

Not long after Neptune settled into his new family they decided they would finally get the Jack Russell terrier they’d long wanted. They knew exactly where to go in the UK. Bosun had had a great friend in England called Badger - a Jack Russell, of course - and Badger's aunt was expecting puppies.

Travelling from England to France

The family wanted a wire-haired male. Scupper was the only boy and fortunately had the right coat. Unfortunately he was the runt of the litter. When he was born he was a tiny and very weak puppy and not expected to make it. He was hand-fed and being the little fighter he was, he made it with all flags flying. When the family went to see him they went with some trepidation, after all, they were to have no choice as he was the only boy available. They needn’t have worried. One look and they were totally captivated. Scupper had found his family. And when he was old enough and with all the right injections and papers, Nicholas collected him and brought him to France.

Nick and one very small, tired puppy

Soon after this, I got to meet him. Scupper was a puppy so scrumptious and adorable, you felt you could eat him. He was beautiful, he was bright, he was interested in everything going on. He was cute and funny and responsive and loved to be cuddled.

Daisy and Scupper

Scupper and Neptune spent their time either in Monaco or in the house in the country - in the Aveyron.

His first brush with disaster came in February when he ate some slug bait. He was taken immediately to the vet who put him on a drip. His system was flushed out and after a few days, happily, he recovered.

Water is fun!

Scupper came to stay here on two or three occasions. He was a dog that always wanted to please, he gladdened the heart of everyone who met him and everyone who met him fell in love with him. If he had a fault, he barked a lot but then he was a Jack Russell. Here, he’d wear a citronelle collar, which bothered him not one jot and it worked – no barking. Even with his special collar on, he looked adorable because he was.

Christmas 2006 - Victoria & Daisy with Neptune & Scupper + biscuits!

Two weeks ago today – a Saturday – he was at home in the country and, as he always did, followed his friend, Neptune, outside. After so much rain, the grasses had grown and Victoria watched Neptune running along and every now and again, Scupper’s head would appear, bobbing up and down – the grasses pretty much covering such a little dog. But a little later, Victoria was horrified to see him return to the house with an enormous swelling on his neck. She rushed him to the vet who said it wasn’t likely to be a snake bite as he was too lively. The truth is we don’t know what caused the swelling: a snake, an insect, perhaps he ate something – like all Jack Russell terriers and especially puppies, he was into everything. Whatever it was, he was one sick dog, and unfortunately the medication seemed to make him worse. He went back to the vet three times over the next day or so but by the following Thursday, he had deteriorated and first thing on Friday morning, Victoria put the Scupper and Neptune into the car and drove the six hours to their regular vet in Cap d’Ail, where he was immediately put onto a drip, blood taken and the woeful diagnosis given that he had renal failure. But no one was giving up.

Buddies: Scupper & Neptune

He remained on a drip for days, eventually leaving the surgery to go home at night to the Monaco apartment, and then, back next day to be hooked up again. He ate the tiniest amount of food but he was fast losing weight and getting weaker.

Daisy & Scupper - gardening?

Two days ago, he seemed weaker, his legs were wobbly and he had a cloudiness in his eyes. He was a very sick dog and there seemed to be nothing to do but put little Scupper to sleep. On the way to the surgery, though, he suddenly brightened up and started to take interest in what was going on outside the car, even wagging his tail. Nick and Victoria were naturally confused. ‘We can’t put a dog to sleep who is showing such signs of life,’ but sadly it didn’t last long and by the time they got to the surgery, he had weakened considerable – and of course, the fact remained, he had renal failure. He couldn’t survive without a constant drip and even then, probably not for long. He would eventually suffer more. As he lay in Victoria’s arms, and just before the dreaded needle went into his little leg, his cloudy eyes suddenly cleared and he looked at her – right at her - with his beautiful bright eyes and seemed to be saying, ‘thankyou.’ And then he was gone. Nick cried, Victoria cried, Louise, our kind vet, cried. It’s not often a vet cries, you know. Scupper was only 10 months old.

Place du Casino, Monte Carlo

Scupper's ashes will be buried, and a tree planted over him, in his favourite place near to the small lake on the Aveyron property. When Scupper wasn’t following Neptune about, he’d be found here, sitting for hours watching and chasing the frogs.

Why Scupper? God – or whoever is in charge! – why does a gorgeous little puppy like Scupper have to die? Take an old dog, God! Don't take Scupper. Do the good die young? Well Scupper was young – too young – and he was more than a good dog, an exceptional dog who brightened the lives of everyone who met him. The only consolation - hardly that - is that whatever happened to him: a bite or poison or even the wrong medication, he was doing what he loved – running about the countryside following his best friend Neptune.

Aveyron in winter

It’s strange how some dogs have such an effect on you. Scupper, as I said, only stayed here two or three times but I’ll never forget him. That was the effect he had on people. He was a one in a million dog.

Oh Scupper, we miss you. I'm just mad as all hell that you died, that's all. Mad as all hell. If I could write poetry, Scupper, I'd write a poem for you - to you – but I can’t write poetry. You deserve a poem, Scupper - hell, you deserve a life! A life, longer than 10 short months.

I hope little Scupper is playing with Bosun now, in doggy heaven, and introducing him to the delights of chasing frogs. You know, I have a strong feeling he is.

Circles of Life - 2

2007-04-20T12:35:00.000+02:00

Why do we choose the breed of dog we do? – part 2. You can read the first part here.

Poppy and Scruff

About a year after Poppy, the poodle, came into our lives, Peter and I stood entranced outside a pet shop in Ealing. A small white fluffy puppy was doing its best to attract our attention – and succeeding. We’d seen a Sunday Times photograph of a dog we admired in the arms of a well-known actress, an actress whose name I now forget. Was this the same breed? Those were the early days of The Drama Studio in Ealing: a life of students and teachers and the day-to-day running of the school. Naturally we lived and breathed acting and actors so it was natural we’d notice what dogs they owned. [To digress, I was chuffed to see that Forest Whitaker, who’d been a student at The Drama Studio many years after Peter and I split up, won the 2007 Oscar for his amazing portrayal of Idi Amin in The Last King of Scotland.] Peter and I, happily, are still great friends.

Back to the puppy in the pet shop. The owner of the shop told us it was a West Highland white terrier. He agreed to keep it whilst we went home and found the photograph in the newspaper. We always kept back copies of the Sunday papers - doesn’t everyone? Could we find it? Of course we couldn’t. Regardless, we went back, bought the puppy and named her Scruff. A week later we found the newspaper, found the photograph of the famous actress and discovered that the puppy we’d admired was a Maltese terrier. Wrong breed! Duh! No matter, Scruff was adorable and she and Poppy played together. Our doggy family was happy and so were we.

So why did we get those two breeds? Well, Poppy was bought for someone else, Scruff was bought because, I’m ashamed to say, we were influenced by the newspapers. A bit like people now buy a Chihuahua because they’ve seen Paris Hilton holding her dog, Tinkerbelle, as if it were a fashion accessory. Not necessarily a reason to choose a dog.

Time passed and by then Peter and I were, I suppose, what were called Yuppies in those days. Young, Upwardly Mobile …I forget the rest. Habitat furniture, a Volvo, the Good Food Guide and visits to trendy London restaurants. Always though, I noticed dogs. Once we saw a sports car with two people in front and then realised that the passenger wasn’t a person but a large fluffy dog. We were both captivated and recognised it as a dog we’d seen in the Dulux paint advertisement, an Old English Sheepdog. Sometimes I can’t believe that the breed that was to become the ‘breed of my life’ was chosen because of a paint advertisement. Maybe that’s not a bad thing – it certainly wasn’t in my case - but often people do buy a breed because it’s fashionable and then lose interest when they realise it’s all in the too hard basket. I was lucky - I fell in love with this breed and it’s been that way ever since.

Sloopy, the first Old English Sheepdog

The habit of looking at the pet section of the Evening Standard continued from the time we found Poppy and so, one day, what should I see but an advertisement, again way out in the East End of London, for a six month old Old English Sheepdog who’d apparently outgrown her apartment. This time, rather than taking the tube, I drove and some hours later returned with an enormous grey and white dog who’d been sick all over the back of the car. We called her Sloopy. We thought her perfect and it wasn’t until I got to know more about the breed, that I realised she was anything but – she was long in body with cow hocks, she had a narrow head and her coat was thin and tended to brown. To us though she was perfection, she was the first and she had that beautiful Old English temperament.

But it wasn’t to finish there. Suddenly three were a crowd. Two would play and one would be left out. Logical to get a fourth? Of course. But this time we decided we’d give a home to a refuge dog so long as it was female and large and fluffy. We didn’t mind what. The refuge, somewhere north of London, had dogs tied to trees, stuck in pens, not a good situation but the man who ran it wouldn’t let us have a dog. He told us that we had three young well-adjusted females and that he didn’t have another who was suitable for us. He told us they all had histories and problems and needed a one-person home, so we left somewhat dejected but looking back, he was right.

So, sometime later, again via the Evening Standard, I saw an advertisement for 10-month-old female Old English at Chalfont St. Giles, in Buckinghamshire. Off we went - I knew nothing about puppy farms in those days but that’s what it was. There were puppies of every imaginable breed. Most were in large clean dustbins – you peered down and in the gloom at the bottom would be three or four puppies looking up, crying for attention.

We were shown an enormous run containing around 15 or so adult Old English Sheepdogs. We wondered which of these was the 10-month old bitch we’d come to see. The dogs bounded back and forth, throwing themselves against the wire fence. I’d have been happy with any one of them. Then I noticed a shy little bitch in the far corner who didn’t move. Yes, you guessed it - she was the one for sale - Tara. We changed her name to Muffin. As luck would have it, Muffin had been bred by Colonel Bury Perkins, the Chairman of Bath Championship Show. She was a beautifully made bitch with an excellent pedigree who was to pass on her good qualities to her offspring.

Muffin and her daughter, Peggotty, my first showdog

So there we were with our four dogs: a crossbred poodle, a Westie, who should have been a Maltese terrier, and two Old English Sheepdogs. Twice a day, Peter and I (or just me) walked the dogs in the park alongside Ealing Studios until one day something happened that changed my life. I met Maria, who was walking her three Old English in the same park. We became friends and she taught me how to groom and care for an Old English Sheepdog and then, one day told me she was going to a dog show and asked if I’d like to go with her. I told her I thought it was cruel as ‘didn’t they walk the dogs round and round in circles?’ Well I went and the Old English Sheepdogs I saw at the show that day didn’t resemble my two scruffy bundles in the least. These dogs were immaculate, they were stars. You know how a good football match can be a theatrical experience – well so was this dog show. I was stunned by the beautiful bitch who won that day. She stood there, head in the air, saying to the judge, ‘Me, look at me, I’m the best.’ And she was. I went to two more dog shows after that, the last of which was Crufts, the biggest and most prestigious dog show in the world. At this show, that same bitch won and on that day I vowed that one day I’d breed a dog good enough to win at Crufts. And nine learning years later, I did when Champion Pelajilo Milly Mistletoe won Best Bitch at Crufts, 1981.

Champion Pelajilo Milly Mistletoe

I won’t fill this posting with stories of the Old English Sheepdog part of my life as it went on for years and it continues to this day, as I still judge the breed from time to time. Indeed last year it was my tremendous honour to stand in the middle of the ring at Crufts and judge the Old English Sheepdogs. Circles of life.

Judging Crufts 2006

When Peter and I split up, I moved to Wales, where I lived for six years. Slowly my kennel of Old English increased in numbers – and quality. More Westies got added to the mix. My wedding present to Micky (yes, another husband) was an Irish Wolfhound from the Irish Wolfhound Rescue Scheme. Zelda. What did I say in the last posting – that I knew nothing about hounds? I’d forgotten sweet Zelda, a wonderful creature, more a person than a dog.

And later, living alone in Australia, when Mistletoe, the last of my precious Old English Sheepdogs died, I went to a refuge in Cairns and came home with a mutt – probably more hound than anything else – what is it about a hound? She didn’t last long as she continually jumped the fence when I was out attempting to sell Real Estate. The police got fed up with this dog and suggested I find a more secure home for her. Luckily I did and she lived happily for years on Holloway’s Beach with an old lady and behind a higher fence than I had. At least she was out of the refuge.

UK & Australian Champion Bumblebarn Scramble of Pelajilo on Bondi Beach, Sydney, 1985

So many wonderful dogs, so many doggy love stories but the dog of my life wasn’t an Old English Sheepdog at all but an American cocker spaniel called Milou. And I didn’t choose him. The chauffeur of the lady who owned him brought him to Pension Milou (later named for Milou) when he was three years old. She was sick and eventually died and he became my dog and lived with me for 12 wonderful years. I still miss him and I always will. You can read his story here.

Milou, aged 4 when we lived in Roquebrune

Flavia, a Labrador and a retired guide dog for the blind, came to Pension Milou too and never left, but again I didn’t choose her. I’ll write her story another time. She lived with me for about 6 years and when she died, soon after Milou, I vowed no more dogs. Milou’s death in particular had knocked me for six. And then, there I was last year, driving home with a needy hound in the back of the car. So why?

The truth is I don’t know the answer. I can only think it has something to do with the soulful look in a hound’s eye that appeals to something deep within me but then, not all hounds, just particular ones – mine! You see I can’t answer the question I posed. It probably has nothing at all to do with the dog being a hound or any other breed, come to that – more a connection between an individual dog and me. His soul reaches out and I’m there. We fill a need in each other.

Beau

Isn’t that why you chose your dog – or he chose you?

Circles of life

2007-04-06T15:15:00.000+02:00

Boots and me (aged 8 or 9)

Have you ever wondered why, of all the dogs in the world – of all the breeds and mongrels available – we choose a particular type of dog? Do we choose? Maybe we are chosen.

Often, of course, once we’ve had a particular breed, we stick with it forever. If you had a dog in childhood, the choice was made for you. Having said that, I’ve heard people say when their much-loved dog has died that they’ll never have another dog of the same breed because it would remind them too much of the one they just lost. I always advise people that if it’s the characteristics of a breed they love so much, then they shouldn’t change. Another dog of the same breed won’t be exactly the same (it will be like having a second child) but having the same breed, at least you know how a little of what to expect. If you knew and loved a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, you might not feel the same about a high-energy terrier and even less if you chose a crazy, albeit beautiful, Weimaraner.

I got to ponder the question of why we choose a breed after I returned from the Refuge de Flassans last year with a hound and a mutt. And the second time, a couple of months later, with another hound. I’ve never had a hound in my life before. I don’t even know much about them except that of all the hounds I’ve cared for at Pension Milou, all had good temperaments. But that’s not why I chose them. There were eighty plus dogs to choose from at the refuge, so why two hounds?

All this got me to thinking about the dogs I’ve owned – or who have owned me.

My mother had no time for dogs – she actively disliked them - which is strange when I think how important they are to my life. There’s a childhood photograph of me, aged 5, with a West Highland white terrier who belonged to an aunt. We seem comfortable with each other although I barely remember the dog.

Then, when I was about 8 or 9 years old my mother allowed us to have a cocker spaniel and Boots, a black puppy with white face and feet arrived. Our mother didn’t look after him though as she was never home – we saw her on weekends. The housekeeper, Elsie, more our mother than our mother, cared for us and our dog. One day, when Boots was about a year old, I came home from school and he’d gone. Elsie told us that our mother had sent him away to the country because he brought too much mud into the house. I try to remember Boots but there’s an image, somewhere out of reach, of a happy, playful dog. Sometimes, in my mind, I see him flying, floating in the air – do I remember him? I don’t know. What I do remember is the total horror and loss when I walked in from school (even young children walked home from school alone in those safer days) to find Boots had gone. I think a brick wall to feeling went up that day and perhaps I blocked out a visual memory of him too.

Just now I found a photograph of Boots and me. I’d completely forgotten this photograph. I must have blocked even the photograph from my memory. Funny to think, all these years later, that a cocker spaniel, Tasha, one of my doggy clients, and looking not so very different to Boots, is featured on the first page of the Pension Milou website. I didn’t think about that till this very moment.

The next dog, some years later, was Nicky, a chocolate coloured miniature poodle. Why a poodle, I don’t know. Perhaps Elsie chose him. Nicky was never well and had to be put to sleep soon after he arrived. After Nicky came Nicky 2 and he was run over and killed by a car. I remember that day. He was not much more than a puppy when he saw a dog on the other side of the road, ran across and that was that. I remember his warm lifeless little body sticking out from under the wheel of the car. From then on I closed my heart to a dog - until much later in life, that is.

There was another childhood dog, again a chocolate poodle but called Brumas this time. Two dogs called Nicky and both dying so young - Nicky 3 would have been tempting fate and anyway, perhaps all children called their dogs Brumas at the time? Brumas was the first polar bear to be born and successfully reared in London zoo and he (although really he was a she) got a lot of publicity at the time. Brumas, the dog, lived till old age but he was far more my sister Sally’s dog than mine as I left home very young and would only see him when I came back to visit.

It wasn’t until years later, when I was married to Peter and living in Ealing that we got to thinking about a dog. But not for us. We used to visit Peter’s godmother on occasion. She lived by the sea in Kent and had recently been widowed.. She’d always had a dog, either a dachshund or a poodle, and Peter thought it might be an idea for her to have a dog to help her get over her husband’s death, get her out of the house, be a companion for her – all the usual things. So I made a habit of looking in the pet section of the London Evening Standard but every time a dachshund or a poodle was advertised, they were always far too expensive for us. We had little money in those days.

The day arrived though, when it all changed. On that day, I found an advert for poodle puppies in Plaistow and the price was only £6. That was more like it! I took the tube all the way to the East End of London. The puppies looked like poodles to me – white – although some seemed to have little brown patches. Of course they weren’t purebred. The breeder offered half a pedigree but I declined as I left with my chosen furry bundle.

That night I discovered in myself unknown maternal instincts – I worried about this little puppy, tried to settle her, cuddled her, endlessly got up to tend her in the night. Next day, off we went to Kent to present our gift to Peter’s godmother. She tooked at the puppy and said, ‘Oh goodness, no. I don’t want a dog. I wouldn’t be able to walk her. At my age I’d be frightened I’d slip and fall on a wet pavement.’ We tried to persuade her, of course, but there was no persuading.

So that was how Poppy arrived in our lives and how I fell in love with a dog again.

I'll post the second part of this next week and tell you how Old English Sheepdogs came into my life and how I met the dog of my life, Milou, an American cocker spaniel. And perhaps I’ll answer the question of why we choose a particular breed and there again, perhaps I won’t.

Why did you choose your breed of dog?

Changes

2007-03-24T14:54:00.000+01:00

Beau, the Bruno de Jura

When the phone rings and it’s your ex-husband calling to check if you are okay because you’ve not posted a blog entry for weeks – well, you know it’s time to post – and time to apologise to you, my regular and valued subscribers. I’m back – and I’ll not go away again for so long, I promise.

So what happened? Well, several things happened. The first you know about. His name is BooBoo and he just about drove me insane. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, please read the previous entry The Little Dog who thinks he’s a Great Dane. For over two months, BooBoo woke me every morning at 5 a.m. and then spent a large part of his day screaming, yelling and snapping at other dogs so I had to be vigilant every waking minute for fear he’d get his head bitten off. In fact, five or six days before he left, he did get bitten by my dog, Beau. Beau had had enough of being barked at by a dog not much bigger than a grasshopper and he lost patience. I was bending down to pick up something off the floor at the time – a 30-second lapse of vigilance is all it took - and so just before he was due to leave he got bitten. Well he asked for it but that’s not the point. Fortunately it was only a skin wound, nothing deep and soon healed up. What luck – it could have been so much worse. Those two months were stressful and seemed to be never ending. I was so tired I couldn’t think beyond getting through the day, let alone get my brain into gear to write a blog entry. And if you think something is going on forever it seems worse than it is because you see no end to it. You can’t cope. Eventually I said to myself, ‘Enough is enough. No more yappy little dogs, no more difficult dogs, time to ease up a bit on what I do.’ An epiphany moment? Perhaps not, perhaps just a natural progression to the next stage in life.

The second thing that happened occurred about three weeks or so into BooBoo’s stay when I had a call from a very persuasive gentleman, asking if I was interested in selling a particular brand of dog food in Monaco and along the French Riviera. Over the years I’ve been asked many times if I was interested in selling dog food and I’ve always said no. I can’t easily get away from here, can’t leave the dogs, so how could I sell dog food? In this case though, I’d heard of the product, Arden Grange, and knew it was good. Perhaps because I was so tired, perhaps fate took control, but I agreed the caller could send me a box of samples. A day or so later, an enormous box arrived containing samples of Arden Grange and large packets too, which gave me the chance to really test it out. BooBoo’s two friends, the two Jack Russell Terriers had allergy problems and scratched a lot. Beau, my refuge dog, has a greasy skin condition called seborreah.

So I’m in the dog food business! And it’s going very well, thank you, simply because this stuff sells itself. A dog only has to eat it and the owner orders more. I won’t ramble on though – if you want to read about it go to this link. I’ve no idea if this will work out for me financially. French taxation doesn’t make life easy for small businesses and the social charges I will have to pay are high. I won’t really know if it’s worth doing for a year or so. Fingers crossed though and meanwhile I’m having the best fun selling a product that is truly good for dogs.

All this took time to set up, so much so that I didn’t even get to Crufts dog show this year and I never ever miss the Old English Sheepdogs at Crufts. I watched it on the television though and was dead chuffed to see that a son of the dog who won last year (when I had the honour to judge) won this year. Like father, like son.

And the next thing that happened? Well, it was obvious that I couldn’t deliver this high quality dog food in my bashed up 16-year old car. It’s a Rover 216 that I bought years ago from a then-client, retired F1 racing driver, Roy Salvadori, who, incidentally, lives in an apartment that overlooks the start-finish line of the Monaco Grand Prix. I used to look after his dog, Tai, until he died of old age.

It’s a great car and still goes like a bomb. It's never given me one problem in all the years I’ve had it. However, because it’s been sitting out in the hot Mediterranean sun, the bodywork has seen better days. So trying to decide what car to buy took weeks of research. I got square eyes looking at car websites and reading car reviews. A Renault Kangoo would have been ideal but I decided, to hell with it, I want something a little more upmarket and comfortable and so I’ve ordered a Golf Plus which will be ready for collection in a couple of months.

I’ve driven an automatic for years as I have an arthritic neck and shoulder (the result of an untreated whiplash injury a lifetime and a couple of marriages ago). The test drive was in a manual car. Friends said you never forget how to drive with a manual gear shift. It's like riding a bike, they said. Of course, I said and of course, I couldn’t make the damn thing start. I was like a 17-year old learning to drive. Couldn’t get my feet to work the pedals. The salesman said, ‘You’ve got your foot on the brake pedal, Madame,’ when I thought I was on the clutch.’ ‘Oh you drive,’ I said - and we changed places. So he did the test drive for me, which is probably not the way it’s supposed happen.No matter, nice car even though I haven’t a clue what it’s like to drive but I'll find out and yes, I've ordered an automatic.

And I’m a little daunted as it’s far easier to own an old banger. No one wants to steal it and it doesn’t matter if you hit a lamppost. I’ve never really been into the status of cars (I just need them to work and not let me down) but perhaps I’ll get used to it. I’ve ordered leather seats and a tinted rear window and some gizmo that beeps when you are parking and are about to hit something. I need that. Yes, I think I might indeed get used to this new car!

And last week? BooBoo and his two friends went home. I took a week’s holiday and now all is right with the world again. His owners, who are great people, arrived with a calendar featuring a Miniature Pinscher. I told them I’d put it on the wall and throw darts at it. Fortunately they laughed and left with several bags of dog food and have since told me that their dogs are far better behaved than before. That's good to know.

Sorry I've been away. Thank you for waiting. See you again SOON.

The little dog who thinks he's a Great Dane

2007-02-15T15:56:00.000+01:00

BooBoo, the Min Pin

People say the smaller the dog, the noisier it is and if you were here at this moment, believe me, you’d know it’s true. Of course, from a small dog’s point of view I suppose it makes sense – if he can’t protect himself with his size, then he’ll do it with his voice. What, though, of little dogs who bark and yap at bigger dogs, for no reason other than to make their presence felt?

Mo and BooBoo

Of the guests currently staying at Pension Milou, three come from the same family. First there is P, real name Pendragon, who is a nearly blind and totally adorable Parson Jack Russell Terrier. He knows his way around now but will still run full tilt into my calves if I stop suddenly when he’s following me. Mo is his pretty daughter and the third member of this party is the hero of our story, a Miniature Pinscher called BooBoo. Did I say hero? Of course I mean villain. And don’t let that baby name fool you, folks – this dog is a tiger.

Mo and P with BooBoo at the back

BooBoo is tiny – around 3 kilos - yet he thinks he’s a Great Dane. I soon learned that opening the French windows to the garden and letting all the dogs out at the same time, which is what I usually do, wouldn’t work. BooBoo rushes out amidst a torrent of yapping and barking as he snaps at the other dogs. Poor dogs, they are bewildered. I don’t think for one moment BooBoo intends hurting them but they don’t know that and of course this is dangerous for him as one bite from a large dog, and we’d have one headless and very dead Min Pin. Imagine having to phone his owners who are on holiday in Australia and say, ‘So sorry, your dog’s head got bitten off by another guest.’ Truly it could happen. It’s my responsibility that it doesn’t and it’s stressful. Pass the migraine pills.

So now I pick him up before opening the doors – he still yells his head off - and I carry him to the far end of the garden before putting him down. It’s a little easier but it's still necessary to be ever vigilant. BooBoo thinks he’s Boss Dog around here. We’ve had several heart-to-heart discussions about this and so far he’s not remotely interested in my point of view. I’ve never looked after a Min Pin before. Did I hear you say this might be the last? Of course, like most stories, there is another side. At night, when I’m lying stretched out on the sofa, leaning against a cushion and watching the box, BooBoo settles snugly on my stomach. Butter wouldn’t melt… And he’s a happy little fellow, loves nothing better than running about with a tennis ball in his mouth – how he gets a tennis ball into his tiny mouth amazes me. He plays with other dogs. Yes, when he’s not yapping and letting the world know how incredibly important he is, he’s adorable. When…

Dotty, the pug, BooBoo and Mo

Now, he wears a citronelle collar. This is a collar with a small plastic box attached. The box is fitted with a battery, it’s filled with citronelle scented liquid and it has a tiny sensor, which, when he barks, emits a squirt of this spray. Most dogs hate it but not much stops our tiger. It has helped a little but, when he’s excited, he barks regardless of the spray. I looked up the website of the Min Pin club and it seems they are very barky dogs by nature and they confirm this is a breed convinced it’s bigger than it really is. It’s hard to break such strong habits, based on a natural instinct, so I think the best thing is to keep taking the medication. Pass me another aspirin.

What me?

Of Mice and Old Men

2007-01-26T14:23:00.000+01:00

Mice in the roof! I thought I heard them a couple of nights ago and then last night there was no doubt. They were making a hell of a racket. They started off with a cocktail party, which led to a raucous banquet, dining on my roof insulation, no doubt. After that, they got stuck into John Travolta-style disco dancing to a very noisy band and this went on all night. Something has to be done! Actually, they are probably not mice but tree rats who are rather beautiful creatures with soft faces and white fur on their bellies, but sorry, I need my beauty sleep and I don’t need the wiring chewed. What to do is always the problem. Candy, my best buddy, who lives in America, was invaded by mice a while back and she used a humane trap. She’d bait it and then the mouse would simply walk in the door of the trap, which then closed behind it. She also drilled her trap with extra vent holes for air and put cotton wool balls inside so the poor ‘ickle’ mouse would have something soft to snuggle up to whilst it waited overnight for her to find it. That’s my Candy!

Once in the cage, she carried the trap over the hill and way down to the creek bottoms below and released it on the other side of the creek. By the time she got to mouse number 105 she gave up, as she suspected they were simply walking back up the hill to the quarters they shared with Candy and Bob’s two Old English Sheepdogs. Mind you, they’d have had to swim the creek first. Her neighbour said they probably enjoyed the ride and beat her home. She either took 105 mice over the hill or one mouse 105 times. She’ll never know.

If I get mice in a cupboard, I put down spring traps, which at least kill instantly. I could live without disposing of their little bodies though. Poison gives a slow death and is so cruel but what do you do when you’ve got the little buggers in your roof? Well, I’m not going to address the problem this morning. Instead I’ll look out of the window and enjoy the view.

Before me, I see the Mediterranean but when I look at the hillside to my right, there is a sea of green, mostly chênes verts (holm oaks) and pines that grow way down to the ruisseau (stream) called the Calf below. Visitors often love that view more than looking at the sea. Trees are so calming, aren’t they? The Calf, when it’s rained a lot, is a torrent carrying boulders and fallen trees as it rages down the mountain, but in summer, it's barely a trickle. One day, a couple of years ago, Candy found the decomposing head of a sanglier (wild boar) down there. Of course she had to take this back to America in her suitcase so it sat for days in neat bleach (Javel in France) in an attempt to rid it of the morsels of brain attached. She now has it displayed in her living room in Ohio along with hornets’ nests, turtle shells, deer antlers and animal skulls she finds on her walks along the creek bottoms. Candy’s interior decoration is un peu spéciale as the French would say.

Candy retrieving a sanglier skull from the stream

It constantly amazes me that I live in the countryside alongside olive and citrus growers yet the house is only 5 kilometres from the sea and 11 kilometres from the buzz and glamour of Monaco. And it feels even more ‘country’ to me, because my neighbour keeps his pet sheep under the motorway.

We are four neighbours in this little quartier. Way above me on the main road is the doctor, his wife (a nurse) and their family. The other three including me, are down a rough track opposite their house. First down the track is Monsieur Cocular and his family, then, turning in the direction of the sea, you’ll find Pension Milou and below is my neighbour and friend, Agnès and her family.

Monsieur Cocular is the old man who keeps the sheep. 93 years of age, he wanders the lanes for most of the day cutting fronds of olive leaves and other plants for his pet sheep. The sheep are not kept for meat or milk and certainly not for their wool, as their fleeces are none too tidy. They are his pets and he adores them and when one dies, it’s buried on the hillside. I suppose if he didn’t have his sheep to care for, he’d die. They give him a reason to live. He’s a sweet little old man, very thin, who used to push his chariot around the neighbourhood, stuffing it full of cuttings, but now he makes do with an old sack.

The problem is he cuts the plants in our gardens too. Fences are supposed to denote private land, non? Monsieur Cocular leans over my fence and cuts back anything his sheep will eat and ruins my plants at the same time.

This has gone on for years and up till now I’ve thought: – poor old boy, trying to find free forage for his sheep, does it really matter if he cuts your plants, Jilly? And the answer had to be no. Indeed, when my olive trees are trimmed in winter, I lug the branches up to him. He gets all the weeds too, most of which can be fed to sheep. I’ve bought him bales of hay and told him I’m happy to continue buying hay but on condition he doesn’t cut the plants in my garden. Of course it makes no difference.

And always he denies he’s cut anything he shouldn’t. ‘Ne couper pas mes plants, Monsieur Cocular.’ ‘Mai, non,’ he replies. Huh ! I wonder what his wife would say if I walked into her potager and cut her vegetables.

For years I decided, because he ignored my pleas, that he was simply old, probably a little senile and didn’t know what he was doing. Lately though, I’ve noticed, canny old man, he waits until my car has gone and then he’ll walk down the track with his knife – chop, chop, chop at my plants, many of which I’ve raised from seed or bought in the nursery.

Last summer I had a car park area built. A large area of concrete surrounded by retaining walls to hold back the hillside. Ugly it is, but practical and hopefully kinder to car tyres than the rough stones that used to be there. So, I bought half a dozen rosemary plants which will eventually tumble over the wall and soften the look. So what happens? I go out shopping and when I get back I find Monsieur Cocular has clambered up the hill, behind the retaining wall, and chopped all of them back, almost to the roots. Grrrrrrrrrr.

Agnès, my other neighbour, suggests I have a word with Monsieur C’s daughter. I decide not to phone – that makes too much of it. A few days later I happen to be walking up the track to the mailbox when I see Marie-Christine getting out of her car. I ask her if I can have a word, explain the problem and ask if she’ll speak to her father. At that moment, Monsieur Cocular appears and also his wife. He denies ever cutting my plants. ‘Ce n’est pas vrai,’ he says. His daughter says, ‘Oh Papa,’ and shakes her head. His wife wants to know what’s going on. I explain as gently as I can. His wife is angry. ‘My husband doesn’t cut other people’s plants – he goes up to the hills to get the food for the sheep,’ she says. She asks if I’ve seen him cutting my garden. I tell her I have seen him. I tell that the other neighbours have seen him and that Sylvie, who works here on Saturdays, has seen him. She gets angrier and insists it’s not her husband who has committed this heinous crime. She says she has personally seen someone else walk down our valley and cut plants. What nonsense. Of course she hasn’t.

Really we get nowhere fast but hopefully, now it’s been discussed, he’ll stop looking for sheep fodder in my garden. I’m not counting on it though. And now I feel so guilty as I’ve doubtless got this poor old man into trouble. Oh the guilt – will I sleep at night for thinking about it? – well no, because the mice will keep me awake, won’t they? But perhaps the rosemary will grow…

A decidedly dodgy childhood

2007-01-15T14:29:00.000+01:00

Victoria

Think of Monte Carlo and perhaps you imagine an expensively clad woman sitting on the terrasse of the Café de Paris, sipping a noisette and watching the visitors strut their stuff around the Place du Casino. By her feet, or more likely sitting on her lap, is her sparkling white and beautifully coiffed bichon frisé or perhaps a poodle. There are lots of those in Monte Carlo - cute little pedigree dogs, I mean, but yes, elegant women too – bien sûr.

When Pension Milou first opened, I assumed all my clients would be pedigree dogs – if not little poodles from Monaco, then family dogs: labs, goldens and cockers from around the Alpes-Maritimes. How wrong I was. Quite a few are bâtards (mongrels) rescued from one of the refuges along the coast, although it’s not only cross-breeds who end up in a refuge - that’s for sure. Unwanted, unloved, some have miraculously ended up at the centre of some lucky family's world in Monaco or the south of France.

All of them, though, mutt or pedigree, have one thing in common – a decidedly dodgy childhood – okay, puppy hood then. But unlike many people, and we are each a product of our childhood, be it good or bad, these dogs didn’t look back in anger but forward with optimism and joy and most of all, with love.

Here are the stories of three such dogs.

Victoria’s story

In January 2001, a lady was walking her dog through the streets of Monaco and as she passed by the rear of the Annonciade building, a large apartment block, she heard a whimpering sound coming from a poubelle (rubbish bin). There, chucked into the depths and certain death, was a moving paper bag and inside, a tiny and very dirty black puppy. She went immediately to the vet who ascertained this scruffy bundle was about 4 weeks old. The next day, a friend of our gallant rescuer came to visit, fell in love and the rest, as they say, is history. First though, she had to persuade her husband, who was in hospital at the time, that this was a good idea and happily he agreed. The puppy, to be called Victoria, had to be fed with a dropper, as she was too small and weak to feed herself. Her rescuer cared for her for the first week and then she went to her forever-home.

A handbag! (4 weeks)

First she lived in Monaco, then in the medieval village of Roquebrune, in a house just under the church clock. I remember going to great parties in this house where everything stopped when the church bells pealed - they were that loud. Victoria’s favourite pastime was to visit the butcher, where she sat and begged until she was given a scrap of meat or a bone, which she proudly carried home. Her owners have to be careful with what they feed her though, as all her life she’s had a delicate stomach, perhaps because she was never properly weaned.

The family now live in Sospel, a beautiful village high above Menton, but whenever they pay a visit to Roquebrune, little Victoria always remember the butcher’s shop. She was called Victoria, by the way, because she is the same age as her owner’s grandson, Victor, and she was found on the 100th anniversary of Queen Victoria’s death.

A day after she was found, another female puppy, to be named Blackie was found in the same rubbish bin and she was adopted by one of the waiters at a Monaco restaurant. She’s turned out to be the image of Victoria, even down to the little white patch on the chin, but Blackie is smaller and slimmer, perhaps because she was never spayed.

Games with Pumba, the Labrador

Victoria likes life at Pension Milou, especially if there's a dog to flirt with, but basically she’s obsessively attached to her owners and sometimes I'll catch her staring at the gate, hoping the next people to arrive will be them. When I get a phone call to say they are about to arrive, I often open the gate for her to greet them. I’ve never seen a little dog run as fast as Victoria – she’ll almost fly up the track and then she'll run round and round them in circles, wild with excitement, such is her delight at seeing her family again.

Arthur’s story:

There used to be a refuge in Menton called Mopsy – now closed because the neighbours complained of noise from barking dogs. Their houses were built long after the refuge was there – but that’s another story. Menton doesn’t have a refuge at the moment and more’s the pity. All French towns with more than a certain number of residents (I forget the number but Menton well exceeds it) must, by law, provide a refuge for abandoned animals and Menton has managed to break this law for some years now.

Arthur

Arthur’s story starts one October when a lady and her daughter visited the refuge to get a cat. They’d been inundated with rats and mice ever since their old and much-loved setter, Douchka, had died. After choosing their cat – to be named Simba - they noticed a large Italian Spinone who stood in the background, apart from the other dogs. They asked about him and were told he’d been in the refuge for about 18 months. He appealed to them but it was too soon after Douchka’s passing to have another dog and so they left the refuge. His face, however, stayed in the lady’s mind and on the way home she said to her daughter, ‘You know, that dog looked like an ‘Arthur’ to me.’

Four months later she was reading Nice-Matin and found a whole page devoted to the refuge. It was to be closed down and any dogs and cats not found homes would be put down. In the middle of the page was a photograph of several dogs and standing off to one side was her ‘Arthur.’ Mother and daughter immediately drove to the refuge – of course, they couldn’t let him be put to sleep. He was in a pitiful state, dirty, dejected and with all the signs of a dog who’d been beaten. He was so dirty that on the way home, they took him to a salon de toilettage to be clipped and bathed.

Out walking, Arthur shied away from strangers. If anyone raised a hand, he would cower. He didn’t know how to play and he didn’t know what a toy was. At the time the vet thought he was about 5 or 6 years old but now, 4 years later, she feels she was wrong. She now gives his age as 7 or 8.

And Arthur now? He adores children, his fear of strangers has gone, and he plays with his toys and proudly carries them around. He’s a totally different dog to the one who was rescued and everyone loves him, including me. Arthur comes to stay at Pension Milou every Christmas and sometimes in summer. If all the dogs were like Arthur, I’d have an easy time. He’s such a relaxing dog to be around, like a big old bear and so good to cuddle up to. If you go to my previous posting you can see a photograph of him asleep on the daybed in the study.

Loulou’s story:

Loulou’s life started on the streets of Jakarta, which is probably as bad a start as you can get. She was picked up by a German lady, starving and in a dreadful state. The German lady had two dogs already and asked the French husband of another German lady if they’d like the dog. In fact, he gave the puppy to his wife for Christmas. Three months old, terribly thin and in bad condition she immediately attached herself to his wife, who’d never had a dog before and she found this rather disconcerting. After three days, unable to cope with this needy little dog, she sent Loulou back to the lady who’d found her but to her surprise, she found herself really missing the little dog. Two days and one phone call later, Loulou was back forever. That's how a love affair with a dog can start.

Loulou on the kitchen chair

Loulou looks like a fox with the most beautiful red coat and tail - apparently typical of the street dogs of Jakarta. She’s now 13 years old and has had a much-travelled life, from Asia to Africa and eventually, to France where she now lives in Nice.

When the family left Indonesia to go to Gabon in West Africa, all the servants came to the airport, including Harti, the cook and her husband, Kodrad, the driver – they’d looked after Loulou when the family had gone home to France for their holidays. Harti gave Loulou a big kiss amidst her tears of farewell.

However, servants weren’t always kind to Loulou and on one of her owners’ trips back to France, she was left with the servants in Africa. When they returned from France, a femme de ménage (maid) told them that some boys had tried to drown her in the swimming pool. Since then, unsurprisingly, she’s always been nervous of people. Not all the servants were cruel though. In Gabon, they had a driver called Amidou who, when Loulou was barking or being naughty, would say ‘Non, Loulou, ne fais pas ça, tu es mon amie,’ and Loulou would calm down immediately. Amidou was a nice, kind man from Burkina Faso, north of the Ivory Coast. Relations, however, were not so good with Hortense, another maid, as she liked to chase Loulou with the vacuum cleaner.

Sunning herself on the terrace

When Loulou comes to stay at Pension Milou, she likes to sleep in the kitchen, behind the baby gate. The kitchen isn’t shut away as it’s an open plan kitchen – so she can see what's going on but appreciates the protection offered by the baby gate. Loulou is a beautiful, feminine creature who funnily enough – considering her starved state at the beginning of her life – doesn’t grab her food but is a fastidious eater, delicately taking one morsel of meat or one croquette at a time from her bowl. I had to earn her trust but now she come to me for a caress but she’s wary of most of the dogs, always stands back, would never go for another dog but if they approach, she’ll gently warn them away. An exception to this is Pickle, the Jack Russell, with whom she loves to play. She lets me know when she wants to go in the garden and when she wants to come back in but is happiest in her little domain on the comfortable chair there. And, of course, she’s happiest of all when her owner arrives to take her home to Nice.

How lucky are these dogs to have found such wonderful homes? But hey, how lucky are their owners?

A Guru for Christmas

2006-12-31T13:49:00.000+01:00

It’s 5.30 in the morning and Loulou, the Jakarta street dog, is howling – just a gentle howl, but enough to say, ‘Get up, I want breakfast.’ Then they all start. Lola, the Border collie mix, is rattling the wrought iron baby gate to my bedroom. Cosmo, the French bulldog puppy, is making baby noises. Tessa, the golden retriever is jumping up and grabbing my nightdress. Hattie and Jessie are whining as only cocker spaniels can whine. I lie there for about thirty seconds but there’s no point. If I don’t get up now, someone will have puddled. Let’s face it, someone will probably have puddled anyway.

Hardy and Hamish - father and son

I throw a dressing gown over my nightdress, stick my feet in a pair of shoes and make for the door, 16 dogs running along behind me. I feel like the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Now they are pushing and shoving, each wanting to be the first one out. I edge my way thru a sea of dogs to get the door open. Cosmo is jumping up and scratching my calves. Her claws are like needles. Lola’s barking. I tell her to stop and she doesn’t. Now all the dogs are barking. This won’t work. I can’t let barking dogs out this early in the morning - it’s simply not fair on my neighbours. I walk back to the kitchen counter to get the citronelle anti-bark collar for Lola. She’s the ringleader. She runs away. I chase her with half the dogs following me, the other half wondering why on earth I don’t open the door and NOW. Eventually I get the collar on her. I see two puddles. I don’t know who the culprits are but it’s not their fault - they’d wanted to go out, after all and anyway, there’s always a bucket of disinfectant at the ready. No big deal.

Cosmo, French bulldog puppy

I open the door and the dogs burst out as if a cannon has gone off. I cling to the door frame to avoid being knocked over in the rush. Most run across the terrace and down the steps to the garden but some wait for me. I think how nice it would be if I could simply open the door, let the dogs out and then go and make myself a cup of tea whilst they get on with their calls of nature. If only it were that simple. But there are always insecure dogs who won’t go down to the garden alone. So I go down – the puppy and Pixie, the little poodle, follow. It’s pitch black and three or four more dogs are waiting at the bottom of the steps for me to click the switch that lights up the trees in the lower garden. This is a five-star dog hotel, after all, and Monte Carlo dogs don’t ‘do’ dark.

Welcome to Pension Milou on Christmas morning.

The lower terrace leading to the garden

I’ve too many dogs. That’s how it is at Christmas. For some reason, throughout the year, it more or less works out that I don’t exceed the number of dogs allowed by my official licence – pretty amazing when you look at how many dogs are featured in the gallery of the Pension Milou website. But at Christmas, I have no choice but to turn several valued clients away. And still there are too many here.

Arthur sleeps

Time for breakfast. Most books on canine behaviour and training tell us that the human must eat first to show the dog who is boss or pack leader. Have you ever tried eating breakfast with 16 pairs of eyes glued to your every move? The dogs eat first. Organising this is no small feat in itself but once the bowls are filled according to each dog’s requirement, medication added where necessary, dogs put in various rooms so there are no arguments, it’s done and dusted in no time. Then I fix breakfast for myself. Perhaps you imagine a gently warmed croissant with confiture d'abricots, served with a steaming cup of fresh espresso and taken, sitting on the terrasse enjoying the sun come up over the Mediterranean below. The truth is I make a bowl of porridge, carry it into the study and eat it as I check my emails. Some dogs lie at my feet, others play. Yet two or three others are having a mother’s meeting, doubtless complaining about the management.

Mother's meeting: Athena and Tessa

Time to shower but first I need to move a few dog beds that pretty much cover the bathroom floor. I clear a space, put down a bathmat and take my douche. Sixteen pairs of eyes stare at me through the clear glass and when I’m done at least six tongues lick my legs, helpers in the drying process.

Cosmo and Happy

Anthony is coming to lunch. I must clean up as he’s allergic to dogs and dust. Anthony is my computer guru so he’s pretty high up on the list of Important People in my Life. He’s seen me through at least three computers and over the years has become a good friend - he even calls me 'Auntie.' Poor guy – he has to take a pile of anti-allergy pills before he so much as sets off on the journey to me and in the spring it’s even worse when the mimosas are in flower.

Today though is a treat. It’s usual for me to spend Christmas alone. Well, as alone as one can be with 16 dogs. Normally Anthony, who is Canadian, flies home to spend Christmas with his parents and takes his dog with him. He’s always had bichons, who, like poodles, don’t cause allergy problems. This year he has a new puppy called Baka. (Anthony writes Haiku and Baka means ‘clown’ or ‘fool’ in Japanese.) His parents have moved from the country to an apartment in Toronto where dogs aren’t allowed and so Anthony can't take Baka with him. As he doesn't want to leave such a young puppy behind, his parents’ loss is my gain. He's coming to Pension Milou for Christmas lunch

Anthony is a self-employed computer programmer currently writing and selling his own anti-spam software. He also owns and operates the four computers, as well as the wireless network, at Stars ‘N' Bars, a trendy American-style sports bar on the port of Monaco. Great Eggs Benedict there – I speak from experience.

Over the years, I’ve learned so much from Anthony, not least, to try and write what I mean. I’ve learned, when I ask a computer-related question, to be precise and to think logically and sequentially when I explain the problem. This has helped my writing and I’ll be forever grateful to him for this - she said, wafting off in ten different directions.

Anthony and Baka

Two hours later and the house is as clean as it’s likely to get. The floors are washed and most of the obvious surfaces are dusted. The table is ready. I’m providing the first course, Anthony is bringing the plat principal and later I discover he’s brought enough to last me a couple of meals. How many people can boast a computer guru who cooks for them? The Christmas pudding, grâce à Marks and Spencer, is a gift from BooBoo’s owners. And the wine? Another client, a wine collector (are you beginning to see the advantages of looking after other people’s dogs?) has generously given me a ‘special bottle for Christmas day.’ It’s a Château La Nerthe 2000 whose cork has been pulled to give the wine time to breathe.

We are ready. All seventeen of us await Anthony and Baka’s arrival.

- - - - - - - - -

Next week: read the story of Loulou, who was found on the streets of Jakarta.

Manhattan Chien

2006-12-21T16:55:00.000+01:00

We’re always reading in Nice-Matin about the Russian invasion of the Côte d’Azur. Russians have bought up many of the beautiful Belle Époque properties along the coast and have doubtless helped make a few real estate agents very rich. Everyone knows about the Russian billionaire with the unpronounceable name who owns Chelsea Football Club. He’s le propriétaire of the Chateau de la Croe at Cap d’Antibes, the former home of the Duke of Windsor who bought it for Wallace Simpson when he gave up the British crown for her.

Well, it so happens that not long ago I got to know of a rather special Russian émigré myself. Etienne was born in St. Petersburg, Russia to an aristocratic family but with roots going way back to his original French heritage. Etienne is a French Bulldog, who lives, not in the south of France but in New York where he’s very much the dapper young dog about town, enjoying all the good things Manhattan has to offer and playing football with his friends in the park.

Etienne, however, is more than just a bouledogue français living in New York – he's an artist’s muse. An 'artist's muse' brings to mind some voluptuous woman who has inspired an artist to heights of artistic expression. Almost nobody thinks of dogs, yet many artists' dogs have been their 'muse.' Picasso had his dachshund, Lump, who was born in Germany where his name means Rascal. Lump appears in 15 of Picasso’s multiple reinterpretations of Velázquez's masterpiece "Las Meninas.” David Hockney loves to paint his dachshunds. And of course there is William Wegman and his Weimaraners. And now there is Etienne.

Etienne, known as Eti, has a beautiful blog dedicated to him called, naturally enough, Manhattan Chien. As you’ll see, his owner, dear pack leader (PL), is a talented graphic artist who uses 40 layers of colours and textures for his paintings. I bought a framed print of Eti and it’s on the wall to the left of me as I type. On Eti's website you can read about his beginnings in Russia, there are great resources on the breed and on holistic feeding, you can watch many fascinating videos, and in the section called Manhattan Muse you can read what a rather special canine muse does all day.

But I didn't know of Manhattan Chien, until one day, thanks to the wizardry of the Internet, I found that PL had written about Pension Milou and the story of Milou's bench. It was called All the Leaves are Brown and the Sky is Gray. And how had PL found this blog? Simple - he found it because I'd written about a French bulldog in The Day Lou was Stolen.

PL and I started a correspondence. At the time, this blog’s title was shown in a simple header with a teal border and I happened to write one day that it would be nice to show a postcard, perhaps jutting out of one corner of the border. The next morning, what should arrive in my mailbox but a beautiful graphic of an old postcard – and a little later, stamps and postmarks to go along with it. No ordinary stamps, mind you, but a Pension Milou stamp depicting a spaniel and another stamp showing two champion Old English Sheepdogs I’d bred in a former life. Take a look at the top of this page.

I love New York. I spent time there in my twenties and last year I stayed for four or five days in TriBeCa, en route to the Centennial Show of the Old English Sheepdog Club of America. Who knows if one day I won’t be walking in Central Park and see, in the distance, a black masked red fawn French Bulldog who’ll come running when I call out - ‘Eti, Eti, Eti…’

Eti, on my study wall

*******

Update on Lynda, the Tibetan spaniel, click here and scroll down page

The Book End and Aunt Hilda

2006-12-13T09:24:00.000+01:00

Lin-dha

It’s feeding time and Lin-dha, the little Tibetan spaniel, is nowhere to be seen. I find her on a cushion in the study, pick her up and put her in les toilettes (always plural in French - I wonder why?) with her food bowl. Perhaps not the most inspirational place to eat but as most of the dogs staying at Pension Milou eat separately, the smallest goes into the loo. We might object - they don't even notice. Not all the dogs are shut away at feeding time: the fastest eaters remain in the living room on or the terrace and by the time I’ve got the last bowl down, the first one is empty. These are the vacuum cleaner dogs. Whoosh, it’s gone. Then they go around checking out each others' food bowl to make sure there isn’t the tiniest crumb left. There never is.

Lin-dha (a Chinese name that means 'beautiful and intelligent) doesn’t eat. And she hasn’t moved. This isn’t normal. I pick her up, carry her into the living area and put her down. She remains where I’ve put her. I stand her and she flops down at the rear. I don’t know if she’s hurt her leg, her back or what but then I recall the little cry she'd made when I arrived home a couple of hours ago.

Sylvie was looking after the dogs and we heard the smallest yelp, barely a squeak when Lin-dha jumped up to greet me. Sylvie bent down, picked her up and gave her a cuddle. She got a lick in return and then she put her down again. Lin-dha always jumps up, as do all the dogs, even if I’ve left them for all of five minutes whilst I walk up the track to collect le journal and le courier from the mailbox. Dogs don’t seem to think in terms of time. You get the same welcome after five minutes as you do when you’ve been gone for two hours. Dogs are always happy to see us and ask for so little in return. We feed and care for them and they love us to pieces. I know who I think gets the better bargain.

I pick her up and put her on the table and pull and prod a bit, move her legs right thru the hip joint – nothing seems to hurt her. She licks my face and wags her tail. I can’t believe anything is too badly wrong with a dog who is happily wagging her tail, yet she can’t walk. I carry her down to the garden and put her on the grass. She doesn’t budge so I leave her to see what will happen and later find she’s moved a few yards but it's obvious she’s just dragged herself there. This won’t do. I put her in my bedroom where she can be quiet and away from the other dogs. She’s not in pain and I hope that with sleep, whatever has happened will be righted by the morning.

It isn’t. It’s Sunday morning and again she won’t eat. I call the vet who tells me to give her anti-inflammatory medication. I do and by the afternoon she can walk, or rather she can just about roll along for all of two steps, then her rear flops onto the terracotta tiles. But she’s feeling better and at feeding time, she woofs down her food. She’s not right though and she will go to the vet tomorrow.

Monday arrives and we are back to square one – she won’t eat. At 7.30 I drive down to Carnoles and meet Sylvie who luckily for me lives only 5 kilometres down the valley. Sylvie is my vet’s veterinary nurse and she’ll take Lin-dha to work with her.

Later Louise, the veterinarian, calls and tells me she’s x-rayed Lin-dha. She has a slipped disk and is virtually paralysed at the rear. Because there had been a positive response to the anti-inflammatory medication the day before, she’s given her cortisone and has high hopes it will work. But it doesn’t. The only thing for little Lin-dha is an operation and for that she needs to go to Nice to Louise’s husband. He’s a brilliant veterinary surgeon – indeed it was he who removed the eardrums and repaired the damaged nerves on Beau, the refuge dog – he was on the table for four and a half hours that day.

It’s time for me to call the owner who is in England but there’s no reply. I leave messages on her UK number and at her apartment in Italy. I call a friend who knows her well and he gives me her daughter’s number in France and the phone numbers of a couple of friends. I call them all and no one can reach her anymore than I can and so eventually there is nothing to do but wait. Lin-dha can’t have an operation without the owner’s permission and there is the small matter of cost – vets in France aren't cheap. Will she agree to this?

It’s seven in the evening and still there’s been no call. The plan had been for Louise to drop Lin-dha at her husband’s surgery in Nice, ready for the operation the next day but we have no permission. I tell her to go ahead, feeling sure the owner will get in touch sometime this evening. I hope to God I’m right.

Around eight I try the number again and happily the owner has just walked in the door. She tells me that Lin-dha had a problem with her back in September – she’d jumped off a low wall and then couldn’t move for half a day. The vet has since said this is not the same thing but perhaps it shows there is a weakness in the spine, as there often is in short-legged long-backed dogs like dachshunds. Whilst Tibetan spaniels don’t have backs as long as dachshunds, nevertheless, Louise told me they can be prone to back problems.

At first, the owner isn’t sure about putting her through this operation, fearing that she’ll have back problems for the rest of her life but after a couple of phone calls to Louise, she is persuaded that there's a very good chance for her because although she is paralysed, she still has reflexes. Had her reflexes not worked, then she’d not hold out much hope. Lin-dha is only six years old and such a joyful little dog. I’m keeping my fingers and toes crossed. She means a lot to her owner and I’m pretty fond of her too.

When Lin-dha first came to Pension Milou, she came with her friend Mimi. Sadly Mimi, who was a lot older, died about a year ago. They liked nothing better than sitting on the coffee table, on top of magazines, sometimes with books between them. I called them ‘the bookends.’

Mimi and Lin-dha

It’s a day later –and Lin-dha is at the surgery in Nice. She’s had an anaesthetic and a dye injected so that Dr. El Baze can locate the problem. The operation is to take two hours. Later I hear it's gone well and that it was urgent as there was a badly slipped disc with a large hernia and had he not operated quickly, there would have been deterioration in the tissues. As soon as she is well enough, she’ll come back here and I gather that will be sooner rather than later, as she is making her presence felt with rather too much barking… sounds like sweet little Lin-dha is very much on the mend.

Update:Lin-dha, two days after the operation - unable to walk...

After 3 hours on the table, she spent two days in the veterinary clinic in Nice. Then she came back here, plaster down the length of her back which covered an unimaginable number of stitches. Still paralysed, she had to be carried to the garden for the first two days and then slowly, miraculously, she learned to walk again. Now, a week later, she walks well, has difficult changing direction and still occasionally flops down, but this improves by the day. She’s now out and about in the main house, mixing with the other dogs and I lift her onto the sofa during the evening for a cuddle. All in all, a small miracle.

...a week later - walking again

--------------

Today is my aunt’s 102nd birthday. Hilda is her name. You don’t hear that name often these days. My sister, Sally, calls from England. She’s been down to visit her in the nursing home where she lives, taking wine and cake to celebrate the occasion. Several neighbours who live in the apartment building where Hilda used to live have come along to add their good wishes, but she’s not feeling too good and she tells them to go home. She and my sister talk but she won’t eat or drink anything. She’s hot and a nurse comes in and turns down the heating but Sally thinks her breathing is rather heavy. Eventually she falls asleep and Sally takes the train back home. When she arrives, she gets a call to say that our aunt was taken ill shortly after she left and sadly has died. How’s that for timing? Hilda was our mother's eldest sister, a tough old bird who'd never married. She liked to be in control and had been determined to make it to 102 – and, good for her, she did.

I last saw Hilda on her 100th birthday. She was still living in her apartment then and managing very well with regular helpers. She was excited to be getting a telegram from the Queen, which actually wasn’t a telegram at all, but a rather beautiful card. Of course she wouldn’t admit she was excited, people of her generation in England don’t show emotion but she enjoyed that day. As children and as adults, we were never allowed to kiss her. ‘We don’t kiss in our family,’ she’d say. Well, Hilda, I’m blowing you a kiss now.

Interview technique

2006-12-04T10:07:00.000+01:00

Louis, the Cavalier

Dogs who come to stay at Pension Milou live freely in the house with me, so I need to meet them first to make sure they’ll get along with others and at the same time, the owner can see how it all works here. It’s a mutual thing. There are exceptions – if a new dog needs to stay at short notice and it’s a puppy, well, what can a puppy do wrong except wreck the place, pee everywhere and keep me thoroughly amused? Today an 8-month old bouledogue français called Beebop is coming to stay. I couldn’t resist – I’m soppy about French bulldogs.

Normally, though, I have four questions:

If a male, is he castrated?

The majority of male dogs who come to stay belong to Brits and Americans simply because it doesn’t occur to the French to get their males ‘fixed.’ When I ask if their dog is castrated, they say,’Mais non, pourquoi?’ Ask a vet in France, especially on the macho Mediterranean, to castrate your dog and you will notice his hand moving (not literally, of course…) to protect his male bits and pieces. With a horrified expression on his face, he’ll say,‘Oh, no it’s not necessary to castrate a male - we only sterilize the females.’ I wouldn’t mind 10 euros for every time I’ve heard that. My neighbour planned on getting her dog castrated when he was 8 months old but the vet refused, saying it would ‘spoil his coat’ so now he runs around, 4 years old, endlessly mounting poor old Pepita, their spayed Berger Pyrénées. If you want your dog castrated in France, you need to be very definite about it otherwise the vet will try and talk you out of it. Or go to a lady vet. Funny that…

Who needs a dog who mounts other people’s legs, who masturbates on cushions and who smells? And here at Pension Milou, who marks his territory and who would probably get aggressive with other males too. I explain to owners that the main reason I don’t take uncastrated males is because they pee absolutely everywhere in the house. ‘Oh, but my dog is absolutely clean at home,’ they say, ‘he’d never do that.’ Of course he’s clean at home but put him in an environment with other dogs and it’s his instinct to mark territory, which means peeing on my furniture. He can’t help it and chastising him simply doesn’t work. I once had a Llasa Apso and counted the number of times I cleaned up his little tinkles against a chair, a curtain, a table leg. By the time I got to fourteen and it was only noon, I gave up. So now no uncastrated male gets past the first phone call.

Does the dog get along well with other dogs?

When a dog arrives for his or her interview, I keep the rest of the dogs in the house whilst I let the dog and owner through the gate and onto the terrace. The dog’s lead is removed and then the others are let out, one by one, to greet the new arrival. This can be daunting to some dogs, especially the shyer ones, as suddenly they are having their nether regions sniffed by all and sundry and understandably, some of the bitches don’t always like it. The flirts do, of course – they love it and think Christmas has come all at once. If a dog warns another dog away at this time, that’s fine. They have every right to do so. Some though, simply won’t accept the attentions of the other dogs and don’t even warn with a low growl. They snap or worse, attempt to bite. Looking after other people’s dogs is a great responsibility and I can’t risk taking these dogs. They need to get their interview technique sorted and are not accepted at Pension Milou.

En route to the garden

Is the dog house-trained?

Almost everyone says their dog is house-trained but it’s not always so. Some of the small Monte Carlo dogs are trained to urinate on the balcony of their apartment so when they come here, they use the terracotta tiled floor – after all, to them, it probably looks and feels the same. Or they’ll get as far as the terrace and pee. I’ve had dogs who will happily trot down to the garden – we’ll be down there for an hour playing – they’ll come back and immediately pee on the terrace or in the house – they just don’t ‘get it’ because of what they are used to. Others have been trained to pee and defecate in their owner’s shower. Words fail me here. Perhaps they should get a cat and a litter tray. Dogs need to go out and sniff all the delicious, unmentionable smells of this world – and then come home and give us a lick. Bien sûr.

Does the dog bark a lot?

Most dogs bark, that’s normal but there are some dogs who are happy to stand on the terrace and bark non-stop at absolutely nothing. Smaller breeds are worse than the big ones and terriers, especially, like to make their presence felt. Because the door to the terrace and garden is open all day, a continually barking dog makes life difficult because it’s simply not on to disturb the neighbours and it’s useless telling a dog to stop barking - he just barks more because he’s getting attention. I have an old and battered Bushells’ tea tin from Australia, printed with drawings of old Queenslander homes. It’s filled with coins and when I rattle it – like magic – dogs stop barking. Distraction - that’s the way to go. Some dogs go down to the bottom of the garden and we are talking down the steps, way along the lower terrace and then down several levels of garden. Holly, the beagle used to do that. Taco still does but he has special privileges 'cos he's an old man now and all of sixteen. Given the chance, he'll go down and stand and bark for hours - presumably he can smell the sangliers (wild boars) in the valley below the fencing. Really, a barking dog shouldn’t bother me, as I’m completely deaf in one ear. It’s something I recommend actually – so useful if a window rattles or you’ve a bed mate who snores – simply turn over and sleep on your good ear. Continually yapping dogs though, are a no-no.

Taco

Louis was one dog who didn’t come for interview. He couldn’t, as he was at sea with his owners, en route from Australia to the south of France. They needed to fly to the UK soon after mooring in Antibes and so planned his stay with me in advance. Louis couldn’t go to England because he’d not had the necessary blood tests and as he was a Cavalier King Charles spaniel I knew he'd be just fine here. I could have 40 Cavaliers here and not know it. They are probably the easiest dogs to look after. Give them a comfortable chair or a cushion and they’ll lie around looking beautiful. Louis was not only adorable but he was such a good-looking dog with the softest look in his lovely eyes.

Now to make the place as puppy proof as possible (fat chance) and await Beebop’s arrival. Oh dear, perhaps I should have interviewed her first?

Only kidding…

Saturdays

2006-11-24T17:01:00.000+01:00

Beau on the coffee table

Saturday, my day off, is when Sylvie works at Pension Milou. The idea of a Saturday off is to ‘do something' – get out and visit friends, have lunch, go to Monaco or a hill village or perhaps take a trip to Nice. But it’s not always possible. When there's a lot of dogs en pension, it difficult to get out to shop during the week and so then Saturday is simply my day to get in the week’s supplies. If they are good dogs, I can leave them because I know I’ll not come back to a wrecked house but when they are difficult, there’s no point in coming home to chaos, chewed this or that, pee everywhere. It’s not as if I go out for long – a couple of hours at most – but sometimes I think the dogs have a ‘mothers’ meeting’ when I’m gone and decide to pee all over the place to show their disapproval at being left. I bet they don’t do that at home.

Regardless of what I do on the day, the luxury of my Saturdays is thanks to Sylvie. She is my veterinarian’s assistant, which is great for starters, but more than that, she is so nice, she absolutely adores dogs, I have complete faith in her ability to look after them and when I come home, I usually find she’s washed the floors for me. Sylvie is a treasure and très sympa. Most Saturdays she bathes Beau for me. Since my fall and the resulting dodgy back, I find bathing dogs very difficult. Beau has a skin condition called seborrhoea. The Merck Veterinary Manual – a great on-line resource, by the way – says there are three types of seborrhoea: dry, oily and inflammatory, with most sufferers showing varying degrees of all three symptoms. Beau has the oily kind and without regular baths his skin and coat gets really greasy and, worse, smelly. The vet thinks this may have been caused by the many months of antibiotics he had to have, following his time in the refuge and the massive ear operation he had when he first came to live here. He seems to have a deep-seated infection, which we get under control but only for a while, and then he’ll need more antibiotics to deal with any abscesses that start up. A vicious circle really as too many antibiotics, as we know, are not good news. I’ve just started him on a new dog food – one with no additives, biologique, hypo-allergenic and hopefully this may help. If not he might do well on a raw diet but that’s tough for the other dogs to watch. I once had a Golden Retriever here whose owner brought along all her food, frozen. Each day I had to defrost half a rabbit and the Golden would eat it, head, eyes, the lot - the legs dangling out of her mouth as she chewed, and with all the other dogs looking at her though the baby gate’s wrought iron bars: tongues hanging out, drooling – it wasn’t fair.

I discovered Beau licking a foot the other day and saw that he’d yanked a toenail, exposing the quick. I hoped the nail would just fall off but it didn’t so he needed to go to the vet and have an anaesthetic to remove it. The day dawned with my having to feed the other dogs and not him. I dread those days – oh, the guilt trip a dog puts us through when we can't feed them! I let them all out into the garden, including Beau, shut the door and quickly filled various food bowls. Then I let the dogs back in, Beau running to ‘my chair’ where he always sits. I shut the others in the bedroom, bathroom, study, wherever and snuck past Beau, putting food down on towels so he wouldn’t hear the bowls rattling on the terracotta floor. Despite having had both eardrums removed, he hears surprising well and never misses hearing me say ‘biscuits’ at bedtime. My ploy seemed to work, he sat in my chair waiting for the breakfast that never came but at least he didn’t know I’d fed the others – or if he did, he kindly didn’t tell me.

Luckily, by the time we got to the vet, and probably because he’d stood all the way, the nail had half broken off and he didn’t need an anaesthetic. The vet just snipped it off without him making a murmur. Mind you, when she tried cutting his other toenails he screamed blue murder. If you’ve ever heard a Bruno de Jura yell, you’d know it. He’s now on the blue cushion on the coffee table. This is intended for the small dogs because the big dogs take up the rest of the furniture, so someone needs to tell this brute of a hound that he’s not a small dog and that he should go back to ‘his chair’ that was once ‘my chair’ and I'd like my coffee table back, please.

Sylvie’s arrived and I’m driving to Italy to collect three wrought iron baby (read doggy) gates that I’d ordered for my neighbour. At Pension Milou, every room has one of these wrought iron waist-high gates. I use them at feeding times (each dog in a different area) and I separate the dogs when a new one arrives – this until they are slowly introduced. The gates have made life much easier around here.

My neighbour’s mother, Madame Pinelli, had a bad fall in the summer and was taken to the hospital emergency department, x-rayed and was told, like me, nothing was broken. Three weeks later, the doc sent her to a clinic by ambulance, as she couldn’t walk with a leg swollen to twice its size. The x-rays showed - you guessed it - she had a fractured knee. That hospital emergency x-ray department needs to get its act together. Following the correct diagnosis she spent a month in hospital and since then has been in a Maison de Réhabilitation. Now, nearly three months after the fall and with her knee healed, she's learning to walk again. Not easy for Madame P who is 82 and overweight. She’ll be home soon and the baby gates are needed to stop Shadow, the golden retriever who belongs to her grandson, and Pepita, her own Berger de Pyrénées, jumping up at her. When I’m not too busy here I pop down to Mme Pinelli’s house and chat with her. She loves to tell tales of her life in Algeria, which she and the family left in the late '50s. Her husband, who had little education, started work at 13, spreading sardines on the beach to dry in the sun. When the family eventually got to the south of France he worked until his retirement at Restaurant La Vigie near the Monte Carlo Beach Hotel, looking after the Riva speed boats that carried the rich and famous from their yachts in the harbour to the restaurant for lunch on the terrace.

How did I get to sardines in Algeria, when I’m telling you about my day off?

The port and old town of Menton

I drive across the border, through Ventimiglia to Bordighera and collect the baby gates. By the time I get back to Menton, it’s noon – not late but my back is giving me gyp. It’s driving that does it. I wear my very un-sexy black support belt but it doesn’t really help in the car.

‘Gyp?’ Do I really mean that word? Let’s digress for a moment - I lug my Shorter Oxford Dictionary off the bookshelf. It was given to me when I left Guys ‘n Dolls in the Kings Road in the 70s. It’s been through a flood in Wales, it got chewed by a puppy when I lived in Kent, and later, it survived a hurricane in Cairns, Far North Queensland.

My Shorter Oxford Dictionary

I open it and read that ‘Gyp’ means either a college servant, or it’s an offensive term for a swindler or a cheat. Nothing about the meaning I intend yet I’m sure I know this word. I look it up on-line. The truth is I don’t use my bashed up dictionary much anymore as it’s so much easier to access words on-line, but wild horses wouldn’t part me from it. I’ve loved dictionaries almost from the time I could read.

On the Internet I read: Gyp means a college servant, whose office is that of a gentleman’s valet, waiting on two or more collegians in the University of Cambridge…and he is called a gyp (vulture, Greek) because he preys upon his employer like a vulture. At Oxford they are called scouts. Gyp, you’ll be dying to know, comes from the species of black vulture (Aegypius monachus).

Elsewhere I learn that where 'Gyp' means swindler it comes from the word for gypsy which I’m told may well come from the obsolete gippo, a menial kitchen servant; which once meant a man’s short tunic, from the obsolete French jupeau. It tells me that Gyppo, as a modern derogatory term, does seem to come from gypsy, or at least, from the same source as to gyp. For instance, ‘He gypped the tax man out of his money.’ Oh really?...

And yet more information: The word gypsy or gipsy itself was given to itinerants in Britain when they arrived from continental Europe in the sixteenth century and is a contracted form of Egyptian.

Okay, okay, we don’t need this information and you don’t need to know that in Webster’s 1828 Dictionary, ‘gyp’ meant ‘to take the entrails out of a herring.’

Then I find it: ‘Gyp’ (UK informal) means ‘pain or discomfort.’ ‘My knee has been giving me gyp since I started running.' Bingo! – except it’s my back and I’m not running anywhere. Just what I said in the first place. I knew, I knew that word. Whoopee, I found it!

How did we get to servants and vultures and gypsies when we were talking about my day off?

Rhubarb?

I park near the marché, cross the road, where I pass a square with a small garden that has rhubarb growing in it. Rhubarb? I didn't know rhubarb was used in decorative gardens. I wonder if anyone cuts it when it's ready to cook. I walk down to the port, find a bench and sit and look at the boats and the facade of Menton’s old town with the church steeple reaching up into an azure blue sky, dotted with clouds. To hell with the shopping - there’s enough food in the house and it won’t hurt me to open a few tins or see what’s been sitting at the back of the freezer for months.

Menton marché and close up of tiles

A car pulls up quite near to me and Ennis and Josephine get out. They used to own Riff, the little Jack Russell who died here and whose body stayed in the freezer for a few weeks before they came back to France to bury her. You can read that story here. We chat and I ask after Sheba - their new dog. Sheba has been to stay a few times – she looks rather like a Groenendael (Belgian shepherd dog) but actually she’s a cross-breed. She a beautiful creature. Josephine starts to talk, ‘It’s alright, Jilly, she’s okay now.’ ‘What?’ I say. ‘Don’t worry, she’s alright now, but we did have a terrible time.’ And then I hear the story.

Sheba

Sheba was in season (en chaleur) and a local dog got in the gate. Two weeks later they took her to the vet only to learn they should have gone immediately when she could have had an injection to abort the puppies. They didn’t know. He operated, removed the foetuses and sterilized her. All stitched up, she went home, right as ninepence. A week later, Ennis found Sheba in the garden, bent over and eating something. He looked and saw, hanging out of Sheba’s stomach, a mass of intestines, and, horror, she was eating them! God knows why, but at that moment I interrupted and said, ‘Didn’t it hurt her to eat her own intestines?’ Josephine said she’d asked the vet the very same question and was told there are no nerves in intestines and so no, she wouldn’t have felt anything. You learn something useful every day, don’t you? She then said the vet had to cut away a lot of the intestines – by now, much of it had gone black. He put back what was left, stitched her up and said he really didn’t know if she would survive. This time she went home with a Victorian collar on, something she should have had after the first operation. That was all two weeks ago. Happily, Sheba is fit and well now - running around and eating normally.

Time for me to go home. I wonder what next Saturday will bring…

About faces

2006-11-15T15:50:00.000+01:00

Sophie and Dori, who don't need facelifts

A little poodle is leaving today. She's staying at Pension Milou whilst her owner has her face lifted. I think I might end up an expert on facelifts judging by the number of clients who drop their dogs off and then return a few days later with swollen, bruised faces. But yes, once the swelling has gone and the bruising disappears, they all look younger - which of course is the point although sometimes, you can tell - there's a slightly unnatural slant of the eyes, the skin is that little bit too taut, but hey, if it makes a lady feel good and she can afford it - and is brave enough - what the hell. I know I couldn't do it but I'm lucky - the dogs don't care. Dogs don't see wrinkles. If you want unconditional love, you don't need to look younger to get or keep a man - you need to get a dog! Not that I'm knocking love and marriage - when I see a good marriage, I'm all for it. Just that I don't think I was ever too good at it myself.

Madame C. arrives to collect her dog and pops in for a coffee. Covered in thick makeup to disguise the bruises and wearing massive dark glasses to hide the stitches around her eyes, she tells me it has been rather painful. I make the right noises to reassure her that it won't be long before she feels a lot better. Madame C is one nice lady and very pretty too and I can't imagine why she's put herself through all this agony.

Talking of facelifts, or any beauty treatment, reminds me of the time, maybe fifteen years ago, when I first came to live on the French Riviera. Friends, Philippa and Casper, generously gave me a birthday present of three beauty treatments at Margy's which is a well-known beauty salon in the luxurious Galerie du Métropole in Monte Carlo. You'll find top designers in the Galerie, great coffee shops and the FNAC store, which sells music, books, DVDs, telephones, cameras and everything you could want for a computer. I love FNAC - there's always an energetic buzz about the place.

I had an appointment for a facial, parked and walked across the Casino gardens to the Galerie. The waiting room, lined with beautiful old cupboards filled with her beauty products, is just inside the entrance to Margy's Beauty Salon. A couple of expensively dressed ladies were chatting, another was handing over in excess of 3,000 francs for the bag of beauty products she'd just bought. I felt a bit like a country bumpkin - after all I was working as a gardienne at the time, looking after the gardens at Casper and Philippa's Roquebrune villa. I'm sure Margy's didn't have too many gardeners who came in for facials.

I asked to use les toilettes. I suppose I was a little nervous - somehow I'd managed to get to this point in life never having had a facial and didn't know what to expect. When you've been surrounded by a dozen or so Old English Sheepdogs, as I had for much of my adult life, the last thing you are thinking about is the condition of your skin.

The loo was tiny with hardly any room between the toilet bowl and the opposite wall. As I went to sit down I leaned forward and wham! - I bashed my forehead on the edge of the glass shelf in front me. I rubbed my head, pulled myself together, did what I needed to do and wondered how larger ladies managed. They must majestically lower themselves onto the loo without ever bending forward. And if so, how do they use toilet paper? Don't let's go there - but don't you have to bend forward, at least just a little?

I was shown into a narrow, dimly lit cubicle by a striking young girl who introduced herself as Sandrine. She told me to lie down on the raised bed and proceeded to pamper me. If this is what a facial meant, I could stand a lot of it. Whilst applying the creams and potions, she told me that should I ever want a facelift she knew 'just the man in Milan.' She explained that I should go to Milan, stay for a few weeks and then, when I returned to the south of France, no one would know. I told her that if I ever had enough money for a facelift - fat chance - then I'd want the world to know about it. Actually, one of my husbands - the Australian one - offered to buy me a facelift when I got to 'a certain age.' I never took him up on it. It's bad enough having to go into hospital for an emergency. I knew I'd never be brave enough to go through pain by choice.

Sandrine then astounded me by saying she was going to Milan the following spring to 'get her eyes done.' I looked at her fresh, young and beautiful face and asked how old she was. 'I'm 26,' she said.

It was all rather marvellous until the face mask went on and suddenly, within minutes, it had set rock hard. I could hardly breath. Sandrine had left the room, saying she'd be back in twenty minutes. I tried to slow my breathing by relaxing but it wasn't easy. Believe me, I was fast going off facials by this time and when Sandrine re-appeared, I was more than happy to have her pick at a corner of the, by now, solid mask and rip it off me. It crossed my mind that at least when a death mask is made, the person doesn't feel anything. Lucky them.

No matter, I'd loved being cosseted and once it was all over, I was so relaxed I almost floated back to the car park. Opened my bag. No car keys. Panic! I turned out my bag, my pockets - definitely no keys. I must have left them in the beauty salon. I dreaded walking back there. Of course everyone had been so polite but I'd felt intimidated by the slim elegant owner. My problem, not hers. I crossed the Casino gardens and sat for a few minutes on a bench. An English bulldog, with his beautiful ugly face and wearing a rather nifty Scottish outfit, doubtless bought in one of Monaco's upmarket toilettages, waddled onto a grassed area in front of me. Interdit, of course. Dogs are not allowed on the grass. He sniffed the ground, ambled towards a tree, lifted his leg and let out one long satisfying pee. He looked at me with his skew-whiff eyes, his tongue hanging out, one tooth poking up from his undershot jaw. This was a face that needed Margy. I walked back to the salon and was told I'd have to wait as another client was in the cubicle having a massage and couldn't be interrupted. I sat in the waiting area for about 40 minutes, watching Monte Carlo ladies go about the business of paying to look beautiful. Eventually the cubicle was free and I was allowed in to look around. I searched under the table, looked under various pieces of furniture, lifted the cover on the bed - no keys.

Perhaps I'd dropped them near to the car when I first parked? Once again, I walked back to the car and this time, got down on my hands and knees to look underneath. By now, any good the facial had done had long gone. I was fraught. I was aging by the minute. How was I going to get home? How was I going to get my car out of the car park? I couldn't leave it there.

I went to the Caisse on the ground floor and asked if any keys had been handed in. They hadn't. They suggested I go to the nearby police station. I did. No keys had been handed in there either.

I walked back to Margy's. The keys simply had to be there. I wondered if they might have been swept up off the floor and just dumped by an un-thinking cleaning lady. I recalled having seen a young Philippino girl walking about with a cleaning trolley. I asked if they'd turn out the rubbish bin in the cubicle. Once again I had to sit and wait. I felt such a fool. These women surely had chauffeurs to drive them home - lost keys wouldn't enter their beautifully coiffed heads. Time was passing. I had dogs at home that needed feeding and it was getting dark.

Suddenly, Margy herself appeared and said, 'Are these what you are looking for, Madame?' There, before my eyes, was a set of keys dangling from her beautifully manicured out-stretched hand. 'We found them down the toilet bowl,' she said and then, with a look of disdain, 'They have been washed.'

A school holiday dog

2006-11-03T15:38:00.000+01:00

Tessa

The vacances scolaires (school holidays) are the busiest times at Pension Milou and it’s full house at the moment with two Jack Russell terriers, a bichon, a miniature pinscher, a dachshund, a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, several golden retrievers and Hattie and Tessa, who belong to a young family from La Gaude.

Hattie, the cocker spaniel, was their first dog and then, when little Charlotte was about two, along came Tessa the Menace. Tessa is a beautiful golden retriever and in some way, it’s my fault the family ended up with her. Ailsa had asked me where to buy a golden. I suggested a breeder in the mountainous hinterland of Nice who I knew had good ones – in fact I’d been up there to help my neighbour choose a pup for her son. Shadow is now 5 years old and a beautiful dog. I can hear him, right now, barking in Agnès’ driveway.

Hattie

Ailsa called the man and was told that no puppies were available but that he had an 8- month old bitch for sale. She asked what I thought. ‘Good idea,’ I said, ‘no house training to do.’ And so she went and bought Tessa, who, she soon found out, wasn't house trained. The bigger problem though - and I should have known how it would be - was that Tessa hadn't been socialised. She’d been living an isolated life except for a few other dogs and so she was desperately needy when she landed on Ailsa’s doorstep. She was nervous of noise and traffic. She was destructive – she’d grab anything and tear it to shreds or worse, eat it. She grabbed your clothes when you came in, ‘Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me!’ When she came to stay at Pension Milou, food disappeared, books got chewed, papers eaten. She ate her way through two watchstraps, five dog beds, towels galore, cushions, duvets, chair covers, gardening gloves. Her poop would be multi-coloured with bits of plastic or undigested fabric. And she’d vomit the excess. And don’t even ask how many toilet rolls she got through. I thought the Andrex pup was a Labrador, so someone obviously forgot to tell Tessa she was, in fact, a golden retriever.

Tessa and Joy, the pointer

She barked incessantly and she never stopped moving. She chased around the place as if she were a car at the Monaco Grand Prix on race day. She was exasperating and exhausting but she was funny. And it was hard to tell her off – although believe me I did – because she’d just laugh in my face as if to say, ‘What me?’

Ailsa was fantastic and put in so much time, patience and perseverance with Tessa. She did everything she could, eventually taking her to a professional trainer. I think if almost anyone but Ailsa had given Tessa a home, they’d have given up and she’d be another statistic: yet another dog whose owner couldn't cope – she'd have been sent to a refuge never to be released – or worse.

In the early days, I’d get messages from Ailsa, such as: 'Tessa managed to destroy the mattress from the garden chair and get my mobile out of my bag and break the screen! If I didn't know any better I'd say she was on drugs!'

In fact, sometime later, the vet did put Tessa onto a calming drug for a while but I don't know that it made a lot of difference. I coped with Tessa for a year or so. Each time Ailsa would ‘text’ me from England. ‘Is everything OK?’ ‘What has she eaten today?’ – the phone was busy in those days.

Two-tier dogs: Tessa and Dotty, the pug

Eventually, after one particularly fraught stay, I was exhausted with Tessa and so with a heavy heart, I told Ailsa, ‘Enough is enough.’ During the next school holidays, Ailsa put Tessa and Hattie into kennels but it really didn’t work out and Hattie came out sick. Time passed, I relented, the dogs came back and miraculously since then, Tessa has been an angel.

Oh lordy, what’s that loo roll doing all over the floor? 'Tessa, leave that box of tissues ALONE!' Sorry, gotta go…

-------

If you're interested, you can read a piece I wrote about Ailsa’s move to France at this link:

http://www.frenchentree.com/france-provence-real-lives/DisplayArticle.asp?ID=18958

Milou's bench

2006-10-25T13:45:00.000+02:00

Milou was a beautiful black American Cocker Spaniel. He was bred at one of the top kennels in Switzerland and lived in Monte Carlo with an Italian lady who'd lived in Brazil for so long that she often spoke to Milou in Portuguese. Milou, sophisticated dog that he was, understood Italian, English, French and Portuguese.

Milou aged 4, in Roquebrune

One day in 1993, when Milou was three years old, he was brought to me by Madame Dana’s chauffeur. He booked him in for ‘about a month’ as Madame had to go into the Princess Grace Hospital in Monaco for an operation. The month became a year and eventually it became obvious that Madame wasn’t going to recover. During that year, I visited her in Monaco on two or three occasions, but she would never allow me to bring Milou, saying it would upset her too much. She enjoyed, though, seeing the photos I brought along of Milou playing with other dogs.

Pierre, the chauffeur – he was a retired Monaco policeman – came over once a week and took Milou for a walk. Milou adored Pierre and went crazy with excitement when he rang the doorbell. Of course it wasn’t necessary for him to take Milou for walks but Madame wanted a report on his welfare.

One day, Pierre told me that Madame Dana was dying and that it was written into her will that any pets should be put to sleep on her death. I told him there was no way I’d ever allow this – a beautiful healthy young dog – no way, José! Fortunately, a month or so before Madame passed away, she allowed me to adopt Milou. He was four and a half by then and spent every available minute playing with a tennis ball. He was already, in my mind, 'my' dog and so, happily for me, he never left. After Madame died, Pierre, whom Milou adored, never came back and never even phoned to ask how he was doing.

With his friend Tallulah

Milou was such a happy little dog, always fun, always ready to play, took such joy in life, a terrible thief for food - chairs had to be tucked under the table else he’d be up there, finishing off the leftovers, or worse, eating our dinner before we had time to sit down. At biscuit time each night, he’d fix me with ‘that look’ (long before bedtime) telling me it was ‘time for my biscuit and NOW please.’

Candy, Milou and ball by the pool in Roquebrune

When we lived in Roquebrune, his favourite game was to nose a tennis ball into the pool and then bark and bark until someone got it out for him. We had wonderful adventures and outings. He loved going to restaurants, his favourite being Le Balico in Menton where the waiters always found a biscuit for him and put a water bowl under the table. He visited Avignon and Moustiers-Ste-Marie and toured all around Corsica one spring, leading Candy and me up the rugged mountains like the little trouper he was - and he always loved his trips to Italy.

Milou on Corsica with Candy

Milou’s temperament was exceptional, accepting as he did all the dogs who came en pension. He cuddled up to his Labrador house-mate, Flavia, and he was loved by everyone, especially his bed-buddy Candy, who shared her bed with him whenever she visited from America and never forgot to pack a tennis ball in her luggage. Milou could smell a tennis ball from a mile away!

In May 2005, just one day short of his 15th birthday, Milou went to doggy heaven. He is buried on the hillside under a beautiful rose and tucked up with his favourite tennis ball, his last gift from Candy. I've been lucky to have shared my life with many wonderful dogs including so many beautiful and much-loved Old English Sheepdogs but Milou was the 'dog of my life’ and, of course, Pension Milou was named for him.

Walking down the donkey track from the village - with Kent, our American buddy

I’ve often wondered why Milou, of all the dogs I’ve owned and loved, was so special. Perhaps it was because he shared most of the years in France with me, years that weren’t so easy at the beginning. Perhaps because after all the years with many Old English Sheepdogs, he was the only dog and so we grew close. When you have lots of dogs I think they interact as much with each other as with their owner. But really I think it’s because he was such an exceptional dog – always happy. He made me laugh out loud at his antics. It was impossible to be sad around him – he kept me going. And he was a kind, unselfish dog. I learned a lot from Milou and dammit, I miss him still.

Soaked on the Corbusier walk from Roquebrune to Monaco

On the opposite side of the valley to where I live there is a wide track cut into the forest to allow fire engines through in times of fire. It’s been designated a nature walk so is closed off to all cars and bikes. Many people walk their dogs along this track – it goes from Gorbio tennis courts all the way down the valley towards the Mediterranean, cuts around and ends up at Roquebrune tennis courts but it’s a long walk and there is nowhere to take a rest en route.

Soon after Milou’s death I asked the Maire of Gorbio if I could buy a bench for walkers in memory of Milou and asked if I could put an inscription on it. The Mayor chose a rustic bench made of halves of tree trunks, which suited the environment. He asked if I liked it and I did. He told me he’d be happy to burn any words I chose into the wood. This was in May 2005. Six months later he told me the bench had been ordered. A few months after that, he told me it had arrived but that he had yet to do the engraving. Earlier this year he stopped and said Bonjour whilst I was eating at a table outside the Beau Sejour restaurant in the village. He told me the bench had been engraved but he was waiting for someone to install it. You don’t hurry things in France!

The inscription gave me a dilemma. I’ve always loved a particular Milun Kundera quotation but it was far too long – even if I’d just used the final sentence:

Etre assis avec un chien à flanc de côteau par un belle après-midi ensoleillé rencoit a l’Eden – où ne rien faire n'était pas ennuyeux - c'était la paix ~Milan Kundera.

How could I expect anyone, even our wonderful Mayor, to engrave that lot on the back of a bench? Here’s the full quotation in English. I love it. Don’t you?

Dogs are our link to paradise. They don't know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring-- it was peace." Milan Kundera

...our link to paradise. (in the hills above Gorbio)

I needed to think of something else and I remembered an Edith Wharton quotation that seemed right. I sent both and told him he could decide which one to use.

Last week, at the Fête de la Branda, the Mayor asked me if I’d seen le banc and cheekily told me it had been in place a year. I reminded him I’d asked him about it only this last Spring. ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘perhaps six months.’ So, finally, my Milou’s bench is in place. I must go and see it.

It’s a beautiful morning and Sheila, my friend from the village, is driving down with her dog, Taco. She picks me up by the mailbox at the top of my track. Beau, the refuge dog, comes too. We drive around to the other side of the valley and park. After the rains, small piles of rocks have fallen onto the track, pine cones are underfoot along with the spiky coverings of conkers from a lone horse chestnut tree. I didn’t know they grew in the south of France. The path twists and turns as it descends towards the Mediterranean so that we can’t see much ahead of us until we round each bend. Then, suddenly, we see the bench. Tucked into a small lay-by, it looks down towards the sea.

On Milou's bench with Beau

It’s perfect. I read the inscription:

To Milou 1990 – 2005 “My little dog: a heart-beat at my feet” ~ Edith Wharton

Well actually the Mayor missed out colon and left the ‘H’ out of Wharton but hopefully she’ll forgive us – and Milou never could spell properly.

Yes, this is good. Milou would like this bench and so do I. I sit on it and pose for a photo with Beau. We start to walk back to the car but then I remember. I walk back, take an old tennis ball out of my pocket and place it carefully under the bench…

Fête de la Branda!

2006-10-16T10:12:00.000+02:00

All the villages around here have their special Fête days. Gorbio has several but the Fête de la Branda, held in October, is my favourite.

It’s a stunning day as October days so often are on the Mediterranean. There’s a clarity to the light on fine autumn days that you don’t get with the heat haze of summer. The sky is a slightly paler version of Matisse blue, the leaves on the trees stand out almost as if they are painted on layers of glass, stuck together to make one of those glass paintings I remember seeing in my grandmother’s house as a child.

I spend my life in jeans, so I don a floaty number, throw a pink scarf around my neck, shut the dogs in the house and drive up to the village. I want to get there early, as it’s always hard to find somewhere to park the car on Fête days. I’m later than I planned and join a steady stream of cars climbing the Route de Gorbio to the village. The car park is full, people are parking anywhere. I cheat. My friend Sheila is away – I know that because I’m caring for her dog, Taco – so I drive up her hidden lane, park my car on the empty patch of land opposite her house and walk down the steep cobbled street toward the main square.

Band at the entrance to the old village

A man is selling beds - four or five large mattresses are laid out on frames on the side of the road. I wonder who on earth buys a mattress at a village fete - someone must because he’s always here. I see the veggie lady from Sospel, a beautiful village 20 kilometres above Menton. Her table displays mounds of Cœur de Bœuf tomatoes, a pile of perfectly round pumpkins and a single enormous courgette. On the ground are cages - one is jammed with live chickens, another has half a dozen quail and a few capons. Yet another has guinea pigs and near the wall she has a cage filled with big fluffy white rabbits. I hope these are for sale as pets and not for dinner. We chat for a bit. I’d bought around 30 kilos of tomatoes from her during this past summer which I made into sauce - chopped up, cooked in olive oil with a little onion and lots of basil. Several dozen little pots now sit in my freezer ready to be poured over ricotta and spinach tortellini on dark winter nights.

Guinea pigs and chickens for sale

The upper square is home to a Vide Grenier - literally ‘empty the attic.’ There must be sixty or seventy tables spread out under the plane trees, all covered with the leftovers of people’s lives. Indeed, one has some of the detritus of my life – it’s for a dog charity. I walk past rails of old clothes, tables filled with books, mis-matched wine glasses, antique jewellery, a wonky chair. I notice a beautiful hand-beaten copper bowl. I’m tempted but walk on. I’ve got too much ‘stuff’ as it is - one of those de-clutter experts you see on the television would have a field day in my house.

I walk down steep steps towards the Place – the main square. Someone has stuck notices on the wide trunk of the elm that was planted in 1713. Beyond is the buzz and energy of Fête day. A band is playing, boom boom boom, happy music.

Elm planted in 1713

The square is filled with stalls selling produits du terroir: honey, olives, cheeses, olive oil, charcuterie, tapenade, cakes, wines, socca. Socca is a speciality of the south of France and particularly of Nice. It's a sort of large flat pancake made of chickpea flour and olive oil and is cooked in a pizza oven. You season it with black pepper and it's a very cheap and nutritious way of grabbing a quick bite.

Queues for socca

I can’t wait to buy some of the produce but first I walk to the far end of the square, past the fountain, where, just in front of the archway leading up to the medieval village, stand the two alambics – beautiful copper stills. That’s what we are all here for – the Branda. Branda is the Provençal word for marc, the marc de Provence, which actually has two meanings: either the fermented grape pulp, seeds, and stems that remain after the grapes are pressed for their juice, or the actual potent distilled alcohol. The word comes from the Old French marchier, to trample. Many countries have their version of this, for instance in Italy it’s called Grappa.

François and his brother

The right to practice the ancient art of distilling the Branda passes through the same family and I watch François, who is the last bouilleur de cru of the village. He and his brother, who looks a bit like Popeye, pipe and all, work all day distilling the fiery liquid that is available to everyone. I tried this a few years ago and it’s pretty lethal stuff. I desist. I watch as they empty one of the stills and refill it with the fermented grape mush, layered with straw. The stills are heated by wood fires, vapour fills the air and wafts away above the Restaurant Beau Sejour into the hills. And from a small tap, drip by drip, the clear liquid, the Branda, falls into a blue plastic bucket.

TF1 films the still being emptied

The micro calls for the Mayor: ‘Michel, s’il te plaît. Come and meet our friends from TF1.’ TF1 is the main television channel in France and they are filming the making of the Branda. I see the Mayor, dressed in his usual jeans, amble across the Place greeting people as he goes. He’s a short, stocky man, with an attractive energy and twinkle in his eye. He’s an artist of repute and since he’s been Maire, the village now has many cultural activities. He sees me, grins, kisses me on each cheek and asks if I’ve seen the ‘banc.’ He refers to Milou’s bench and I’ll write about this in my next posting.

I wander amongst the stalls and buy bread stuffed with figs, bread with apples and walnuts. I buy muffins, a pain d’epice, a goat cheese. Then I see the olive oil man standing in a corner under the silk tree. I normally buy half a dozen bottles but with my still fragile back, can’t carry them to the car. I buy two litres but don’t explain. I should have done so – he looks disappointed. No matter, I’ll call at his house when I need more. I meet his attractive wife – these two are such gentle people. She makes the confitures they sell. Last year I bought apricot jam and a marmelade but both were full of what appeared to be sheets of clear plastic until I realised it was gelatine that hadn’t dissolved. I wonder if I should mention it but don't.

Gorbio's olive oil producer

Someone calls my name and it’s Laurence, who owns Nina, a little Jack Russell cross I look after from time to time. She is sitting at a table outside the Bar Les Terrasses with another lady, who also had a dog, an old bichon she carries around in her knapsack. Laurence, beautiful, slim and elegant invites me to join them. I order a noisette (a small espresso with a little milk added) and share the bag of muffins. Laurence tells me her son is dating the other lady’s daughter. I ask if their children plan to marry. ‘Mais non, they are only 18,’ Laurence says. But it’s obvious they are hopeful. Mothers-in-law to be perhaps? I wonder if their children know.

Wild boar

I look at my watch. I must go, get back to the dogs. It takes me half an hour to get out of the village, the cars are still nose to tail trying to get in. I read a few days later in Nice-Matin that 'Les Gendarmes distribuent des prunes.' A prune, apart from being a plum is also argot (slang) for an amende or fine. The police handed out 30 parking fines to visitors. How mean! Everyone knows it’s impossible to park in a medieval hill village. I have no doubt our Maire will have something to say to the Menton gendarmes before next year.

Bichon in bag

Dem bones, dem bones

2006-10-03T13:43:00.000+02:00

Maddie, Penny & Beau

The rain’s gone and the sun is shining, the sky is that perfect Mediterranean blue with the odd powder puff of cloud here and there - and the dogs – well, most of them (we won’t mention Beau) have stopped peeing in the house. All is well in my world. Time to see if my bones have healed.

My neighbour drives me to the x-ray clinic. It’s seven weeks since I fell two metres and landed on my back on the edge of a stone step. You can read about that stupidity in the posting called ‘Gardening can seriously damage your health.’ As we drive down the Route de Gorbio it’s as if I’ve suddenly landed on a film set – lights, action, music. Seven weeks is too long to be stuck in one place. Every bend in the road brings a new vista: the sea, the port of Menton, the blue leaves of the olives glinting in the sunlight, the colours, the smells, it’s almost overwhelming. What must a guy newly out of prison feel?

The x-rays show the fissure in the pubic bone has healed but the four broken bones in my lower back (spurs off the spine) haven’t and each one is now floating at least an inch from where it should be. The doc at the clinic says provided there is no pain, it won’t matter. But it is painful. I wear a corset and that helps a little - it also gives me a nifty waist. I walk from the clinic to see my doctor who gives me an ordonnance (prescription) to see a back specialist.

Zak

I really like Dr. Lamas. She’s always to the point, and always smiling. One of the most difficult things when moving to a new country is finding a doctor, a dentist and a hairdresser, not to mention a bank and a garage you trust. It all takes time. And it isn’t just difficult in a country with a different language. I don’t remember problems when I moved to America but then I was young and probably didn’t think about it too much. Later, when I emigrated to Australia and wore my hair curly and piled up with wispy bits floating about my ears, a bit à la Brigitte Bardot (as if!) every hairdresser was appalled. ‘You’ll not want your hair like this in Australia,’ they said. I kept changing hairdressers and stuck it out for about three years but then they were right: once I moved from Tasmania to Far North Queensland, it was all too much in the heat and I had the lot chopped off.

One day, earlier this summer, Dr. Lamas paid a home visit. I was too sick with a stomach virus to drive down the valley. The fee was peanuts considering the length of journey to me. I offered her more money. She refused but said she’d love some boutures (cuttings) in the autumn. Now, I’ve a couple of dozen young plants ready for her. They need planting in her garden before the autumn rains arrive and she’ll be up soon to collect them. My sort of lady.

She shares the surgery with her ex-husband and so one or other is always on duty for home visits. One time, when my best friend Candy was visiting from America, she fell sick. The husband came on a home visit and she nearly swooned with joy. ‘Oh my,’ she croaked in her fevered state, ‘a Jean-Claude Killy look-a-like with a voice like Maurice Chevalier.’ Candy got better pretty quickly after that visit. Amazing what a dishy French doctor can do for one’s spirits. I quite expect her to fall sick on her next trip to France and I’d best make sure it’s Jean-Claude himself who comes to tend to her. Candy had a poster of J-C Killy in her room at college and she has it hanging in her garage even now. I was just happy for the brownie points I gained in offering such a service to a visiting American.

A week or so later, I get to see the back specialist who tells me that no operation is necessary, indeed possible, but that I need six months balnéothérapie. I call into the clinic in Menton where I’m directed to a dingy basement which has that very distinct swimming pool smell. Funny how smells more than any other sense, can transport you back to the past. Suddenly I’m eleven years old and shivering on the diving board at the St. Alfred Swimming Pool, an Art Deco building in Hove, Sussex, where I used to take diving lessons from Maire Hider, a competitor in the 1948 Olympics. Back to the present and to Menton and to the very sympa doctor on duty who tells me that the balnéothérapie clinic is closing at the end of the month. I ask him why and he gives that familiar French shrug. He directs me to his own office in Carnoles and tells me that rééducation (rehabilitation), without water, will be just fine. I’m not sure what to do. I know water therapy would be good but I know the nearest clinic for that is much further away and it’s often so difficult to leave the dogs for more than an hour or so.

I walk toward the address I’ve been given, ring the bell and the door is opened by a good-looking young man who is the kinésithérapeute (physiotherapist) on duty. What am I saying? He’s not just good looking, he’s a vision of perfect manhood. I look at him, a beautiful slim Frenchman in blue jeans and decide to go no further. I think of Candy’s recovery with her Jean-Claude Killy look-a-like and know I’ll be just fine, thankyou, with this gentleman. In fact, Bruno is a brilliant kiné and trés sérieux, which is how the French say 'responsible.' He’s teaching me exercises to help support the damaged area. I work hard on stomach and lower back muscles and it’s damned painful at times, but when he praises me for doing an exercise correctly, I positively purr with pleasure. And when he massages my back, I wonder what could possibly be wrong in falling two metres onto the edge of a sharp stone step.

A Day in the Life

2006-09-20T15:06:00.000+02:00

Beau, formerly known as Bimbo

‘I’d love to run a dog hotel like you,’ they say. I smile and nod. ‘Just feed the dogs twice a day and then play with them – nothing else to do.’ I nod. ‘You’re so lucky,’ they say. ’What you do is my idea of heaven – you spend all day long with dogs and you get paid for it.’

Beau in the garden

It’s six in the morning, still dark: I let the dogs out. Beau won’t go down to the garden. It’s raining, the third day of rain. The garden is grateful but I’m not sure I am. Beau, the Bruno de Jura who came to live here from the refuge doesn’t ‘do’ rain. Here is a dog who has had four homes before coming to me, who lived for several years in a run-down refuge and who is now living in the lap of luxury. The biggest decision in his day is whether to sleep in my chair or make a mammoth effort and move to the sofa, and now I discover he doesn’t do rain. I try to understand him: after all, he lived in dreadful conditions in the refuge, but Beau, this is not a dog kennel and you don’t pee in the house! But I can’t get mad at this dog – he’s obviously been beaten. If I pick up a broom to sweep the floor, he cringes. I’ll need to put on my dog psychology hat but for the moment, there isn’t time.

Maddie & Zak on the daybed

I go into the study. Zak, one of the Hungarian Vizlas who is staying has peed on the daybed. Zak and his sister, Maddie, always sleep on the daybed so what’s this? I strip the bed – fortunately there is a rubberised sheet underneath but the replacement protective bedding still isn’t dry as this is a repeat performance of yesterday morning. The study smells like a pissoir: a combination of Zak’s pee and bad smells from Rox, the old crossbreed, who has cystitis. The room smells of rotten fish: quite appetising just before breakfast. He’s on antibiotics so the cystitis should clear up shortly. So, that’s good, then.

Digby

I check out the bathroom: Happy, the young Lakeland terrier, has chewed a lump out of the wooden doorframe. She has Nylabones, toys galore, she plays with Digby, the dachshund all day but of course, chewing a doorframe is far more interesting.

‘I’d love to run a dog hotel like you,’ they say. I smile and nod.

Happy

Café Milou

2006-09-11T13:58:00.000+02:00

A client is sitting across the counter from me. ‘Another coffee?’ I ask. She passes me her cup: ‘Just one more and then I really must get going.’

When clients bring their dogs to Pension Milou, they often stay and have a coffee or a glass of wine. Clients become friends, of course. The nature of my metier means it's often difficult to leave the dogs and so I love it when the world comes to me, if only for a coffee and a quick chat. The kitchen, a cuisine américain, as it’s called in France, opens onto the living room so we sit either side of a wide terracotta tiled counter. Wooden beams frame the opening and hanging from the crossbeam above us are bamboo chimes given to me by Youdi, a Chinese/Dutch artist friend who lives in Nice. Next is a wooden goat’s bell from Nepal and further along, a yak’s milk container from Tibet: both bought from a traveller in Menton market. There’s a large brass bell I bought in Spain and a small Lautrec print on glass hangs at the end. It all looks rather 1960's, I suppose.

When clients collect their dogs and stay for a while, their little darling, who up till then, had been playing happily with the other dogs, suddenly becomes a dervish of mock ferocity. ‘Don’t you come near MY Mum.’ Yes, we dog people refer to ourselves as Mum and Dad – and why not? Our dogs are part of our family – in some cases, dogs are all the family we have.

Charlotte (Tessa and Hattie's owner) - sitting at the counter with Pixie

We are chatting and the client asks me if I’ve ever had a dog die whilst staying here. She makes the comment that it must be something to worry about. I agree. I tell her I have a friend up the road who looks after dogs in her home, much as I do, and she won’t take old dogs for that very reason. Personally I like looking after old dogs but yes, there is always the risk one could die whilst here.

‘When I lived in Wales,’ I tell her, ‘I used to board cats: The Valley Hotel for Cats, it was called. Lordy, how original I was! I eventually built kennels to board dogs but never added the word Dog to the sign post at the top of my valley. It hardly mattered anyway, as the Welsh Nationalists defaced any signs written in English. One morning I went down to clean out the cats. In one cage were two cats from the same family and one of them was as dead as the proverbial dodo. I didn’t have a telephone number for the owners and had to wait two weeks before the family returned from their holiday. I asked my vet if he’d do a post-mortem but he said he couldn’t do that without the owners’ permission and suggested I put her body in the freezer to await their return. I barely slept for two weeks worrying about how I’d tell them, how they accept it. How do you tell a family that their adored pet has died and worst of all, in your care? The day arrived – they drove down the valley. I showed them in, took a deep breath and told them their black and white cat had died. ‘Oh, that’s OK,’ the wife said, ‘she was very old and had a heart condition and we knew she could go any minute. So sorry, we forgot to tell you.’'

I make myself another coffee. Riff, was a very old Jack Russell who had been to stay at Pension Milou three or four times. On this occasion, she arrived for a three-week stay. Her owner told me she’d not eaten for a couple of days but that this happened sometimes and anyway it was probably because she was so old. I asked if I could take her to the vet if I was worried and he said he’d be pleased if I would but again, he felt she was just a very old dog, nearly 17. That day she ate a little chicken but she couldn't keep it down. That night she slept OK but the next day she was not a well dog. Once the rest of the dogs had been fed and had a run around the garden, I sorted them out: put some in the bedroom, a couple in the study, left some in the living room and bundled Riff into the car and off we went to the vet.

The vet examined her, tested her heart, felt her stomach, looked in her mouth and told me he suspected a liver or kidney problem probably caused by her very dirty teeth and inflamed, infected gums – he didn’t think she’d last very long. Dirty teeth result in infected, bleeding gums and toxins get into the blood stream. Riff’s certainly needed cleaning but you couldn’t put a dog that old under anaesthetic, not even a light ‘calmant’ as they give here in France. I remembered another old dog I used to care for: Tigger, a Cavalier King Charles spaniel. He’d exhibited the same symptoms as Riff, the vet had given massive doses of antibiotics and happily he’d got over the infection. Later, he had his teeth cleaned, some rotten ones removed and went on to live another two years, dying when he was 16: a great age for a Cavalier. The vet gave Riff a shot of antibiotics, gave me more antibiotics in tablet form but told me he didn’t hold out a lot of hope.

When I got home, I made her comfortable in a little bed in my bathroom – she was very listless and not interested in food or water. I called her owner in London to tell her what the vet has said. ‘Oh Jilly, I don’t want her to suffer. Please take her back to the vet and have him put her to sleep.’ I told her about Tigger and asked if we could just give her 24 hours in the hope the antibiotics would fight the infection. She agreed. That evening though, little Riff took a turn for the worse. I’d been giving her water by syringe, as she wasn’t strong enough to drink. I so hoped the antibiotics would kick in as they had for Tigger. Now she started having difficulty breathing - she wasn’t long for this world. I called her owner and told her I had some sedatives for dogs who travel badly. I told her that if I gave these tablets, it would be likely Riff would never wake up but at least her suffering would be over. ‘Oh please, please, Jilly, please give them. I can’t bear to think of her suffering.’ I couldn’t either. I crushed a couple of tablets, mixed them with water and syringed the mixture gently down her throat. She lay in her bed, covered by a soft blanket, gasping for breath. I sat and stroked her till she fell asleep. She never woke up. In two hours her heart stopped beating. By then it was two in the morning.

Riff's last day

Her owners had asked me to call them, whatever time it was – of course they weren’t sleeping anymore than I was. They were so kind, so considerate of my feelings yet I knew they were devastated by the loss of their old dog. They wanted to bury Riff in their garden in Menton but they were not coming back to France for three weeks. What to do? ‘I’ll put her body in the freezer,’ I said. Well, you need to know that I didn’t have a big freezer here as I’d had in Wales. I had a small freezer compartment on top of my refrigerator. The next morning I tidied the freezer as best as I could. I put Riff into a black plastic bag and up she went into that cavern of chilled air to share space with bread, pasta and last year’s home made tomato sauce. Sometimes, over the next three weeks, after I’d taken out a slice of bread for toast, I’d have to push a leg back to get the door closed.

Three weeks later, Riff was buried under a favourite tree in her Menton garden.

Another coffee?

Forbidden Fruit?

2006-08-29T14:09:00.000+02:00

Zak

The terracotta-tiled floor in my study is normally awash with dogs when I’m working at the computer: fluffy dogs, smooth-coated dogs, large and small dogs but always exceedingly lazy dogs. Yes, the door to the garden is open all day but as we know, dogs need people, and people – well, right-minded people, that is – need dogs. So these lazy canines lie at my feet and wait for me to go into the garden and then they deign to follow me.

But not for the last few days. I sit here and there’s not a dog to be seen in the house - and why? I get up, look out of the window, and there they all are – scavenging under le figuer. Some sit there waiting patiently for a fig to fall and fall they do because I can’t reach the top of the tree to gather the ripe fruit. One dog even jumps up and pulls the fruit off the lower branches.

This fig tree is magnificent, probably over a hundred years old and is one of the many joys of life here. I love everything about this beautiful old fig – the bare twisting winter branches, that first bursting bud in spring, the leaves, which once they appear, you can almost see grow bigger by the minute until you have shade aplenty to protect you from the burning summer sun. And then August comes and with it the fruit, swelling and changing colour, softening and suddenly, one day you notice a perfect fig, ripe for the picking. As Dickens wrote, ’Train up a fig tree in the way it will go, and when you are old sit under the shade of it.’

Noria, Rosie and Maddie searching for fallen fruit

The land here belonged to my neighbour, Agnès, before it was sold to the people who built what is now my home. More than anything, she and her mother missed the fig tree and so we all get excited as we get into August and know it won’t be long before we’ll be scoffing the first of the luscious fruit.

If it rains when the figs are ripening it can cause the fruit to split but this year, with almost no rain, the fruit is perfect. I worried we’d get no fruit this year because we didn't even have spring rains, but this tree never lets us down except when it takes a rest every three or four years: its roots are so wide and so deep it’s probably not affected by lack of rain. What a wonder the fig is – as is the olive - my two favourite trees in the Mediterranean. Only this year, archaeologists discovered cultivated figs in an 11,400-year-old house in Jericho, leading scientists to believe that the fig was the first cultivated crop, 1000 years before wheat and rye.

Funny how trees summon up a place. Figs and olives say ‘Mediterranean’ to me. The gum or eucalyptus tree is Australia: how I loved those trees when I lived in Tasmania, and later Queensland - but that’s another story.

And there are less cicadelles this year. These look like tiny moths but are in fact a type of cigale (cicada) whose larvae cover plants and trees with a sticky froth – in fact, their spittle and excrement – charming, eh? The adults and the larvae suck the sap and will eventually weaken any plant or tree. Some people spray against it but the cicadelle only flies off to the next tree or the next garden, so what’s the point? Anyway, en principe, I never spray. If a plant or tree can’t manage on its own, then, tant pis, plant something else that can. Normally, so long as a tree or plant has sufficient food and water it will withstand the cicadelle. Perhaps not true for vines but then the only vines I have produce a few paltry bunches of very tiny grapes and they get eaten by the birds or tree rats long before I get near them. The best non-toxic deterrent against the cicadelle is to spray the insects and larvae with a sharp burst of water from the hosepipe – of course they come back but it helps.

Rox ever hopeful

I used to think the dogs would get upset stomachs (read diarrhoea if you need more specifics) but they don’t, so I’ve stopped trying to beat them to the fallen figs: after all, they are full of vitamins, good for us and doubtless good for dogs too.

It’s time to go down to the garden and pick today’s crop before even more hit the ground with a soft splosh...

Chiot-Chiotte!

2006-08-24T14:00:00.000+02:00

Nicolas and Shadow

One of my favourite blogs is French Word a Day. It's written by Kristin, an American, married to a Frenchman and living in the Var with their two children. Every few days Kristin sends out her blog featuring a French word and its definition, along with notes on her life and always a beautiful photograph. Highly recommended whether you are a beginner in French or have been living here for years. You can even listen to one of her children speak the word. And she's also the author of the recently published, 'Words in a French Life: Lessons in Love and Language from the south of France.' I love it. You can buy this from Amazon. com or Amazon. co.uk.

Recently the family bought a puppy, a golden retriever, so the word of the day was chiot (puppy)…and also chiotte. You can read that particular entry here.

We all know that un chiot is a male puppy, so une chiotte must be a female puppy – n’est-ce pas? After all, un chien is a male dog and une chienne is a female dog. Logical, yes? NO!

Reading Kristin’s blog reminded me of the day, some years ago, when I judged a prestigious dog show at Le Blanc in the centre of France – no less a show than the National Elevage of the Old English Sheepdog Club of France. I had to take the microphone after each class to explain my placings and to this day no one in the Old English Sheepdog world in France has ever told me that chiotte doesn’t mean female puppy.

I discovered my faux pas about four years ago when I went with my neighbour, Agnès, to help her choose a puppy – also a golden retriever like Kristin’s - to be called Shadow. We were talking about puppies and I noticed that Nicolas, her teenage son, was smirking in the background. He couldn’t stop and eventually I asked Agnès why he was giggling. ‘Be quiet, Nicolas,’ she said, ‘stop that.’ But he didn’t and I asked again and she explained that chiotte is rather impoli (rude) and she'd not wanted to tell me. 'So what does it mean?’ I asked. Rather sheepishly she said it was a rude word for the W.C. Later I looked it up in the dictionary and see the exact translation is ‘bog’ or 'john.' And now I learn from Kristin that it also means that wonderfully refined word 'crapper.'

From then on I made Agnès promise to tell me when I made a mistake in French…let’s hope she has…

Not another rescue dog!

2006-08-16T10:00:00.000+02:00

The dogs are barking, not that there are many here at Pension Milou at the moment, as I’m still recovering from my fall and Doc says - NO dogs. Of course I’m not obeying her but I only have a few small easy ones. I’m doing OK, lying flat on my back for much of the day and with Lou, the French bulldog, playing Nurse Fuzzy Wuzzy on the bed with me. The dogs don’t stop their noise so I put on the support belt the doctor prescribed and walk slowly to the gate. The daughter and grown-up grand-daughter of my neighbour, Monsieur Cocular, are standing there and with them, attached to a piece of rope, is the thinnest pointer I’ve ever seen. Marie-Christine is trying to hold onto a bag of dog food and the dog is tearing into it as if she’s not eaten in weeks.

Marie-Christine tells me she found the dog stuck in thick brambles, unable to move, under the autoroute. She tells me how difficult it was to get her out and points out the scratches and dried up drops of blood on her arms and legs. She asks if I know to whom she belongs. I don’t. ‘Perhaps she’s one of the hunters’ dogs,’ I say but looking at her again I think she’s probably too old. Marie-Christine says she doesn’t know what to do with her and asks if I can help.

The pointer looks like an abandoned dog to me and she too is scratched from her ordeal in the brambles and has what looks like a large tumour on one side. I well know the refuges are full: indeed, there isn’t a Menton refuge anymore. There should be. It’s a law in France that any town over a certain size – certainly Menton is well over that size - must have a refuge. We used to have one way up in the Fossan but it was closed down because neighbours complained of noise, which is a bit rich when you know that the refuge and the dogs were there long before anyone bought land and built on it. Since then there has been no land available for a refuge. No one wants a refuge near them.

The Monaco refuge, the SPA de Monaco, has a similar problem. It’s located in Eze, which is in France - between the Principality of Monaco and Nice but is funded by Monaco. You’d think all good and proper, wouldn’t you? Well, no, the dogs, whilst well cared for, live in very cramped quarters and are never ever taken out for walks. This is because anything that causes more barking than the basics of cleaning and feeding has to be avoided. The place isn’t big enough for the number of dogs incarcerated there and there is no way they can expand on the present premises due to lack of space and again there are neighbours who complain. This refuge was built many years ago, it’s has out-of-date facilities and it’s simply overcrowded. There is money to build a new refuge but every time the marvellous Jan, the Scottish lady who runs it, manages to find a piece of land, permission is refused by the commune that owns it. Princesse Antoinette, sister of the late Prince Rainier, started the refuge all those years ago, and you’d think land could be found with that sort of influences. But no. Jan found land in Castellar, a village above Menton, and permission was refused. They found land above Gorbio, my village, and permission was refused. It was felt that when the runs were washed down, there would be urine run-off into the water system. Indeed, someone went up to the hills above the village and put a dye into the water table and it did indeed filter down into the water supply. Sounds a bit like Manon des Sources, doesn’t it? In fact, plans have been drawn up for a new refuge for Monaco which include a completely sealed water run-off that goes back, via a pump, into a tank to be cleaned and re-cycled but nothing would convince the Mayor and his team and so a large fat NO came back.

So, no refuge in Menton and an overcrowded one in Eze and a needy dog standing before me. The last thing I want is another Rescue dog. I had three and then Columbo had to be put to sleep. Now I have Bimbo (re-named Beau) and Rox – all three came from a refuge and believe me, I sure don’t want another one at the moment. But what can I do? I look after dogs - that's my metier and my conscience is working overtime, dammit. I take the rope lead and tell my neighbours I’ll let them know what happens.

I take the dog downstairs (I don’t want her mixing with the others in case she has a disease or perhaps has fleas or ticks). I get her a big bowl of water and put down a dish of dog food, which she scoffs in an instant. I’ve a feeling I’ve just taken in yet another unwanted dog. Oh dear.

Nevertheless I call the police and they tell me that yes, there is a dog missing from Gorbio village. I call the number I've been given and it turns out it is the owner of the bar in the village but no, it’s not his dog. He’s lost a male dog. The one I have here is female. I ask if he knows about a pointer missing from the village but he doesn’t.

Maybe Carla, who looks after dogs like me, will know what to do? She lives in the commune of Gorbio too. I call her and she tells me she’s seen several notices for missing dogs way over on the back roads that lead to Weldon, a big hard-ware store in Menton. She also tells me there is a notice in the Weldon store itself for a missing dog but she hadn’t noted the breed. I call Weldon, it’s almost closing time, but they tell me they threw out the notice two or three weeks ago and no, they don’t remember what breed of dog it was.

I want to go and find the notices Carla saw on the back roads but I’m not allowed to drive until my back is healed and that’s a long way off. Carla tells me she is really busy but will go and look in the morning. I call my neighbour, Agnes, who lives in the house below me and she says she is happy to go and look at the notices right away. What a star she is. When she gets back, her news is no better - no, none of the dogs fit the description of the thin pointer. Someone has lost a shih tzu, someone a German shepherd, someone else a Brittany spaniel. Goodness, where on earth have these dogs disappeared to?

I wonder if perhaps the pointer has a tattoo. It's the law in France that all dogs must be tattooed or micro-chipped but not all are. Success! Why didn’t I think of this before? It’s hard to read the number and she won’t keep still. I probably wouldn’t either if I’d been stuck in brambles, frightened and with no food or water for goodness knows how long, and a stranger is trying to look at the inside flap of my ear. Anyway we get there eventually: 5 of the 6 letters are legible, one is debatable. I note down the probable letters and numbers.

I call my vet and Sylvie, her assistant answers. She tells me I should call the afore-mentioned SPA in Monaco and they will look up the owner of the dog on their computer. It’s now way past closing time and I assume I won’t get an answer but Sylvie said there is always someone in charge at this refuge and indeed there is. The lady takes my name and number and says she’ll ring me back.

Only 15 minutes later the phone rings and I have a name and phone number. Whoopee! I call the number I’ve been given and a female voice answers. She sounds familiar but I can’t quite place her but she recognises my voice – well that’s not difficult with my accent when speaking French. It’s Crystelle, the factrice (post lady). I know she lives in the village with her husband and baby son but I never knew she had a dog. She says she’ll drive down right away.

Crystelle arrives, takes one look at her dog and bursts into tears. ‘She went missing last night,’ she tells me, ‘and we’ve looked everywhere in the village for her. ' I tell her my neighbours fed her and so did I and venture to ask why she is so thin if she only went missing last night. ‘Oh you mustn’t feed her,’ she tells me. 'She is diabetic, epileptic and has cancer and because of the diabetes we have to keep her thin to keep her alive.’ I apologise of course but say she looked and acted like a starving dog. She tells me she is always hungry because of the diabetes.

So, a happy ending and accomplished very quickly too. I have to say I’m relieved. I’m simply not ready to take in yet another Rescue dog. Not yet anyway…

Gardening can seriously damage your health

2006-08-04T15:12:00.000+02:00

Wednesday, 19th July 2006

Today I’m gardening for the gardener. Bit like cleaning up for the cleaning lady, except I don’t have one of those either. This garden has been in the too-hard-basket for a while now and a friend in the village has suggested her gardener might like a few hours a week and he’s due to start tomorrow. Because I didn’t cut back in late spring this year, the garden is overgrown and so I worry he’ll pull out perfectly good plants along with the mauvaises herbes. My plants are like babies, many grown from seed or cuttings – well, you get the message.

This garden has to be the most difficult I’ve ever encountered. I live on a steep hillside and the land is terraced on ten different levels. Much of it was covered in a thirteen-year growth of brambles when I first moved in. This took took three years to eradicate. The main area at the back of the house is now divided into two separate gardens, each fenced with gates. The lower one, which consists of 6 terraces, is for the dogs, the higher one is for me to grow what I want – or rather what nature will allow me to grow on the stony soil here. There’s also a small area of garden at the front of the house with a covered terrace overlooking the Mediterranean and yet another on the opposite side of the track as you walk down to the house. Below all this is common land, never to be built on, with the River Calf way below, bubbling its way over massive rocks and fallen trees and on down the valley to the sea.

Some of the terraces are 7 feet high, some lower, with the soil (what there is of it) retained by old dry stone walls. This whole valley was laid out in olive groves and market gardens in years gone by. Now only the olives remain. The walls were in a dreadful mess when I bought the place seven years ago, tumbled by the sangliers (wild boars) but slowly over the years, a Calabrian miracle worker, Giovanni, working a few hours a week, has rebuilt them for me. I used to work as builder’s labourer lugging rocks to wherever he was working – well those that weren't too heavy, that is.

What makes the garden so difficult is the lugging. You can’t get a wheelbarrow up and down the narrow steps. When you prune you have to lug the cuttings up to the compost heap or way down the track to the bonfire. When you plant, you need engrais (manure) which you have to bring up from the cave way down below and of course all the garden tools need to be carried up and taken back down when you've finished the day's work. All this is particularly difficult for me because many years ago I had a head-on car crash in a narrow Kentish lane. A butterfly farmer hit me whilst driving too fast to get his butterflies to Dover. I did nothing about the resulting whiplash injury (yes, I know, how stupid can you get?) and so now I have an arthritic neck because it set out of alignment. I’ve learned what I can and can’t do and if I’m careful I get thru a day with no pain. A full watering can is impossible; half full is just fine. The simple movement of digging into hard ground with a trowel gives me hell the next day yet I can dig with a full sized garden fork. I take glucosamine sulphate with chondroitin – it helps – but enough is enough and now I know I need someone to help me in the garden.

View from the terrace

On the higher garden, and that’s where I’m working today, there are some old olive trees and half a dozen plums that once every year or so give a massive crop then they go back to sleep for a few more years. I’ve planted a couple of avocadoes and an apricot and amongst them, day lilies, echium, lavenders, rosemary, convolvulus cneonorum, all plants that do well in the Mediterranean. And lots of succulents, agaves and yuccas.

My bible is Heidi Gildemeister’s ‘Mediterranean Gardening, a Waterwise Approach.’ She talks about gardening with spring and autumn rains only. That says it all really. You can forget a pretty English garden here. Go with the flow I say. If something dies, tant pis, plant something else. If a plant takes too much water, don’t bother – put in something that is happy with spring and autumn rains only, because that’s about all we get here, except this year we hardly had any spring rain and it’s a worry. Even the 100-year-old fig in the lower garden is looking thirsty and dropping leaves and I’ve not seen that before at this time of year.

It’s 6.30 in the morning and the dogs and I have had breakfast. I reckon I’ve two hours before it gets too hot to lug a sheet of heavy prunings down the track to where I’ll burn in October. Bonfires are forbidden until then - hardly surprising in this heat. It will be 32 degrees today. I work hard and am making progress. I clear two terraces, I cut back plumbago, euphorbia, pull weeds, prune ballota (another good plant for this climate) trim thyme, romarin, clear around the agapanthus currently standing tall and showing off their beautiful azure umbels.

Agapanthus

I’m standing on a particularly narrow terrace, only 18 inches wide, and I lean over to pull out some invasive Tree of Heaven seedlings. Suddenly I’m over-balancing. I try to grab something but there’s nothing there. I’m falling, falling, then wham; I land on my back on the edge of a stone step. I’ve fallen nearly six feet. I can hardly breathe. I know I’m in awful pain. I’m hurt somewhere to the right of the spine and above the hipbone. I don’t even try and move. All I can think about is the dogs. If I’ve broken my back, how will I manage the dogs? There are 8 dogs in the lower garden. I can hear them playing.

It takes me about 15 minutes to get into a position where I can get up off the ground and somehow I do. Very slowly I walk. Lordy, this hurts. I get up the steps to the track, walk up a bit and try to bend over to pick up the sheet holding the cuttings. The pain is unbelievable. I crash to the ground and can’t move. Now I know I need help.

Giovanni, who rebuilt the drystone walls, with Ziggy

I edge my hand down to my pocket and pull out my portable telephone. I call my neighbour and ask her to come up to me and please to bring some ice with her. Agnès is a neighbour and now a friend who lives in the house below me at the end of the track we share. We look out for each other. I often go and sit with her mother who corrects my French and giggles like a kid even though she’s 80 and in poor health. I adore Madame Pinelli.

I wait. I know it will take Agnès a while to get up to me. She has bad knees and can only walk slowly up the track. I hear my other neighbour’s sheep. Monsieur Cocular must be about to feed them. He’s 90 years old and spends most of his day walking around our little quartier, cutting leaves off the olive trees and gathering different herbage to feed his beloved sheep. He doesn’t rear them to eat: they are his pets and when they die he buries them way up on the hillside. We live only eleven kilometres from Monte Carlo and here is an old man with pet sheep living under the motorway. Monsieur Cocular lives for his sheep and when they die I hate to think what he’ll do with his day. I fear he’ll give up.

Agnès arrives and hands me a calico bag filled with ice. I explain what has happened, and put the ice where the pain is at its worst. I wait a while, try to move but I can’t. Agnès tries to help me but I know the pain is too much for me. She calls the doctor from my portable phone and is told I need to go to the hospital for a radio (x-ray) and to call the Pompiers. In France, when you need an ambulance, you call the Fire Brigade. I tell her not to call the Pompiers yet. I tell her I must get down to the house; I must get the dogs in from the garden and shut away. I need to shut the volets (shutters) and windows and put on the air-conditioning. I need to know the dogs are safe and secure before I can leave. The dogs come first – they have to. I feel faint, I want to vomit but don’t. I need to drink something sweet to give me the strength to try and get up. I ask Agnès to get me some water, perhaps to put sugar in it. She asks if orange juice will do. Yes, I say, yes please.

Poor Agnès. She needs to go all the way down the steep track again to get me a drink but I know I’ll not be able to move without it. She returns with her 18-year-old son. I drink deeply and then I somehow get myself in a position that is the least painful to lift myself off ground. Agnès and Nicolas help me down to the house. I direct operations – I can’t do anything else. Between them they put dogs behind the baby gates – into the bedroom, into the bathroom, into the kitchen, into the study, some in the living room. They close the shutters and windows. I slowly walk into the study and bedroom and turn on the air-conditioning and turn off my computer. It’s time to phone the Pompiers.

We go out onto the terrace and wait. Agnès suggests I sit down and I try but it’s too painful. I stand leaning slightly and supporting myself on the back of a chair. I’ve realised that I can’t bend from the waist, so sitting is agony. Standing is best and lying down even better.

The ambulance arrives with three men. Three seems excessive and if I wasn’t feeling so lousy I’d appreciate these virile specimens of French manhood. What is it about men in uniform? I give Agnès my keys and she tells me she’ll collect me from the hospital later – well, provided I’m OK that is. My mind is racing as to what I’ll do if I can’t get back within a few hours to tend to the dogs but I have a plan – there’s always a plan for that and it’s my friend Carla. Carla would have to come and take the dogs to her place. She cares for dogs much in the same way as I do but I know Carla is busy and…well I won’t think about it. Surely I’ll be OK. Surely this is just a bad bruise?

With the help of dishy Pompier number three, I find a way to lie down on the gurney in the back of the ambulance. Two of the men are up front and this one remains in back with me. We take off up the track and it’s bumpy and they need to go fast to get up the steep hill. The jolting hurts like hell. The pompier is kind, ‘Are you OK?’ he asks each time I wince in pain. Once we are on the Route de Gorbio, I settle down and for a moment, even though, I’m in pain, I’m enjoying the luxury. The mattress is comfortable. I’m looking out of the ambulance thru high set windows and I see the valley as I’ve never seen it before. I see houses I’ve never noticed, I see a hawk hovering, and I see the trail of a plane from Nice airport. The sky is that perfect Mediterranean blue. I should be off to the beach for the day and instead I’m going to the hospital but this ride feels, for a fleeting moment, like luxury so I lie back and enjoy it.

Solanum Jasminoides - Potato Vine

Once we arrive at the hospital, they get the gurney out on wheels, so smooth, I barely feel a thing. A couple of nurses surround me; one takes my blood pressure, the other presses a needle into my finger to draw blood. A secretary has difficulty with my name. Bennett is normally spelled Bennet or Benet in France and I forget to tell her but eventually it’s sorted.

They help me off with my shorts. I apologise, embarrassed, ‘I’m not wearing culottes', (panties) I say, 'it’s too hot.’ What did Mother always say? Always wear clean knickers in case you get involved in an accident. Oh dear...They cover me with a thin white cloth – the shorts have disappeared.

A doctor examines me and after a while the gurney is pushed into the x-ray area. It’s a warm corridor. I wait for about half an hour and I long for water. Someone comes along and tells me the x-ray machine is en panne (broken) and I will have to wait. I ask for water. She says she can’t give me anything to drink in case I’ve fractured a bone.

Plums

I lie there looking at the ceiling. Grey, plastic, strip lights. A nurse, one of the first two I saw, comes up and brings her smile with her. She apologises for the delay. I ask her for water. 'Don’t you worry,' she says, 'I’ll bring you some water,' and she calls me ‘Ma belle.’ Life seems much brighter. ‘Ma belle’ - I savour the words in my head.

A young girl appears. She is in charge of the x-ray machine and tells me she doesn't know when it will be mended. Another half an hour passes and we are ready to roll. It's not easy. I need to get myself from the gurney to the flat metal plate I need to lie on - there is no one to help me. Bloody painful it is but it gets worse because she wants me in peculiar positions. She calls out from the next room. I don’t hear her words through the buzz of the machinery. She comes into the room. ‘I told you not to breathe.’ She glares. Chastised I stop breathing. Each time she takes a picture, she yells out ‘Ne respirez pas.’ I barely hear but I guess she’s saying the same thing and what I’m saying to myself is, ’Don’t fall down the hillside again, Jilly!’

We’re done. I get myself back onto the gurney. The young girl appears, tucks a large envelope by my feet, hands me my shorts and I’m pushed back into the corridor to await the doctor. I ask the girl if I’ve broken any bones. ‘I’m not allowed to say,’ she says. I want to look but I can’t reach down to get the envelope.

Echium candicans - Pride of Madeira

The doctor arrives and tells me nothing is broken. Oh Happy Day! She writes me a prescription for painkillers and anti-inflammatories and tells me I should be all right in three or four days. A nurse comes along and gives me two painkillers. Tells me to drink lots of the water she gives me – ‘They’ll work quicker,’ she says.

What a relief! No broken back. I can go home. I can feed the dogs. Life is OK again. I call Agnes and she arranges to come and collect me. I get myself off the gurney; walk slowly and painfully down the passageway to pay at the office. I show my Carte Vitale, I give the document showing my Mutuelle (additional medical insurance). I ask how much? Nothing to pay, I’m told. It’s all taken care of. Vive la France and their wonderful health system.

PS. The pain gets worse and after nine days I take myself off to the doctor. She sends me for new x-rays and it turns out I have four fractures in the lower back and a fissure in the pubic bone. No wonder it hurt so much to drive. I wonder why this wasn't found on the day of the accident but remember how rushed the young girl was and anyway we can't put that wrong right. Now I have to lie flat on my back for 45 days. I can get up to fix food and of course I’m forbidden to take any dogs although I still have a few here but I have to cancel most of the August intake.

Hemerocallis - Daylily

And the new gardener? He did 10 hours over a few days – he dug up perfectly good plants, he weeded the place to within an inch of its life – exposing precious soil on the banks which will fall in the slightest wind and certainly when it eventually rains. I tell him I think it’s too hot to work and perhaps I’ll call him again in September but I won’t. If he was the last gardener in the world I’d not let him loose on my land. Back to the drawing board.

The day Lou was stolen!

2006-07-17T09:00:00.001+02:00

Lou

One of the best things about Pension Milou – apart from the dogs, of course – is that I get to meet really great people.

One such person is Brian. Lou, his French bulldog, comes to stay twice a year when he goes off to Costa Rica and if Brian is a character, well, double it for Lou. Sometimes I think I should pay Brian for the privilege of being entertained.

Many years ago, Brian, a wonderful teddy-bear of an Englishman, starting importing the very best Scottish smoked salmon into France and Monaco and supplying many of the Michelin-starred restaurants. This led to the opening of his own catering and delicatessen company – called a ‘traiteur’ in French. Brian offers high-class catering to the rich and famous and everyone in Monaco knows Brian and Brian knows everyone. His business, naturally enough, is called Mr Brian.

Brian loves his work but the true love of his life is Lou. Everyone who calls in the shop to purchase Foie Gras, a perfect lobster or even Iranian caviare or simply a bottle of the best olive oil, knows Lou. And Brian goes nowhere without her, and so it was one day a few weeks ago.

Tug-o-war with Cleo, the dalmatian

Brian was visiting a client in an apartment block in Fontvielle, Monaco. He got permission from the security guards to leave the van outside and off he went to find the lift, leaving Lou sitting in the van outside. This he always does and Lou happily waits for him. Lou wouldn’t go anywhere. This love affair is very much a two-way relationship. Lou’s life is Brian.

His business finished, Brian left the building, opened the van to get in and saw, to his horror, that Lou wasn’t there. She’d gone! He’d left the windows open for air but not enough for Lou to have got through the gap. In any case, she wouldn’t have run away. Lou was waiting for Brian. She wasn’t going anywhere. But she had!

For an instant, Brian’s heart stopped. He ran around the block calling, calling calling her name. He stopped people. ‘Have you seen a little white French bulldog with big ears?’ No one had. He ran back into the office of the apartment block where the two security guards sat. They’d seen nothing but pointed out the CTT camera in the front of the building and offered to play back the video. When they did so, Brian was horrified. There, playing out on the screen in front of him, he watched a woman approach his van, open the door and remove Lou. His heart sank to his shoes. He was beside himself.

Here the story gets a little better – for the moment, anyway. One of the security guards recognised the woman. She lived in the building. And so the two guards and Brian went to her apartment and knocked on the door. No reply. They knocked again and called out. No reply.

So, back to the office, where one of the guards called the police. The tiny Principality of Monaco has more police per square inch and per citizen than any other place in the world. It’s considered a safe place to live, women can walk around decked in jewels – they don’t have burglaries – or so they say and if they do, it doesn’t often get into the local newspaper, Nice-Matin. So any call to the police reporting a theft gets a very swift response.

Cuddling up to Sophie, the boxer

When the police arrived, one of them knocked on the woman’s door, calling out that they were the police and she opened the door. They asked if she had a dog in the apartment. ‘Non,’ she said. They asked if they could look inside. ‘Non,’ she said. Brian called out, ‘Lou, Lou.’ Nothing. No bark.

So the police barged in and searched. This would be illegal in France but in Monaco – well, Monaco writes its owns rules. They opened doors and cupboards and eventually found Lou, shut in a wardrobe, shaking - far too scared to bark.

At this point, the police had to physically restrain Brian from bashing the woman – well, how would you feel if someone stole your dog? Fortunately they succeeded else Brian might have found himself up on a charge. Instead, Brian and Lou went to the police station to make a formal ‘complaint’ against the woman. The police told Brian it was the first time in 10 years they’d ever had a report of a stolen dog in the Principality.

Whilst the report was being typed into the computer, Lou found an old football to play with and play she did – she destroyed it. One of the policeman laughed and said, ‘She deserves to wreck that after all she’s been though.’

The case is waiting to come before the court. Brian now locks his van whenever he goes to visit a client. The love affair continues.

Columbo

2006-07-10T15:12:00.000+02:00

Columbo

Yes, I know – it’s been a long time since I posted anything but there’s a reason – or rather an excuse (there is a difference of course). Columbo – my sweet troubled Columbo - is no more.

I simply didn’t want to think about it, let along write about it. Blogger’s block, you could say, but then I have to get over it and slowly that’s happening.

You can read Columbo’s story in the entry called Adoption Day at the Refuge. He was the emaciated hunting dog I adopted in February. The problem was that he was epileptic. I’d not thought of it as a problem when I took him and frankly, had I known how it would turn out, I’d still have taken him. At the time, I was told he simply needed one pill a day to stop any possible fits but it didn’t turn out to be as simple as that.

Columbo having a fit

After he’d been here a week or so, Columbo had his first Grand Mal fit – that day he had four more. I’m not talking little quivers and shakes here but major fits where he screamed (a dreadful not-of-this-world scream), fell to the floor from the sofa, emptied his anal glands, defecated, urinated and then crazily scrabbled around in all the mess whilst I rushed to prepare rectal valium. I’m told dogs don’t remember anything following an epileptic fit so tant mieux, (so much the better) as the French say. Columbo, I’m sure, had brain damage. He’d doubtless had endless un-medicated fits in the past. I’ve since heard from the volunteers at the refuge that on some winter mornings they’d find him lying in his run with his coat frozen to his body.

From the day I brought him home, he paced up and down for much of the night; I’d hear his toenails; click, click, click on the terracotta tiles. The pacing got faster and faster before a fit and afterwards, he’d endlessly walk about, crash into furniture and walls. He didn’t know where he was – he even tried to get behind the loo. Or he’d somehow find his way down to the garden and walk up and down, up and down in the moonlight on the lowest terrace, crashing into shrubs and trees. Not a happy camper.

... doing his 'Thurber Dog' impersonation

After that first day of fits, the vet put him on the highest medication possible and, after five days, the fits stopped. Then slowly over the weeks, we’d reduce the dose very gradually. Necessary because otherwise he was a totally doped dog, sleepy all day and also there were possible side effects to some internal organs. What didn’t help was that Rox, one of the other dogs I’d adopted, was continually snapping at him so Columbo was also a scared dog – jumpy around other dogs. Dogs know, of course, when another dog is sick or simply isn’t right in the head. The medication gave Columbo’s eyes a glazed look and so he didn’t give the right doggy messages to other dogs.

...drugged

During the time he lived here, he put on weight – he grew into the beautiful dog he was meant to be; his coat gleamed and he did occasionally wag his tail when he saw me but I think only because I was the food provider. He was never really ‘present’ if you know what I mean. He didn’t respond to me as other dogs do. He was off in his own private and I think rather scary world. I’d often go sit with him on the sofa and try and stroke him but he didn’t always seem able to accept caresses so would sometimes get up and move away.

...missing a bit of ear

In April one of the dogs staying here bit off the tip of Columbo’s ear. It wasn’t Rox because he was shut in the study at the time. I had walked up the track to the mailbox and always I shut Rox away, knowing how he feels about Columbo. Well I didn’t see it happen and so can’t prove who did it and of course it shouldn’t have happened but dogs attack weaker dogs. The bleeding simply wouldn’t stop. If you ever have a dog with an injury to the ear, you’ll know this to be true. There seems to be more blood in a dog’s ear than in the whole damn body and Columbo had BIG ears. Eventually there was nothing to do but take him to the vet, blood dripping all over the car. She wrapped his ear right around his head. She said it couldn’t be stitched but needed fixing to the head so he couldn’t shake it. So for a few days, until it healed, Columbo looked like a novice nun or a medieval maiden.

...and here it is

Two weeks before the end, I started him on some supplements: special vitamins that I was told might help him. Within a week he seemed to be a new dog. He responded to me, seemed so much happier. I believed we’d turned a corner in his life. Then a week later, wham – the fits started again. There was no more to do. He was already on the highest possible dose of preventative medicine. I’d made an appointment at that time to take him to Marseilles to get a brain scan as it had been suggested to me that he could have a tumour. Friends with an epileptic Weimaraner visited me and said that the way Columbo held his head, the way he behaved, reminded them of their dog and she had been epileptic, caused by a brain tumour. There are only two scanners in France (one in Paris and one in Marseilles) but my vet advised me that even if we found that a brain tumour was causing his epilepsy, what would we do? Operate on him? A very risky operation- and with 6 months after-care in a quiet home. Believe me, this isn’t a quiet home. And so the horrible decision was made.

My vet wisely knew how it would turn out and she advised me, from the very first visit, that it might be best to put him to sleep. I fought this. Probably because I’d seen my brother, as a child, having bad epileptic fits and no one suggested putting him to sleep. I well remember, aged about 6, seeing my brother continually bashing his head against the floor, arms flaying wildly. He had a pillow put under his head and something in his mouth to stop him swallowing his tongue whilst I was told to get on with my dinner and to take no notice.

I can tell you it’s awful to give a refuge dog a home and then realise you’ve failed but I know that it was the right decision for Columbo. At least, when he died he was in beautiful condition, physically – he had a comfortable sofa to sleep on – he loved his food, indeed was crazy for his food. But mentally my poor Columbo simply wasn’t the full shilling. Perhaps if someone else had given Columbo a home – where he was the only dog – he’d have stood a better chance but with so many dogs in refuges begging for homes, it’s the cute little ones who get chosen or the solid temperament ones, like Labradors and Retrievers, not wild-eyed hunting dogs like Columbo.

Sharing the sofa with Digby

Columbo lived here at Pension Milou for only three short months but I’d have taken him home with me regardless. Despite the way it turned out, the sleepless nights when nothing calmed him, the endless trips to the vet, the hopelessness of his epilepsy, I learned so much from Columbo who always had the sweetest nature. He taught me things about myself I didn’t know – that I had more patience, more compassion than I thought. Those lessons, like Columbo’s beautiful soul will stay with me and he’ll live forever in my memory.

Brief Encounter

2006-05-03T16:23:00.000+02:00

Bimbo

Today, I’m driving home from Cap d’Ail with Bimbo in the back of the car. He’s had his stitches removed – goodness knows how many? Seems like dozens. Now it’s all over. He needs antibiotics for another month – so severe was the infection but he’s a new dog now.

We’re crawling along the Moyenne Corniche. Fabulous day. Lots of traffic, which slows almost to a stop. Suddenly a grey-haired man runs out in front of the car, a little dumpling of a man wearing a hand-kitted cable sweater, carrying a rucksack, sandals on his feet. He says his car has broken down and asks if I will take him to Carnoles. Well, I’m going thru Carnoles, so no big deal. I don’t normally give lifts to strangers but he looks harmless. I tell him to hop in. He tells me he lives in Nice and his car has broken down at Cap d’Ail. 'Nice dog,' he says. 'He's a chien de chasse, isn't he?' I tell him Bimbo is a Bruno de Jura. 'Dogs are nicer than people,' he says.

As we approach Roquebrune-Cap- Martin, he asks me if I’d mind driving along the bord de la mer and dropping him at the roundabout with the fountain. I tell him that I’m going thru the middle of the town and that it’s only a short walk to that roundabout by the sea. ‘Oh it’s a lovely day and you’ll enjoy driving along the bord de la mer,’ he says. I mean – get this – here I am giving this stranger a lift and now he’s telling me to go out of my way so he doesn’t have to walk but three yards. Cheeky chappie. In fact, he’s rather nervous, talks a lot – he looks after his aged mother who lives in Carnoles and frankly I don’t think his car has broken down at all. He just wants a ride home. We talk about painting – he loves aquerelles and says he admires the British water colourists. He looks like a teddy bear, he’s wearing a sweater in a rather peculiar caramel colour that absolutely does nothing for him. But hell, he looks after his mother…

We get to the roundabout and I tell him I will drop him just the other side. There is a car behind us. He doesn’t stop talking, he doesn’t get out, so I have to pull over. He gets out but continues talking. His rucksack is still in the front of the car. He keeps talking. He leans over and picks up the rucksack. He’s still talking, the door remains open. I tell him, ‘Look I have to get home to the dogs.’ Eventually, he leans in, extends his hand, which I shake and he thanks me. We wish each other ‘Bonne journée, bon continuation.’ And off he goes.