tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-193323642024-03-07T08:13:09.072+01:00Postcards from "Pension Milou'Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-58402283087998243322010-01-09T09:09:00.014+01:002011-07-04T09:38:10.694+02:00The Case of the Vanishing Inner Ear<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCCPLlOsxK_Ad5KufvNOHpXHeQ-WTusSAtXjcBaKvO_YSuusEdrpugu3lJHLkdBJeSp0rN8QZvlIXcMnAL0r_Q3heoDoN0xPUBTtRZY1x-WUE0bO_gfk2PzbKbrhEG3f9w7f__g/s1600-h/P1040901.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 640px; height: 480px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCCPLlOsxK_Ad5KufvNOHpXHeQ-WTusSAtXjcBaKvO_YSuusEdrpugu3lJHLkdBJeSp0rN8QZvlIXcMnAL0r_Q3heoDoN0xPUBTtRZY1x-WUE0bO_gfk2PzbKbrhEG3f9w7f__g/s640/P1040901.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427630114324227458" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Mia</span><br /></div><br />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.<br /><br />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 <a href="http://www.cityoutcotedazur.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">CITYOUTCotedAzur</span></a> - it's currently in Beta and goes into full mode in March.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Cagnes-sur-Mer</span>, 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.<br /><br />Meanwhile Beau was on morphine and quite happy in la la land. I wonder what visions he had and how many <span style="font-style: italic;">sangliers</span> (wild boars) he chased.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaUyrzi1zO5RqlY_exkRmj0Hglq_a1yfkuJR27vbLGnn01hVE3e_LPDaufu7YtvV-ed9EbB9LGGhRgpgc0YFJRZMnm3alXt_WurV_Fvfak1nGDQ9Hr0ZgHfuI4VsV6ILYtYpTAQg/s1600-h/P1040440.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 640px; height: 480px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaUyrzi1zO5RqlY_exkRmj0Hglq_a1yfkuJR27vbLGnn01hVE3e_LPDaufu7YtvV-ed9EbB9LGGhRgpgc0YFJRZMnm3alXt_WurV_Fvfak1nGDQ9Hr0ZgHfuI4VsV6ILYtYpTAQg/s640/P1040440.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427626245483652498" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Beau after the operation<br /><br /></span></div>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?<br /><br />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).<br /><br />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.<br /><br />It took a long time to heal and it was a month before the vet removed the remaining few stitches.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />Mia is very attached to Beau but Beau could live without Mia. No matter - it works fine - two wonderful dogs.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTwXTy0V3rU1joWJUQUA8-jFkrq-XhTQjLk2A6VcuzHxEu78VRVUbqm0id3LbTfulKc7my2M536X1Ljx4YxXTw42egRHxcbdomu-ix3PDME5DLro-djS7eJg2eZcN4VGY_ajP3uQ/s1600-h/P1040902.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 640px; height: 480px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTwXTy0V3rU1joWJUQUA8-jFkrq-XhTQjLk2A6VcuzHxEu78VRVUbqm0id3LbTfulKc7my2M536X1Ljx4YxXTw42egRHxcbdomu-ix3PDME5DLro-djS7eJg2eZcN4VGY_ajP3uQ/s640/P1040902.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427627818761679826" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Mia, showing off her double chins</span><br /></div>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-42103121581544287652009-08-22T12:41:00.010+02:002009-08-22T14:14:08.284+02:00Gator, the Service Dog...+ Mia Update<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDs6LmsMGmvWxnQYv_Vn-plR4NDFvrM7mbJQmbfshjCbamj7gxvhFAeGEclxGhRozqBcqfmo7CJTrUFA2iHE83nw2D0rp7heOToXTOtGP3blQLgZ9oHgHCkyZyBcjcgFAcVbpiHA/s1600-h/P1250769.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDs6LmsMGmvWxnQYv_Vn-plR4NDFvrM7mbJQmbfshjCbamj7gxvhFAeGEclxGhRozqBcqfmo7CJTrUFA2iHE83nw2D0rp7heOToXTOtGP3blQLgZ9oHgHCkyZyBcjcgFAcVbpiHA/s640/P1250769.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372742435237088114" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK0HrJRS8yYLnPizgLUDdILfbQyBb-3IxAliNPFZ7JBsF6aVAjOg4D214WRkqNmIel7FUV00Z40_NcdLPXbfBVLrCuGlrig3kbgsgJxBq8CImzhJovPABnrIHiJnz96bpV4RxSkw/s1600-h/P1250764.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 236px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK0HrJRS8yYLnPizgLUDdILfbQyBb-3IxAliNPFZ7JBsF6aVAjOg4D214WRkqNmIel7FUV00Z40_NcdLPXbfBVLrCuGlrig3kbgsgJxBq8CImzhJovPABnrIHiJnz96bpV4RxSkw/s320/P1250764.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372740174833857490" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbnyHV8S_kCxqXRzhyphenhyphenxady60W0PmP-ncsNpuvV4pbDDQC8oWMdUFfnQyKiuzhTkvXquC3JmIAJIxPt80OTFdUR_K9teCeSGFVOttsO_GQuQeilsp_CbQaRSxVDrNjLLyH0Dl05FA/s1600-h/P1250763.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbnyHV8S_kCxqXRzhyphenhyphenxady60W0PmP-ncsNpuvV4pbDDQC8oWMdUFfnQyKiuzhTkvXquC3JmIAJIxPt80OTFdUR_K9teCeSGFVOttsO_GQuQeilsp_CbQaRSxVDrNjLLyH0Dl05FA/s640/P1250763.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372738666464956690" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMZuEZULzzoZFZoK8dZi4TPl0PkAFdf7rogx-uGzQjnkYNEOArnAzXKSgjpFnxglcSxGvW0cNIx7VTj3huRgZiNwnLfDya-UUN6RtwvQR4E09a3OMV6fWL5_DI_Yo8Xjh4nCklRw/s1600-h/P1250754.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 363px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMZuEZULzzoZFZoK8dZi4TPl0PkAFdf7rogx-uGzQjnkYNEOArnAzXKSgjpFnxglcSxGvW0cNIx7VTj3huRgZiNwnLfDya-UUN6RtwvQR4E09a3OMV6fWL5_DI_Yo8Xjh4nCklRw/s400/P1250754.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372737063360500850" border="0" /></a><br />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.Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-31268766362915525552009-05-29T11:23:00.008+02:002009-06-05T13:17:43.830+02:00The Solution<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgakKyDD5SxRMw9GZ-U_oWRGNw7ELSC1HdmkvgU3eZVYE5493hvGzTem3Fx7uTpLCA3eCX7V3Fk_Iee4fHoW4hufI-3Cbz7IVn-5na14NHe3NX7XOMBDo69vm0t3X8kpLQecGkeUw/s1600-h/P1190588.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 640px; height: 480px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgakKyDD5SxRMw9GZ-U_oWRGNw7ELSC1HdmkvgU3eZVYE5493hvGzTem3Fx7uTpLCA3eCX7V3Fk_Iee4fHoW4hufI-3Cbz7IVn-5na14NHe3NX7XOMBDo69vm0t3X8kpLQecGkeUw/s640/P1190588.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341179232249453810" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzlI7Qim_t7BsmKHLiGHIhujvuaTy3XTeMQiYIusq01yhDkli7XYRLAVQWF5pVJmHf98sRqVWybSGmm3QUeJSQo5-mpsEttxeGkXNXde7c3jBj86YZoCdImTtTcR9vEnncD-MWUQ/s1600-h/P1190614.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 316px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzlI7Qim_t7BsmKHLiGHIhujvuaTy3XTeMQiYIusq01yhDkli7XYRLAVQWF5pVJmHf98sRqVWybSGmm3QUeJSQo5-mpsEttxeGkXNXde7c3jBj86YZoCdImTtTcR9vEnncD-MWUQ/s320/P1190614.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341174885368794770" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Mia is saved!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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...<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji9-eTArCT2PXFkqWmuxR9ZMwsIN2dyr1EYR1iYAIvRd6CqlaiG9Zh1O4V_-9sjBYNG2kKk_H8TIuXlCqLedmkGaqpB366oh00hjdS9VvVvFYEApGWXUGOmI1xxWpmL8PyFc_6Fw/s1600-h/P1210098.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 332px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji9-eTArCT2PXFkqWmuxR9ZMwsIN2dyr1EYR1iYAIvRd6CqlaiG9Zh1O4V_-9sjBYNG2kKk_H8TIuXlCqLedmkGaqpB366oh00hjdS9VvVvFYEApGWXUGOmI1xxWpmL8PyFc_6Fw/s400/P1210098.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343719691502856402" border="0" /></a>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-79239040124411631212009-04-24T10:45:00.002+02:002009-04-24T11:18:18.021+02:00The Melodramas of Mia<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_KzsiozGYukt-_7K8dWFwS9H-rSxKkVUDU3m4mg6vqCG5Fm5NCUDaj36S1CN5mRqMYtHnO58VsHaoA2PAJ9ZpTeHwxgjG87EuNuZhvQ5xoXhmClNntnt3vqCl021Jvt9hzxLaDg/s1600-h/P1180225.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_KzsiozGYukt-_7K8dWFwS9H-rSxKkVUDU3m4mg6vqCG5Fm5NCUDaj36S1CN5mRqMYtHnO58VsHaoA2PAJ9ZpTeHwxgjG87EuNuZhvQ5xoXhmClNntnt3vqCl021Jvt9hzxLaDg/s640/P1180225.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328161130815028066" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHp69pNDJBTVmW91gVuchB3tViNrMruGwGP5qObb_2HQhwIdPLUxUbsHNLWDxYXIU26hqIEucYDG3aTnrr2ysgRl3jr4bdaX1SJpetGE-TzcKSfXB1WwPyfee-xfEjUIsEzgQKxg/s1600-h/P1180343.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHp69pNDJBTVmW91gVuchB3tViNrMruGwGP5qObb_2HQhwIdPLUxUbsHNLWDxYXIU26hqIEucYDG3aTnrr2ysgRl3jr4bdaX1SJpetGE-TzcKSfXB1WwPyfee-xfEjUIsEzgQKxg/s320/P1180343.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328181102097986002" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I called the vet who told me there are two medications for 'separation anxiety.' One I was familiar with. <a href="http://life-with-dogs.blogspot.com/2005/12/bosun-le-chien-pcheur-de-monaco.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Bosun</span></a>, 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <span style="font-style: italic;">En principe</span>, 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.<br /><br />Since then I've not been out.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjarCN_9EncW5E5gQEtaUZEMPIo44bQW6XAVrDjRVuU1151NvyhRq7oCF7m79k7j4E9II_c4SRMqplTAAB8-6mgQySstUDYg0d-tLbRluQaPvvsB3tWz56__M27PosUDJh027CbA/s1600-h/P1180238.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 366px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjarCN_9EncW5E5gQEtaUZEMPIo44bQW6XAVrDjRVuU1151NvyhRq7oCF7m79k7j4E9II_c4SRMqplTAAB8-6mgQySstUDYg0d-tLbRluQaPvvsB3tWz56__M27PosUDJh027CbA/s400/P1180238.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328154905520272482" border="0" /></a><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Let's hope it works.Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-3976940933105145792009-03-25T10:47:00.012+01:002009-06-08T16:31:16.506+02:00Mistral<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-IkUriGv9gxjMTHBRTFT2-8NEkHQtqv3z5VDg_ptOSlP9DipnSd1820GQik4tshFjmUgy8hK3AKa6SAyw8DOBFqECPdyxg2iGaJ1uRCGf5XVHFkKgwHNlzfsF5C2kbbUgiFFq4A/s1600-h/P1160987.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-IkUriGv9gxjMTHBRTFT2-8NEkHQtqv3z5VDg_ptOSlP9DipnSd1820GQik4tshFjmUgy8hK3AKa6SAyw8DOBFqECPdyxg2iGaJ1uRCGf5XVHFkKgwHNlzfsF5C2kbbUgiFFq4A/s640/P1160987.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317064382044896546" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZffbNO22afgw-09ts1PntBMGZjguZ8vWggw0FwtnQ3RZOq6LSygSeIONkwmbdBUKGqYpiOtJQtiyQKzILsAog25BEPP6pJZMgvX2x7I_HEB8n7UVhKYqSTfvJwy6onTHSJzHJWw/s1600-h/P1160986.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZffbNO22afgw-09ts1PntBMGZjguZ8vWggw0FwtnQ3RZOq6LSygSeIONkwmbdBUKGqYpiOtJQtiyQKzILsAog25BEPP6pJZMgvX2x7I_HEB8n7UVhKYqSTfvJwy6onTHSJzHJWw/s320/P1160986.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317063842047761314" border="0" /></a>It's been nearly a month since the last Mia and Mistral report.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Then I noticed that Mistral seemed to be deteriorating.<br /><br />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 <a href="http://life-with-dogs.blogspot.com/2008/12/out-of-hell-hole.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Hell Hole</span></a>. Not that long ago.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Beziers</span>.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Cagnes-sur-Mer</span> to <span style="font-style: italic;">Cap d'Ail. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZOXlpMvkz_GJLce71o_GZkx3Kpj3IvjALrk49uIXXDXjxZyGp37zT6EOBX7Mt-ZxWwMhvVRn0VoY3xGBhRI8O8vaXAggHOICiVW3H6XiUeKhIHRAF0gyxI-5BIy1tsx0Gch5nDw/s1600-h/P1160999.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZOXlpMvkz_GJLce71o_GZkx3Kpj3IvjALrk49uIXXDXjxZyGp37zT6EOBX7Mt-ZxWwMhvVRn0VoY3xGBhRI8O8vaXAggHOICiVW3H6XiUeKhIHRAF0gyxI-5BIy1tsx0Gch5nDw/s640/P1160999.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317061358909623538" border="0" /></a><br />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 <span style="font-weight: bold;">before</span> spoiling her with extra food.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />So yesterday morning, she went to Doggy Heaven, eating a handful of biscuits as the vet put the needle into her.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-D_eeARSCyWUxx4lEgBBaZzCyxigsxhl5Ot_8W5a9P0XwDeJTAZ-_gENmhlWAbChsoXvt8TqvdjN-l1CUWqSmyLV78JwsXFx2axrocWfx-okdlkL10w8s0vToJHaOcVcQb6vbxw/s1600-h/P1160863.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-D_eeARSCyWUxx4lEgBBaZzCyxigsxhl5Ot_8W5a9P0XwDeJTAZ-_gENmhlWAbChsoXvt8TqvdjN-l1CUWqSmyLV78JwsXFx2axrocWfx-okdlkL10w8s0vToJHaOcVcQb6vbxw/s640/P1160863.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317060150934596578" border="0" /></a>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-52561054511710714432009-02-20T08:12:00.010+01:002009-02-22T09:13:47.905+01:00Kindness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh4F5AgAkvSd3YvG2Pw86RjgN7lgNzhk8DRfH27qXN1RDGKWQGco6oHbQX7nQyLJPsn5Q-sJ0gxpCPGMDbQeABfwimQiPyudwNKYVqsMivftyOo4_1zWDm4XO9udtoH_mrBfG9Rg/s1600-h/P1150301.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 640px; height: 480px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh4F5AgAkvSd3YvG2Pw86RjgN7lgNzhk8DRfH27qXN1RDGKWQGco6oHbQX7nQyLJPsn5Q-sJ0gxpCPGMDbQeABfwimQiPyudwNKYVqsMivftyOo4_1zWDm4XO9udtoH_mrBfG9Rg/s640/P1150301.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305526754215883506" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBC80YJfb70ECkqtPFqNBaAgLTR0Ogp9M8-NP6y0Ia90SA5Q765EDty5Kuc5oPoXvdhq91OFc7_wjvKF3JSMKbi3XQUD2H21fYWfvmn7MLRgGPgLCb1lTJOVPsz3DvCLGWZCAEQ/s1600-h/P1150306.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxBC80YJfb70ECkqtPFqNBaAgLTR0Ogp9M8-NP6y0Ia90SA5Q765EDty5Kuc5oPoXvdhq91OFc7_wjvKF3JSMKbi3XQUD2H21fYWfvmn7MLRgGPgLCb1lTJOVPsz3DvCLGWZCAEQ/s320/P1150306.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305524970417433890" border="0" /></a>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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />This though is the story of Mister Brian and Mia.<br /><br />Some of you may have read <a href="http://life-with-dogs.blogspot.com/2006/07/day-lou-was-stolen.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">'<span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);">The Day Lou was Stolen</span></span></a>,' which tells the story Brian's French bulldog, Lou. Mister Brian has a wonderful food shop in Monaco called - you guessed it -<a href="http://monte-carlo-daily-photo.blogspot.com/2008/06/theme-day-my-corner-shop.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 51, 51);"> 'Mister Brian.'</span></a> 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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpz0PalezdT5mNRzlkdK5wLcT1hY0gN5laF5And1OMX_aVaiz7LAZ5rkaF0vV4KSPSaPLNWLspSExde-Vz8-GFW-JApmLV6mdDDWALmBlTmYUCTyYIWHB4wpoyCeS4a0OOh6tGdg/s1600-h/P1150326.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 323px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpz0PalezdT5mNRzlkdK5wLcT1hY0gN5laF5And1OMX_aVaiz7LAZ5rkaF0vV4KSPSaPLNWLspSExde-Vz8-GFW-JApmLV6mdDDWALmBlTmYUCTyYIWHB4wpoyCeS4a0OOh6tGdg/s400/P1150326.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305523126693681794" border="0" /></a><br />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 <a href="http://monte-carlo-daily-photo.blogspot.com/2008/11/best-dressed-caterer-in-monaco.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 51, 0);">the two of them wearing plastic bags (!)</span></a> - honestly - click on the link.<br /><br />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...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGOx-EIv438iL2GMjW-hmI570ZvqPzB65YdQ57X5Nb_kbts-TtOXViNhGJaF05Qn1UVVMtMTNMWV81TUbPdbLbNpPhsg9jxSzDyxjJdvxy3pTlo6ec3WVNYX5BClSOPa9RTPQwfg/s1600-h/P1150331.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGOx-EIv438iL2GMjW-hmI570ZvqPzB65YdQ57X5Nb_kbts-TtOXViNhGJaF05Qn1UVVMtMTNMWV81TUbPdbLbNpPhsg9jxSzDyxjJdvxy3pTlo6ec3WVNYX5BClSOPa9RTPQwfg/s320/P1150331.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305521755881634002" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijhmEwB_tla_bWIcUdgknSTwPaZZMGP91BiStgwlW6aLyfxUq25bgoNyCe8P1QtbA7DX9mDnEIupfoUJ1wQsVPL9TjEEHJ4GeCxTRjDrW-CMIRTn5GFS3yKSBmKFgeaHi1hyTXkQ/s1600-h/P1150339.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 640px; height: 480px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijhmEwB_tla_bWIcUdgknSTwPaZZMGP91BiStgwlW6aLyfxUq25bgoNyCe8P1QtbA7DX9mDnEIupfoUJ1wQsVPL9TjEEHJ4GeCxTRjDrW-CMIRTn5GFS3yKSBmKFgeaHi1hyTXkQ/s640/P1150339.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305520613499187554" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjotbUpVBVDajDuRuOn86OghyY5HTc0NqSxy8FFR_zUE67PnTbhgoqdv6UGFZDcqEpWpvouY4YxIsMIai9OvaCDcyrwNv0sKE1TXEKJ-usf-ws9lNzTRxmNWENBrpuoR3PoU8QOeQ/s1600-h/P1150904.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjotbUpVBVDajDuRuOn86OghyY5HTc0NqSxy8FFR_zUE67PnTbhgoqdv6UGFZDcqEpWpvouY4YxIsMIai9OvaCDcyrwNv0sKE1TXEKJ-usf-ws9lNzTRxmNWENBrpuoR3PoU8QOeQ/s640/P1150904.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304786227225244402" border="0" /></a>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-88959092176943188742009-02-04T08:24:00.008+01:002009-02-04T12:11:51.750+01:00'Les Girls'<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbQpG-1JI1UvsNfuTz_Vg0tTlaCvpXmVLbRoagZ3_qJrPWKbg-FJRFx7rQ3G1aHggGEsgxIOwoPK59ab0NUdWp0V5JKB_wsCSwPl3hdI1AMQIk6ihdmbuaK149bpUMVBQ_kmcMew/s1600-h/P1150142.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbQpG-1JI1UvsNfuTz_Vg0tTlaCvpXmVLbRoagZ3_qJrPWKbg-FJRFx7rQ3G1aHggGEsgxIOwoPK59ab0NUdWp0V5JKB_wsCSwPl3hdI1AMQIk6ihdmbuaK149bpUMVBQ_kmcMew/s640/P1150142.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298844221794418594" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho_l_WIUDqlPBS_czW_3GQ87Q1BSpfjWaT-xXeHdFnFSnt1cgfj-IQJ-l76n-GhUjkOlHw737JqxP6hvwvJWNaFHJOua0EFkIkTxb75jnAfrSEW86rjld8XqUzJGpSxMhSt2WquA/s1600-h/P1150134.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 231px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho_l_WIUDqlPBS_czW_3GQ87Q1BSpfjWaT-xXeHdFnFSnt1cgfj-IQJ-l76n-GhUjkOlHw737JqxP6hvwvJWNaFHJOua0EFkIkTxb75jnAfrSEW86rjld8XqUzJGpSxMhSt2WquA/s320/P1150134.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298842960631966562" border="0" /></a>And update on Mama Mia and Mistral - 'Les Girls' as Virginia, their avid supporter from <a href="http://birminghamalabamadailyphoto.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Birmingham, Alabama</span></a> calls them.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-2nqNkI9g51Qx32qfylyIb43q5yErEkY8B8yZKgUYOMgOFfIoFM8wSMyaO6FKISB6nJkPwbNUnvXxuHJOYFGbRgbRrwLJ_Ik1wUcx9040Y6jvjZxMCneYId1kwUKMVvqa01jfEA/s1600-h/P1150116.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-2nqNkI9g51Qx32qfylyIb43q5yErEkY8B8yZKgUYOMgOFfIoFM8wSMyaO6FKISB6nJkPwbNUnvXxuHJOYFGbRgbRrwLJ_Ik1wUcx9040Y6jvjZxMCneYId1kwUKMVvqa01jfEA/s320/P1150116.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298842465509403506" border="0" /></a>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...<br /><br />Yesterday, the day after the operation, she was still poorly but today she is much better, eating well and taking note of life.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg17O5sxbWSrAIvm1RhZGhUSYk-46miZEYflTiL5VzaZgTO8sVloTB1-tH_87QSvW-xm8zXe3XT-SY7UIXe4SzDCwxnvy4qAhMF76-1Q0B2KBJkA1-oBcf4Bj6XCcprw4LxfP1QUA/s1600-h/P1150150.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg17O5sxbWSrAIvm1RhZGhUSYk-46miZEYflTiL5VzaZgTO8sVloTB1-tH_87QSvW-xm8zXe3XT-SY7UIXe4SzDCwxnvy4qAhMF76-1Q0B2KBJkA1-oBcf4Bj6XCcprw4LxfP1QUA/s400/P1150150.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298841179214244370" border="0" /></a>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-14556708636570799182009-01-24T10:30:00.004+01:002009-01-25T11:35:43.134+01:00The Blind Dog<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnrHdPp-FnWBOeFMSUagiYJfnKdWkJ4ok-LhFGn-r8-US238Ln-OpFIZuUVs1f9h49Hk2InfquiP1ubWWa9mPlJn2i0tWzS6xlwDdHKsn1LIrDytBrlCHN5mCYjW4FHe-5-AKn0g/s1600-h/P1090072.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnrHdPp-FnWBOeFMSUagiYJfnKdWkJ4ok-LhFGn-r8-US238Ln-OpFIZuUVs1f9h49Hk2InfquiP1ubWWa9mPlJn2i0tWzS6xlwDdHKsn1LIrDytBrlCHN5mCYjW4FHe-5-AKn0g/s640/P1090072.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294766493642573826" border="0" /></a><br />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).<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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...<br /><br />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.Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-62545128352875209322009-01-16T11:08:00.008+01:002009-01-16T11:36:02.857+01:00Post Op Blues<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEFK59wMtYtBH5pLDzub_qi1gwj7pwlzDQwYELwhTPvkrWGKtmqx2nk-G15FXTnJ7NLw_JC7VLbBq_pcytWFxpShbNmCERAh6_7oui5TS8QjAl6L8D9YKBDT4m42KkXn-NfVe85g/s1600-h/P1140702.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEFK59wMtYtBH5pLDzub_qi1gwj7pwlzDQwYELwhTPvkrWGKtmqx2nk-G15FXTnJ7NLw_JC7VLbBq_pcytWFxpShbNmCERAh6_7oui5TS8QjAl6L8D9YKBDT4m42KkXn-NfVe85g/s640/P1140702.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291833386778498034" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOZb59y7bnLGA33Sn8EcohvrowBCg1xtM8s8CfqAgRGpvsBsfcMlDLwVQrHrmKxTpgiHnIRR4NIx_V_Ojna2HCcD3jmC0ahJ2ImQzKBGlmNX-ua8VHuVl2QyYfV69BOqgTh5vkfQ/s1600-h/P1140697.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOZb59y7bnLGA33Sn8EcohvrowBCg1xtM8s8CfqAgRGpvsBsfcMlDLwVQrHrmKxTpgiHnIRR4NIx_V_Ojna2HCcD3jmC0ahJ2ImQzKBGlmNX-ua8VHuVl2QyYfV69BOqgTh5vkfQ/s320/P1140697.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291833008540256354" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />So far so good at Pension Milou. And thanks again to everyone for their support. <span style="font-style: italic;">En pension</span> 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!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKTzlKnVBfmjlAxBPKkcgAmTU1jccyp8OXcHPGVk5-vbMvCLP3Y9SR8gtQwTpstAh5fVFUIw-AkhW-ARHeC50g7JE5fevhEcwCmB2FI343jRfNtgwmvBuK9Tsi2NfnunVdIPDgrA/s1600-h/P1140693.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKTzlKnVBfmjlAxBPKkcgAmTU1jccyp8OXcHPGVk5-vbMvCLP3Y9SR8gtQwTpstAh5fVFUIw-AkhW-ARHeC50g7JE5fevhEcwCmB2FI343jRfNtgwmvBuK9Tsi2NfnunVdIPDgrA/s400/P1140693.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291832087779041154" border="0" /></a>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-87802119190356258232009-01-15T08:36:00.007+01:002009-01-15T10:00:50.673+01:00Beau's Bandage<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1YdHPaDupAKODYIY-eosSeDdX4FanZAcKUVo7O4kojU5rf36KggTsVxWrU3HEjl8N_VUD-l8O53rL1s6Wi5JWwFXy4Dsx9UYhuc6x3_2zFOIQhn7yov4X3FjiDrW7zKRwIjeAw/s1600-h/P1140482.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1YdHPaDupAKODYIY-eosSeDdX4FanZAcKUVo7O4kojU5rf36KggTsVxWrU3HEjl8N_VUD-l8O53rL1s6Wi5JWwFXy4Dsx9UYhuc6x3_2zFOIQhn7yov4X3FjiDrW7zKRwIjeAw/s640/P1140482.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291422125079841506" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">en pension</span>.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB0ldqXi2LtgBbaRDwopC1A3fqXQlhM3JyCInOZ0d8rVRDEo_trTsZdTUIV_kn5YefVrArpO1IVW9weSH-K8hu97__KZ7qAAE5vo9shVuLFzWdy_53ge05xzPOJu29JF_B0DmrOQ/s1600-h/P1140489.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 640px; height: 480px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB0ldqXi2LtgBbaRDwopC1A3fqXQlhM3JyCInOZ0d8rVRDEo_trTsZdTUIV_kn5YefVrArpO1IVW9weSH-K8hu97__KZ7qAAE5vo9shVuLFzWdy_53ge05xzPOJu29JF_B0DmrOQ/s640/P1140489.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291421656921058466" border="0" /></a>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-29874274568846302872009-01-08T11:31:00.000+01:002009-01-10T17:16:40.614+01:00The Visit to the Vet<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGsloLxUsk3KV6EqXjRuBBNoIRm3uSuSnnya9ws4eOVO51tL5wysxkp-XYgaEmo7ETyfrv8OYIb22znfumszLjSXcsX9xYuW7nrKYHpYm_Xff_Ndh4fmeGZ9YtWzM5d8VWkxkf5g/s1600-h/P1130988.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGsloLxUsk3KV6EqXjRuBBNoIRm3uSuSnnya9ws4eOVO51tL5wysxkp-XYgaEmo7ETyfrv8OYIb22znfumszLjSXcsX9xYuW7nrKYHpYm_Xff_Ndh4fmeGZ9YtWzM5d8VWkxkf5g/s640/P1130988.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288869548000210546" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqnflD9ITgXtt7Cm-at7GznAhKg4jPm1Zi-pKgytTcSa6IlL8SqUiyIRnz2fLf9oKiDatjGrXfMnyFdvi1eqvjeRJLARH6sfKHvQRINhxbYbUayop8F5xV8cuhmL4fdHnVvgjEwA/s1600-h/P1130987.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqnflD9ITgXtt7Cm-at7GznAhKg4jPm1Zi-pKgytTcSa6IlL8SqUiyIRnz2fLf9oKiDatjGrXfMnyFdvi1eqvjeRJLARH6sfKHvQRINhxbYbUayop8F5xV8cuhmL4fdHnVvgjEwA/s320/P1130987.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288869154933113682" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />So the vet checked them both over thoroughly.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Progress. Now to air the car out and try and get rid of the smell. What fun...<br /><br />If you think saving these two dogs is good news, I tell you it's nothing. Please take a look at <a href="http://yankee-in-belgrade.blogspot.com/2009/01/dogs-on-thursday-250-and-counting.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Bibi from Belgrade's post</span></a> today. This woman is a saint! 250 dogs and counting - all looking for a home.Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-47797954631338646752009-01-04T09:47:00.006+01:002009-01-04T10:15:10.429+01:00So where am I supposed to sit, then?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiru00FT6aABFMTL_Ten-7iVQrx6YiKZXSA30OGXVpJ5cD5XxfA-gpp2MfqDLVeqwokp6Igw_fAXCJ8ykH5u_3qfcOG1AeFX37oAqAd9KHldt9IENB9_hekK7BsP_Z_d5X8WlK6Gw/s1600-h/P1140026.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiru00FT6aABFMTL_Ten-7iVQrx6YiKZXSA30OGXVpJ5cD5XxfA-gpp2MfqDLVeqwokp6Igw_fAXCJ8ykH5u_3qfcOG1AeFX37oAqAd9KHldt9IENB9_hekK7BsP_Z_d5X8WlK6Gw/s640/P1140026.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287360026112853122" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiazNKNAU7IjF3f5E9-WEhWnAaHXIU8-5mAJ7b80m88U6VaGYRwGBr2ajJWzBYOF7vTOKxA1NEeaCsMmwAnIm-7rck5XzVH4RBjzuNjPIG0HY-wZNeP6KUhw2R331spXB_EDlu5hA/s1600-h/P1140033.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 138px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiazNKNAU7IjF3f5E9-WEhWnAaHXIU8-5mAJ7b80m88U6VaGYRwGBr2ajJWzBYOF7vTOKxA1NEeaCsMmwAnIm-7rck5XzVH4RBjzuNjPIG0HY-wZNeP6KUhw2R331spXB_EDlu5hA/s200/P1140033.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287358296110768530" border="0" /></a>These two poor dogs are getting somewhat above their station. After the horrors of <a href="http://life-with-dogs.blogspot.com/2008/12/out-of-hell-hole.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">the Hell Hole</span></a>, 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).<br /><br />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? <br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH-ZkkidhZTcEeHCV0eTY4tdmS5Shz0ArHbzbmTo0H3ihH_C5H4VITod4GakYzkz0PkYGplqJOb0f6Tk9TI7U-04G8N0EdyJR-M-lCyrAFNpZk2v3rbaGUa0C48cvb4ZL4-mjGSg/s1600-h/P1140023.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 640px; height: 480px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH-ZkkidhZTcEeHCV0eTY4tdmS5Shz0ArHbzbmTo0H3ihH_C5H4VITod4GakYzkz0PkYGplqJOb0f6Tk9TI7U-04G8N0EdyJR-M-lCyrAFNpZk2v3rbaGUa0C48cvb4ZL4-mjGSg/s640/P1140023.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287357859645284050" border="0" /></a><br />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?<br /><br />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.Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-36023794308892761262009-01-02T12:54:00.006+01:002009-01-02T13:17:09.248+01:00Heads down, Tails up!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnVnXg_rlsLISZMp-o1fD3prihhOjUmkKcSBW7YTlVpalMd7It67nFrQ2B0V8Re5_8cQdodJiFvDvTOJNklrGHjU9fS8hMeQb8MCIVSBQQvJ3avpPjMpo1vCIF5kzWkCcV2xv5Dw/s1600-h/P1130959.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 640px; height: 480px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnVnXg_rlsLISZMp-o1fD3prihhOjUmkKcSBW7YTlVpalMd7It67nFrQ2B0V8Re5_8cQdodJiFvDvTOJNklrGHjU9fS8hMeQb8MCIVSBQQvJ3avpPjMpo1vCIF5kzWkCcV2xv5Dw/s640/P1130959.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286666746402305090" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh0BUVct5ezqTqOS7STNXK9LSasX-eS_5sSPrTVTmDo1dU-Jnir8ZGKaZBSorpn5AhmJWjQGckYQ3H24JESa88tKsNEZpvyqfY-uTWxj_tAe1uOFczX7mdY_JHVyTyHJw4Krs5Jg/s1600-h/P1130963.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh0BUVct5ezqTqOS7STNXK9LSasX-eS_5sSPrTVTmDo1dU-Jnir8ZGKaZBSorpn5AhmJWjQGckYQ3H24JESa88tKsNEZpvyqfY-uTWxj_tAe1uOFczX7mdY_JHVyTyHJw4Krs5Jg/s320/P1130963.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286666051154494434" border="0" /></a>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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfL8EnrsosTq-WMqy03DY_sXyitjxbrXLPorVe1-1Y5kaXlomo0WTGpgMFV9G-xXJYZ34XGkABdAkQYSD6Hoo58KQEUh34GtV8-7IZl1hTIZfN1UBsLdTWmYKsgx7x_SeoaBBt4g/s1600-h/P1130957.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 640px; height: 480px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfL8EnrsosTq-WMqy03DY_sXyitjxbrXLPorVe1-1Y5kaXlomo0WTGpgMFV9G-xXJYZ34XGkABdAkQYSD6Hoo58KQEUh34GtV8-7IZl1hTIZfN1UBsLdTWmYKsgx7x_SeoaBBt4g/s640/P1130957.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286665249845592594" border="0" /></a>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-82734767344306025542009-01-01T10:38:00.008+01:002009-01-01T10:57:53.146+01:00Looking outwards...to their new lives<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_X3CrRHD3Xq6bQoNhqIO8y0XOFu0GaRs0Rr9DmLP_j6x9_IvxWo0nbFArJHKiGYuxR-Ih_AxzdMD8b7YbomTUO5hhUOEkTihgNpzzFlT4Iq5j8_KY_bsXZMKRNJsA12vSsB35Qg/s1600-h/P1130928.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 640px; height: 480px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_X3CrRHD3Xq6bQoNhqIO8y0XOFu0GaRs0Rr9DmLP_j6x9_IvxWo0nbFArJHKiGYuxR-Ih_AxzdMD8b7YbomTUO5hhUOEkTihgNpzzFlT4Iq5j8_KY_bsXZMKRNJsA12vSsB35Qg/s640/P1130928.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286259488423464498" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwztws4IRfw35t8UFrUom-GjI6pWhaWPmENpj84ywtMdp7cPdy8jhyJcDi07Ho1enotf0bJ3wGBGIQGFq9VJKfXJqb1p8Rb0Mg4PTUGQitHIYmYIeez_85KYlXO_3vROOrf_UNEw/s1600-h/P1130935.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwztws4IRfw35t8UFrUom-GjI6pWhaWPmENpj84ywtMdp7cPdy8jhyJcDi07Ho1enotf0bJ3wGBGIQGFq9VJKfXJqb1p8Rb0Mg4PTUGQitHIYmYIeez_85KYlXO_3vROOrf_UNEw/s320/P1130935.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286258887193113906" border="0" /></a>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!)<br /><br />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...<br /><br />And a clean house this morning and already Mia, the worst at walking, is beginning to trot about the garden so much more easily.<br /><br />Today is bath day - two different products for the skin and each to be left on for five minutes. This should be fun!<br /><br />Thanks for all the kind comments, but you know looking after dogs is what I do - so it's easy for me.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjunAYe4HtT7a-RDAQ0ky1C7YiBhhKRjj8ktYWrehGJLmNFYIlqgVULHj59CU8y4OUJVcqZHhfB1XcFoMYFt7D7ottXJY56GgzLbYdoqwB0WH7VdSG5PPgpmjA7bGcBlCoieNBzlQ/s1600-h/P1130939.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjunAYe4HtT7a-RDAQ0ky1C7YiBhhKRjj8ktYWrehGJLmNFYIlqgVULHj59CU8y4OUJVcqZHhfB1XcFoMYFt7D7ottXJY56GgzLbYdoqwB0WH7VdSG5PPgpmjA7bGcBlCoieNBzlQ/s640/P1130939.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286258272556409506" border="0" /></a>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-10875703561179090892008-12-31T10:09:00.009+01:002008-12-31T11:35:22.283+01:00Meet Mistral and Mama Mia<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBd5m-wIXPvhePHDah9n6BNt78bGcL-9l_qC2K2yYnADMjZR5zFNGYENbB3gyqwpzqJpzWl0wgh-pLYg-Np1fb1xMBRgEbQR9oK1SQMz7p_QJLHSuioCQLRY_1-UL9Qmqz8GlfPg/s1600-h/P1130840.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 640px; height: 480px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBd5m-wIXPvhePHDah9n6BNt78bGcL-9l_qC2K2yYnADMjZR5zFNGYENbB3gyqwpzqJpzWl0wgh-pLYg-Np1fb1xMBRgEbQR9oK1SQMz7p_QJLHSuioCQLRY_1-UL9Qmqz8GlfPg/s640/P1130840.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285887715395504722" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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:<br /><br />"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!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga3DqiU4xdEk8c8FxTI2yYkIvOZmuZyw6IpC71toFYnKN6WNBL8QeZImm9cmwWjGd0ZtZQf6qkFURNg9bQifydDrnlX3gWEOaZsEenplGIHC94fos26EKswOX9eYefggy-mmkh6w/s1600-h/P1130894.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga3DqiU4xdEk8c8FxTI2yYkIvOZmuZyw6IpC71toFYnKN6WNBL8QeZImm9cmwWjGd0ZtZQf6qkFURNg9bQifydDrnlX3gWEOaZsEenplGIHC94fos26EKswOX9eYefggy-mmkh6w/s640/P1130894.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285895174330448434" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD98QiP_XycBIWLssNqwIfFXvwLXOdvI9fnwcSkO192GdyxY3QAOW2e9AyeOa4dF-6irSM8pF374CjayJiIPZjcCVWRsB0cvKSX3_D1uP3rO3PILEV1fBE1ND-cc5xfzyIFmNhbA/s1600-h/P1130842.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 640px; height: 480px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD98QiP_XycBIWLssNqwIfFXvwLXOdvI9fnwcSkO192GdyxY3QAOW2e9AyeOa4dF-6irSM8pF374CjayJiIPZjcCVWRsB0cvKSX3_D1uP3rO3PILEV1fBE1ND-cc5xfzyIFmNhbA/s400/P1130842.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285886941446406546" border="0" /></a>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-41876575752894102352008-12-30T13:03:00.006+01:002008-12-31T09:28:36.993+01:00Out of the Hell Hole<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhOrc3dpkrZ4MxQzNG7LoOAILm7Pg3ZTVHstkr7o_wTh8NQ5fKv1g_YalX3bZ8T1_ZOg0y2OYReEDDDan089l_uMUx0EvdmVQVZBCfFYlq4ikmE8B3nLLYUFtwAqMS9sQsFk5abw/s1600-h/BASSET+ARIEGEOIS++et+bleu+Gascogne+Agde+26.12.08.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 640px; height: 480px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhOrc3dpkrZ4MxQzNG7LoOAILm7Pg3ZTVHstkr7o_wTh8NQ5fKv1g_YalX3bZ8T1_ZOg0y2OYReEDDDan089l_uMUx0EvdmVQVZBCfFYlq4ikmE8B3nLLYUFtwAqMS9sQsFk5abw/s640/BASSET+ARIEGEOIS++et+bleu+Gascogne+Agde+26.12.08.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285488658052781410" border="0" /></a><br />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)<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Let me explain how it is they are coming to live, for the rest of their lives, at Pension Milou.<br /><br />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 <a href="http://pagesperso-orange.fr/ulrich.koehler/"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">(Comite de Soutien a la Cause Animale)</span></a> in this part of south -western France. She'd been told to write to me by another organisation, <a href="http://www.sanscollierprovence.org/"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Sans Collier Provence</span></a>, who knew I already had a rescue hound.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />So when the email arrived, with photos of these poor dogs, I had to do something. Not just for them but for me.<br /><br />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. <span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibPiu4v5keyN6msdelckdLVoJJOCg6slMG7eOdaKO3kwUOPlumnyNtwG4Wsv87Tq-I4jobaZJG5hgzWljUAQJh4r8oyGWFeo-VG3RnjLRUt-q7mXGvZsXtlGUppf82vMqizBtvEQ/s1600-h/DSC00390.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 640px; height: 480px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibPiu4v5keyN6msdelckdLVoJJOCg6slMG7eOdaKO3kwUOPlumnyNtwG4Wsv87Tq-I4jobaZJG5hgzWljUAQJh4r8oyGWFeo-VG3RnjLRUt-q7mXGvZsXtlGUppf82vMqizBtvEQ/s640/DSC00390.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285308897031189714" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgaDSqHhooRzL0XP6s2MevTJTOHP0JpDsz4f00Kau5F3EWjbCimwr16z2A6m-xAadlgXwxwfVXLrFoAc_vYi3yZvgL-N-I2pjyKxBecDVQKSKzBsZSjc22I28PxcvYJpJ9ZttU4w/s1600-h/DSC00391.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgaDSqHhooRzL0XP6s2MevTJTOHP0JpDsz4f00Kau5F3EWjbCimwr16z2A6m-xAadlgXwxwfVXLrFoAc_vYi3yZvgL-N-I2pjyKxBecDVQKSKzBsZSjc22I28PxcvYJpJ9ZttU4w/s640/DSC00391.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285306493444935266" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />The brown and white hound is an <a href="http://http//www.dog-dog-dog.com/ariegeois-47-_fr.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Ariégeois</span></a> <a href="http://www.dog-dog-dog.com/ariegeois-47-_fr.html"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"></span></a>and is called Maya. The black one is called Miss and I'm told is a <a href="http://bassetbleudegascogne.free.fr/historique.htm"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Basset Bleu de Gascogne</span></a> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Hôtel de Paris </span>in Monte Carlo for these poor dogs.Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-84944366394074925252008-08-27T07:35:00.011+02:002008-08-27T12:35:29.049+02:00Nice-Matin's article<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXfLWT8cWMRkehJrND5xfNdOX3LAl5sxums1_xxGKKmbytlTvFm4qKWzm64-iQ3Hnrvkj4eM9_dQIXyKXhz6vGZrH4j2959gl0eMdBpEisA_kuDc1rVzoiWafRQWM-4-Z8dtd7YQ/s1600-h/nm_143989_px_501__w_nicematin_.jpg"><img alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXfLWT8cWMRkehJrND5xfNdOX3LAl5sxums1_xxGKKmbytlTvFm4qKWzm64-iQ3Hnrvkj4eM9_dQIXyKXhz6vGZrH4j2959gl0eMdBpEisA_kuDc1rVzoiWafRQWM-4-Z8dtd7YQ/s640/nm_143989_px_501__w_nicematin_.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Bienvenue!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />L'article cite un des mes blogs dont le lien correct est: <a href="http://menton-daily-photo.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Menton Daily Photo</span></a>. 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.<span style="font-family:monospace;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;">-----------------------<br /></div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /></span>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.<br /><br />There is also a <a href="http://monte-carlo-daily-photo.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Monte Carlo Daily Photo</span></a> blog if you live in Monaco and<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><a href="http://riviera-dogs.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Riviera Dogs.</span></a><br /><br />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!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.menton.maville.com/-Menton%C2%A0-La-cite-du-citron-suscite-l-enthousiasme-des-bloggeurs-/re/actudet/actu_loc-693139------_actu.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">Article in Nice-Matin</span></a> - click on the link.<br /></div></div> </div>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-32641433530641953602008-04-14T12:29:00.009+02:002008-12-30T12:39:59.826+01:00The Dog who loved Carrots<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnceNVtZ6zoXblMR5RhYUEPHpcWQSI0YmD3dFvI0yp7cQq4nZzIGE74Ly-A4Xv-QsS-CJggVsqEoMJzX457vzRnwmnopojUHXb3P-dJ94wpd25ChDwzS4r2_IKI9P4c1Nnw6NDkg/s1600-h/P1010903.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnceNVtZ6zoXblMR5RhYUEPHpcWQSI0YmD3dFvI0yp7cQq4nZzIGE74Ly-A4Xv-QsS-CJggVsqEoMJzX457vzRnwmnopojUHXb3P-dJ94wpd25ChDwzS4r2_IKI9P4c1Nnw6NDkg/s640/P1010903.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div></div>Taco, a Welsh terrier mix, was a regular client at Pension Milou and proudly shared his birthday, March 14<sup>th</sup>, with Prince Albert of Monaco.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Prince Albert celebrated his 50<sup>th</sup> this year but Taco missed the day by three months - on December the 7<sup>th</sup>, three months short of his 17<sup>th</sup> birthday, off he went to doggy heaven.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span><br /><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p>Taco was Xavier and Sheila’s first dog, although Sheila had had childhood dogs. When Taco died they were devastated.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>For Xavier, Taco was the dog of his life and he’d never have another one. Sheila thought – perhaps, one day?<br /><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The pups’ photographs were displayed and of course, they were adorable.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Xavier, though, wasn’t interested but he did take a look.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Suddenly he said, ‘Look, these puppies were born the day Taco died.’ </p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP3raTJn-7N-gq8PoTz-LCIrqmYEM5Ne9MDomU8EUYePDyJ6wK5ozsudbw1TBUTZY96kJDSZShp1WAkwn9TqPCslAdPBlc8L7vh-2H1GkB-dMy7pXwxOiTEF9vbtOKMnuuyrOiww/s1600-h/P1010993.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP3raTJn-7N-gq8PoTz-LCIrqmYEM5Ne9MDomU8EUYePDyJ6wK5ozsudbw1TBUTZY96kJDSZShp1WAkwn9TqPCslAdPBlc8L7vh-2H1GkB-dMy7pXwxOiTEF9vbtOKMnuuyrOiww/s640/P1010993.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" align="center">Gucci & Peggy, the pug, at Pension Milou</p>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?’<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.’<span style="font-size:0;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">So, the decision was made. Taco was re-incarnated! They would get a puppy.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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. </p>Once there, they booked into a hotel for the night and then drove to the farm to see the puppies.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>They’d make their choice that evening and then pick up their new puppy next morning.<br /><p class="MsoNormal">All the puppies were in pens. There were Welsh Terriers, Airedales and Jack Russell terriers.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>One instantly came running to Sheila – jumped on her lap and starting licking her face. The other puppy was more aloof. </p>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.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpyspF9b5HuXUQd0x7TXO9iVYkTgd1FEeupYa7Z1NsxAkm7LUaEGH80Of0tc9o336qqnUJ-A9HfwW3txNDs2fSVIrOae1KKLwGEPHiTX9tacHSInQC49_iQlbtTIFRm1cYI5Jtmw/s1600-h/P1010999.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpyspF9b5HuXUQd0x7TXO9iVYkTgd1FEeupYa7Z1NsxAkm7LUaEGH80Of0tc9o336qqnUJ-A9HfwW3txNDs2fSVIrOae1KKLwGEPHiTX9tacHSInQC49_iQlbtTIFRm1cYI5Jtmw/s640/P1010999.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"></p>Back at the hotel after a nice dinner, doubts set in.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Had they chosen the right puppy?<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Surely the puppy who’d licked Sheila’s face was Taco saying, ‘I’m back, I’m back – choose me!’<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She didn’t sleep all night.<br /><p class="MsoNormal">Next morning, they collected their puppy, who’d been bathed and was ready for the long journey.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<br /><p class="MsoNormal">And what happened? Gucci ate it immediately.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p>Taco/Gucci was home.<br /><br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBzqbSzmgOANWQxbpkxPRjsatpNBnVFy-06yv7jP3f1s_T3bVKSSF3tK-gtYRkVdD6F_1cryk6jUjWLiDUnk3By6Y_Bj7FD00KHplgdaiy0DzRhZnIjy9hCn5AFiZrRRjKDOn2Rw/s1600-h/taco.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBzqbSzmgOANWQxbpkxPRjsatpNBnVFy-06yv7jP3f1s_T3bVKSSF3tK-gtYRkVdD6F_1cryk6jUjWLiDUnk3By6Y_Bj7FD00KHplgdaiy0DzRhZnIjy9hCn5AFiZrRRjKDOn2Rw/s640/taco.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">Taco<br /></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"> </div>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-71731433056682080232008-02-14T14:00:00.010+01:002008-12-30T12:42:11.172+01:00'Pearl Drift'<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEt3b2v7iPI-q9r19HBx-Vy-DY14AMn2cBPWKD3bY4Ej6jVt0wMJhfmFw4uova9tFohdYL56-0lkpkgniNcc0mx-Zbf44hcTec_jCZIjuAjm0YinKYp9a3FM9DL2sKahlQ5kp2fw/s1600-h/2003_0517_044752AA.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEt3b2v7iPI-q9r19HBx-Vy-DY14AMn2cBPWKD3bY4Ej6jVt0wMJhfmFw4uova9tFohdYL56-0lkpkgniNcc0mx-Zbf44hcTec_jCZIjuAjm0YinKYp9a3FM9DL2sKahlQ5kp2fw/s640/2003_0517_044752AA.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Milou & his friend, Tallulah, the fox terrier</span><br /></div><br />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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<br /><p class="MsoNormal">It’s nearly three years since Milou was put to sleep.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>But it must be done properly.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Read this and remember.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Don’t go thru what I did and more to the point, what Milou did.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Even when we are desperately upset, we have to take responsibility.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">I’d taken him down to the vet that morning following a dreadful night.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>So I was prepared for what had to happen and had put several small biscuits in my handbag.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>[I’ve always fed my dogs their favourite treat when it’s time for the needle to go in.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.]<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>If in doubt, look in your dog’s eyes. He’ll often tell you.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" align="center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQZsWe4UbC87Fy6cdOrOz0k4iwiX1q4vGP2dVnV-w8kg2ulVJEUgWp0lhw_Gfp7PTXUibUGgd25_3TOt7qMmaI9LajJmU11j8d-EuLFZCRo62aE7SqtlJjmzqhkXpn0xI90D-7-A/s1600-h/Jilly+%26+Milou+on+hills+above+Gorbio.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166822772688893986" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQZsWe4UbC87Fy6cdOrOz0k4iwiX1q4vGP2dVnV-w8kg2ulVJEUgWp0lhw_Gfp7PTXUibUGgd25_3TOt7qMmaI9LajJmU11j8d-EuLFZCRo62aE7SqtlJjmzqhkXpn0xI90D-7-A/s640/Jilly+%26+Milou+on+hills+above+Gorbio.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Hiking on the hills above Gorbio</span> </p><p class="MsoNormal">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. </p><p class="MsoNormal">The decision was made. ‘Put him on the table, Jilly,’ my vet said.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I lifted him up, cuddling him, crying.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2OjoYTSfo2TQZdjYbCwthyTyc2NB0bmpxvKuAkxahsd42nj3CrXZFQP9NZYybJzEBw-MDYKnL10Nnp7RksYgr105ytFp_BeOJZhpjxMCdoI_eslxewrzJQCq-Mqys0y8GgCBwbw/s1600-h/2004_1218_011230AA.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2OjoYTSfo2TQZdjYbCwthyTyc2NB0bmpxvKuAkxahsd42nj3CrXZFQP9NZYybJzEBw-MDYKnL10Nnp7RksYgr105ytFp_BeOJZhpjxMCdoI_eslxewrzJQCq-Mqys0y8GgCBwbw/s640/2004_1218_011230AA.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" align="left"></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" align="left"></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" align="left"></div><br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: left;">So he was digging his nose into my bag, trying to get at the treats.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>How can you put a dog to sleep who is healthy enough to want a biscuit? And now, he was breathing quite well too.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></div>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.<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I gave Milou half a biscuit, which disappeared in a trice. Then another half.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Then another half.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>‘It doesn’t seem right that he should be eating when he dies,’ she said.</p>Of course, I should have insisted but I was totally choked up.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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?<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>‘Hold him tighter,’ she said.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.’<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>And then I thought – all in a split second of course - ‘But he’s got to go and I’m just being stupid.’<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>And all the time, sobbing, sobbing.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But I couldn’t forget the fear in his eyes.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Then later, given him sedatives before taking him back to the vet when he’d have been too sleepy to know anything.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I can’t forgive myself for not stopping the fiasco. He deserved better, my kind, beautiful Milou.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p>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.’<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She was plainly amazed that two days later I was still so utterly distressed.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Good God in heaven!<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It wasn’t right though; it wasn’t the way it should have happened.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I don’t think she’ll put another dog or owner through a death like that in a hurry. At least I hope not.<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">She sent me a note of apology a week or so later. Too late - too late.</p>Obviously, she didn’t intend for this to happen - any more than I did.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She should though, with her experience, have done it properly. I’m not sure I’ve forgiven her but the anger has gone.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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. </p>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">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.<br /></p><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE_EPvVe7-k5KmNArSxhnc8-ij07efkDc3HqvP9nLrzVTco2xlVBFpfAqt1Xhyfpx98Ahka2I5y3PkKx3uL-fOj_nfnSTatbhG-xWee30FQgZGxnboFEeynug4jKe8ca4YxBYCRA/s1600-h/IMG_2411.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE_EPvVe7-k5KmNArSxhnc8-ij07efkDc3HqvP9nLrzVTco2xlVBFpfAqt1Xhyfpx98Ahka2I5y3PkKx3uL-fOj_nfnSTatbhG-xWee30FQgZGxnboFEeynug4jKe8ca4YxBYCRA/s640/IMG_2411.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div></div><br /><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Pearl Drift, Milou's rose - plus his, now, very weathered tennis ball</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxAuHNfeIrAmH8qNJxUdA1j7LfSYusng7rWBVx19_el_O1sQhyphenhyphenWj1U0DLE9UkjcuO_5iJUIHdzoNU9BENSM7SJE5SWA98dX3cj209c6I4ccMtp5lNpuFHlsrTuGZKjt-GL18l4jA/s1600-h/IMG_2413.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxAuHNfeIrAmH8qNJxUdA1j7LfSYusng7rWBVx19_el_O1sQhyphenhyphenWj1U0DLE9UkjcuO_5iJUIHdzoNU9BENSM7SJE5SWA98dX3cj209c6I4ccMtp5lNpuFHlsrTuGZKjt-GL18l4jA/s640/IMG_2413.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-63875606930121674792007-12-28T14:46:00.000+01:002007-12-28T15:46:05.932+01:00Breakthrough!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZuI66EjQnzdaAa2qXj5bLGBvTQQvtSX8WP9ohraPWanjo2lq_oTV5cp2lhxOHkMPdhDsLFXjxZ35amDRSu6PiOF4J5btCD9GKFZrSu9C1nbqJU6DoOJTr2dZ4fiq6C2-tShgASQ/s1600-h/IMG_9802.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZuI66EjQnzdaAa2qXj5bLGBvTQQvtSX8WP9ohraPWanjo2lq_oTV5cp2lhxOHkMPdhDsLFXjxZ35amDRSu6PiOF4J5btCD9GKFZrSu9C1nbqJU6DoOJTr2dZ4fiq6C2-tShgASQ/s400/IMG_9802.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149023509830451154" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><div style="text-align: left;"> <br />One of the many joys of owning <a href="http://www.pensionmilou.com/english/milou_page.html"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"></span></a>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.<br /><br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXauuP1NNc25WEbofzKiBvhYjVWxZLRN7pAV9abKLJ0sYHe9YHYCeVeW_wuraFZkyZseWuGb2NbHKKWLCQlUnMQbvXbTxzuLuTK3iX0Ks8ZfUOtb1G6slzTN1T3O3ovjRcFocyfg/s1600-h/IMG_9688.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXauuP1NNc25WEbofzKiBvhYjVWxZLRN7pAV9abKLJ0sYHe9YHYCeVeW_wuraFZkyZseWuGb2NbHKKWLCQlUnMQbvXbTxzuLuTK3iX0Ks8ZfUOtb1G6slzTN1T3O3ovjRcFocyfg/s400/IMG_9688.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149024892809920482" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br /> 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.'</div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWtMsZkXScWRpZ1-KxHbpsJyiTTHssUGaeQbrUTF205kfpSAf0Yn8ptowGiKVEIJqcmQkCPCVjql6wkey_V92zl9SaeMS0NAzs_nAWXElml3zAygiCCZJGo1Vv7B11cD8lUMKrww/s1600-h/IMG_9707.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWtMsZkXScWRpZ1-KxHbpsJyiTTHssUGaeQbrUTF205kfpSAf0Yn8ptowGiKVEIJqcmQkCPCVjql6wkey_V92zl9SaeMS0NAzs_nAWXElml3zAygiCCZJGo1Vv7B11cD8lUMKrww/s400/IMG_9707.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />And then suddenly things changed. Some of you know I have several photo blogs. One of them is <a href="http://menton-daily-photo.blogspot.com"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Menton Daily Photo </span></a>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.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9V_iczdac95jWgugj80C4l_Nkjt5MN5FJFMjuyAumhe2Xm1R95VntnQMuwA6TrxM_H-zunDKZfiEWudahbzj37DmbO7USKj_4HWi4OCu2t5uzTYM1Ijuxo0kbP0WKTOxCKk1Big/s1600-h/IMG_9105.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9V_iczdac95jWgugj80C4l_Nkjt5MN5FJFMjuyAumhe2Xm1R95VntnQMuwA6TrxM_H-zunDKZfiEWudahbzj37DmbO7USKj_4HWi4OCu2t5uzTYM1Ijuxo0kbP0WKTOxCKk1Big/s400/IMG_9105.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">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.</div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirRNHqcUg2QK91an_zEXXdEZO7FwBDuqXC0h-x0-Uv2MUBuC5xERLJjX5YKSRDrpd9vJAyZl7GgMYc-xlSt1HwOVFvIBhcL700vSrBEiDQVOjodkh8zbbZQWWrnqLLc0BT6NNMFg/s1600-h/IMG_9359.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirRNHqcUg2QK91an_zEXXdEZO7FwBDuqXC0h-x0-Uv2MUBuC5xERLJjX5YKSRDrpd9vJAyZl7GgMYc-xlSt1HwOVFvIBhcL700vSrBEiDQVOjodkh8zbbZQWWrnqLLc0BT6NNMFg/s400/IMG_9359.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">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?</div><br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtxRKHifgEhe_4aHkneolM70HnhxLKxxP3gNU2IHDob0_6onwUuZlJo1KhONDT8fYTdB7LnE8tBiyVEAvR33-goGhyI81QyhcfXlzeuT5a_CRrwK9QXqsTLhcnstQ1iBCyicyR_Q/s1600-h/IMG_9094.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtxRKHifgEhe_4aHkneolM70HnhxLKxxP3gNU2IHDob0_6onwUuZlJo1KhONDT8fYTdB7LnE8tBiyVEAvR33-goGhyI81QyhcfXlzeuT5a_CRrwK9QXqsTLhcnstQ1iBCyicyR_Q/s400/IMG_9094.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div> <div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"> </div> <div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"> </div> </div> </div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"> </div> </div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> 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.<br /></div><br />I must go - from the terrace I see the sun shining over the sea - and Beau wants a walk. So do I.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0fNLAj5zPTS3LXd4KoITzF4NfRcmK2uzcwLP5ZVDvLu-fjl5pahDFs7WSYlYL6mgoyKgQH536SQIIGN10VOuhvkDwqKfV8S8I2DvUiBjlBNv2nXvEmNUz_A7BuFHMFWGyyWUI_w/s1600-h/BeauHeadinshoulders_bg.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0fNLAj5zPTS3LXd4KoITzF4NfRcmK2uzcwLP5ZVDvLu-fjl5pahDFs7WSYlYL6mgoyKgQH536SQIIGN10VOuhvkDwqKfV8S8I2DvUiBjlBNv2nXvEmNUz_A7BuFHMFWGyyWUI_w/s400/BeauHeadinshoulders_bg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149022461858430914" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">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 <a href="http://www.petdogportraits.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Pet Portraits | Katie Lancaster. </span></a><br /></div> </div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"> </div>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-18163674896666486552007-11-16T13:42:00.000+01:002007-11-17T13:49:03.713+01:00The Caves of Balzi Rossi<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvI80Ocg8tFjcoF11XR-9-fvAs4rAljUcopcGYnOATpcMaPWnZjvUV6Z45ySeCvFqiqzaXhHnAF3NaSEWoS28uaXHpfTOMSmC2ksTehMz8tBzPdeWPhER6f6b6k9Ot1_SLpSmPtQ/s1600-h/IMG_8355.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvI80Ocg8tFjcoF11XR-9-fvAs4rAljUcopcGYnOATpcMaPWnZjvUV6Z45ySeCvFqiqzaXhHnAF3NaSEWoS28uaXHpfTOMSmC2ksTehMz8tBzPdeWPhER6f6b6k9Ot1_SLpSmPtQ/s400/IMG_8355.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133521901819582002" border="0" /></a><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;">Balzi Rossi beach<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I blame the bridges. Some of you know I post a photograph every day on <a href="http://menton-daily-photo.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Menton Daily Photo</span></a> and also <a href="http://monte-carlo-daily-photo.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Monte Carlo Daily Photo</span></a>. 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />'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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Museo Prehistorico dei Balzi Rossi. </span>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.<br /><br /></div></div><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUPaqE9khJhTo0BZ5tYKpGIOdiAzhTcC-W9YeFc9FhQ0POYZuV68X_FKVIjEnEeQ1A31pSaqhxBjWD6UoB62nLE2nWUWgTWDlmJF1ZZp22FeUqGe8h4SLM3BkLfJS5TP1T3eiew/s1600-h/IMG_8428.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUPaqE9khJhTo0BZ5tYKpGIOdiAzhTcC-W9YeFc9FhQ0POYZuV68X_FKVIjEnEeQ1A31pSaqhxBjWD6UoB62nLE2nWUWgTWDlmJF1ZZp22FeUqGe8h4SLM3BkLfJS5TP1T3eiew/s400/IMG_8428.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133523529612187202" border="0" /></a></p>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.<br /><br />So, I'm two euros richer. The lady gives me a <span style="font-style: italic;">gratuito</span> 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.'<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />I continue writing for a while - if you are interested in more information and more photographs, please visit <a href="http://menton-daily-photo.blogspot.com/search/label/Villages%20near%20to%20Menton%3A%20Grimaldi%20-%20Italy"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">THIS LINK</span></a> and scroll down to read the various entries.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />'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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ITyhaoYEVm1mrqtcR4ml8EZCku3u2IoYgN91Gqo134vLyAUP4anw4yeFJVFaXOAOaNzs4ivmAsV2aD9k0fn2QN-aa1I5gnc9UXC4Utgz_hWdYdei1FpdprBQFZJFCrIVFT9q1w/s1600-h/IMG_8380.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ITyhaoYEVm1mrqtcR4ml8EZCku3u2IoYgN91Gqo134vLyAUP4anw4yeFJVFaXOAOaNzs4ivmAsV2aD9k0fn2QN-aa1I5gnc9UXC4Utgz_hWdYdei1FpdprBQFZJFCrIVFT9q1w/s400/IMG_8380.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133524861052048978" border="0" /></a><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Pyren</span>é<span style="font-style: italic;">es </span>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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Grotta del Caviglioni</span> where elephant and rhinoceros fossils were discovered. I walk further - more steps and a longer sandy path and come to <span style="font-style: italic;">Grotta di Florestano</span>. 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhklBuDiOPNs-SVtedjMpJAIKviB5iQKsOMUjeHN6XFkF1wjUX0X7kTIF2qRF3y6iVSljg7yINVO5IOMIwMxs9Z35wRSKFu0zTTPtf2RTYJXjIszCi39cTExTC1bbeOI8f8Muayiw/s1600-h/IMG_8384.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhklBuDiOPNs-SVtedjMpJAIKviB5iQKsOMUjeHN6XFkF1wjUX0X7kTIF2qRF3y6iVSljg7yINVO5IOMIwMxs9Z35wRSKFu0zTTPtf2RTYJXjIszCi39cTExTC1bbeOI8f8Muayiw/s400/IMG_8384.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5133429461238470114" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: center;">The entrance to Florestano's cave<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">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.<br /><br />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. <span style="font-style: italic;">Plus ça change</span>. The most famous is the Grimaldi Venus, fashioned in serpentine and which depicts a pregnant woman.<br /><br />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.<br /></div></div>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-18873451380293937432007-07-30T13:01:00.000+02:002007-07-31T07:37:07.579+02:00Losing the plot<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNtrmIf83TQVY-iVG1ATSwun_7_NxrVn44lHEakXjeRe_mARfZK-3Mv0scyytPoSrd4OwHXbN0m68f3Cf8kVqb8p7qDMDjAn09v4tpeHs2kt4S5Le2Kif4n-zE_weTdz3dwVs_Xg/s1600-h/IMG_4952.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092961547006718578" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNtrmIf83TQVY-iVG1ATSwun_7_NxrVn44lHEakXjeRe_mARfZK-3Mv0scyytPoSrd4OwHXbN0m68f3Cf8kVqb8p7qDMDjAn09v4tpeHs2kt4S5Le2Kif4n-zE_weTdz3dwVs_Xg/s400/IMG_4952.jpg" border="0" /></a>Lucky, the American cocker spaniel<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">‘This is the Monte Carlo Bay Hotel. Am I speaking to Madame Bennett?’ the voice asked - in French. <div style="text-align: left;"></div><span lang="FR"><br />‘<em>Oui, c’est moi</em>,’ I replied. </span>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.<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal">‘Madame, we have a client who has arrived today with a rabbit. Do you take rabbits?’<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">‘A rabbit?’ I say, stupidly. Perhaps I misheard. I think wildly – lapin? <em>Lapin</em> IS French for rabbit? Yes, I heard right the first time.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="FR">‘<em>Oui, un lapin, Madame</em>.’<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></span>I wanted her to laugh, but she didn’t.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">‘I don’t look after rabbits,’ I say. ‘I look after dogs. I think the dogs might eat a rabbit.’<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The mind boggles. Who would take a rabbit to such a grand hotel?<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" align="center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrOSTyEeK6VF8q_X-aLuGIgkxb49ato92Re4O2Jnfvasdcdz91tVcq5oB_Xn-O7_SwtKbM-WA3vn472TIRrpNcq4I93MSOD8LsoOfxFsswUd2z1C77HPaZ8DcVxdd0yfUvnikbPg/s1600-h/IMG_1664.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5092964239951213186" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrOSTyEeK6VF8q_X-aLuGIgkxb49ato92Re4O2Jnfvasdcdz91tVcq5oB_Xn-O7_SwtKbM-WA3vn472TIRrpNcq4I93MSOD8LsoOfxFsswUd2z1C77HPaZ8DcVxdd0yfUvnikbPg/s400/IMG_1664.jpg" border="0" /></a> Monte Carlo Bay Hotel & Resort<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">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 <em>Place du Casino</em>. The rich are different. And so are their dogs.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFQIfajC1H9MgE-5P8wnb_SkwkTpRqjL_5AjMCgtnNe5H_7B08SL7ErRVZE2YsJEZ_g5fRqWl7_YL_QkcWkqUkgldOIcV8Tp19JH5XSnpo0aD4ocDR0nUikgwP_WbnnWWCnf9kJw/s1600-h/IMG_4925.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFQIfajC1H9MgE-5P8wnb_SkwkTpRqjL_5AjMCgtnNe5H_7B08SL7ErRVZE2YsJEZ_g5fRqWl7_YL_QkcWkqUkgldOIcV8Tp19JH5XSnpo0aD4ocDR0nUikgwP_WbnnWWCnf9kJw/s400/IMG_4925.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:0;"></span> Maybe there's a fig in a flowerpot?<br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She’s like a kid, madly in love, and it’s good to see, but rather her than me.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Would I like a blender? How about a television?<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Books are impossible for me to give away so I sure don’t need ninety more.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit4Sr-FxQzgLKEChwjB4LX6fUvg9v4TgneikfR4f4K6as9arlW1efZ4MFJuGFhjxQ8-1TxyZSGwpcO7yZ75mHj2v661Z-n5yExy8GiIAY0gbZ8V4OrMmHJnNMxX0N4Gzjj6b3EiA/s1600-h/IMG_4936.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit4Sr-FxQzgLKEChwjB4LX6fUvg9v4TgneikfR4f4K6as9arlW1efZ4MFJuGFhjxQ8-1TxyZSGwpcO7yZ75mHj2v661Z-n5yExy8GiIAY0gbZ8V4OrMmHJnNMxX0N4Gzjj6b3EiA/s400/IMG_4936.jpg" border="0" /></a> </p><div style="text-align: center;">Lucky munches her fig, whilst Lou looks on<br /></div><p class="MsoNormal">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…<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I’ve a client who brings me magazines. I never buy magazines.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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?<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">My new friend, Isabella had written me:<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">…if you still have unfulfilled dreams (places to go, things to do) - don't postpone your retirement. To quote Oscar Wilde: <em>Work is the refuge of people who h</em><em>ave nothing better to do.</em></p>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.<br /><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<br /></p></div></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhthy-JNsq_6WE12jidOorW5rQvuWO7fG4CzSzRUvpvPQ-P4gbpaEzYWsiWuyJpblWCzt7nuHB4cYW87rxzPT7xztx09ZrQAaSXMoIw6f5EzrHyzPHOu-O0XMxZFRYGfGCp2dq79w/s1600-h/IMG_4927.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhthy-JNsq_6WE12jidOorW5rQvuWO7fG4CzSzRUvpvPQ-P4gbpaEzYWsiWuyJpblWCzt7nuHB4cYW87rxzPT7xztx09ZrQAaSXMoIw6f5EzrHyzPHOu-O0XMxZFRYGfGCp2dq79w/s400/IMG_4927.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;">Tango - just cos she's cute<br /></div></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-64500346253690010422007-06-07T15:39:00.000+02:002007-06-12T10:49:06.136+02:00Plus ça change…<div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeUUudbI2WPx_Zr1ggyrz6_0KSkCPt-UgHngErxSuv8VfA1B98-2kEkfQF-gzm7I7pmFFVWJuDEZY__yyJWsA5-bwo8fjCx76uZxKawr0dxX9HWo-jQxfvKiLgtkINoxVRg_Pd1w/s1600-h/IMG_2869.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeUUudbI2WPx_Zr1ggyrz6_0KSkCPt-UgHngErxSuv8VfA1B98-2kEkfQF-gzm7I7pmFFVWJuDEZY__yyJWsA5-bwo8fjCx76uZxKawr0dxX9HWo-jQxfvKiLgtkINoxVRg_Pd1w/s400/IMG_2869.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span lang="FR">Rosie, the bearded collie</span><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">It seemed like a good idea at the time.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I shouldn’t complain.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’m lucky enough to live in a beautiful place and I love dogs but I’m getting older.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I’m still recommending Arden Grange dog food – I so believe in it.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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, <span style="font-style: italic;">Monsieur Sarkozy</span>, may try and make life easier for small businesses, <span style="font-style: italic;">micro-enterprises </span>like mine, but hey, I’m not holding my breath and I’m not prepared to wait.</p><br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR0rPqlEu_Qkx6M0nfqpeHXy7ahxVEVJrd4OjVBVgaXkS5GkfvOG97YEW_8JxnQpIavSoWR3M8vPl-hFZz2GgoTUkGKEZ6N5Z0T_or7L4RgETQN0yqvjVPS7zNL-4kpW_2xkZjuA/s1600-h/IMG_2873.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR0rPqlEu_Qkx6M0nfqpeHXy7ahxVEVJrd4OjVBVgaXkS5GkfvOG97YEW_8JxnQpIavSoWR3M8vPl-hFZz2GgoTUkGKEZ6N5Z0T_or7L4RgETQN0yqvjVPS7zNL-4kpW_2xkZjuA/s400/IMG_2873.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><o:p></o:p>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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Vosges</span>, northeastern France.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I collected it the day after I got back. [I’ll write about the show in the next posting.] <div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I haven’t investigated the other six yet. What’s wrong with reaching across and turning the knob on the radio itself?<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It took me an hour to find out how to open the cap to fill the car with diesel.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Christophe,</span> 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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Huh!<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s in French, natch.<br /><p></p><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I loved it till I got home, that is.<br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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!<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I was cross. Very cross.<br /><br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6qmmvHM-vSkFEB0OjV3UrXbedX59dIg2yRa-uaa-lVzh9SDO5hoRnR1Ux_jrkp2uwM1iTl4ktjx1CNsn29sEp7IPnuxsumfIKcvY8abSb6YXlB9KycNtkYiGu2AuxdU3AcCOjNw/s1600-h/IMG_2870.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6qmmvHM-vSkFEB0OjV3UrXbedX59dIg2yRa-uaa-lVzh9SDO5hoRnR1Ux_jrkp2uwM1iTl4ktjx1CNsn29sEp7IPnuxsumfIKcvY8abSb6YXlB9KycNtkYiGu2AuxdU3AcCOjNw/s400/IMG_2870.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div>Back to the Volkswagen Garage and the dishy <span style="font-style: italic;">Christophe</span>. I wanted him to see the problem.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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, ‘ <span style="font-style: italic;">C’est comme ça.’</span> Very French, Christophe, but that won’t do.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He offered to get the technicians to look at it but insisted, ‘that’s how it is.’ The French love saying: <span style="font-style: italic;">c’est comme ça.</span><span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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!<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.’<br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-style: italic;">Christophe</span> 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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.’<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Since that day, speaking to friends, I know other automatics do indeed hold on hills.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>So put that in <i>votre pipe</i> and smoke it, Monsieur Manager of Volkswagen Motors, Menton.<br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div>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?<br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div>On the way home I had to stop at the <i>pharmacie</i> 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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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?<span style="font-size:0;"> </span><br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.’<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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%.<br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div>So now we know. I waded thru the manual and there it was on page 149 - …’<span style="font-style: italic;">un déclivité d’au</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">moins 5%.</span>’ 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. <span style="font-style: italic;">Christophe</span> really should have told me this except I honestly don’t think he’d thought about it or even knew.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>See how I trust car salesmen.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<br /><p></p>I persevered. Now I can do a hill start like a pro. The car positively purrs as it gently takes off.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div>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.<br /><p></p><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div>So, here I am with a posh new car, a bashed front fender and no dog food to lug about.<br /><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"></div>Life goes on. <span style="font-style: italic;" lang="FR">Plus ça change…plus c'est la m</span>ê<span style="font-style: italic;" lang="FR">me chose. </span><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRXUdmtreOlDdfh9yWkWl6GrWeY_pXCYM_AGuftsjIa-bXpm3soRq_ZYl76kyWlCtUMpechyevwb_2pMwBDy2er7ILVT0rWzygG-5apk7Ew9UCP-TKDDLUN2WHM-MqOGPkkf9LsA/s1600-h/IMG_2872.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRXUdmtreOlDdfh9yWkWl6GrWeY_pXCYM_AGuftsjIa-bXpm3soRq_ZYl76kyWlCtUMpechyevwb_2pMwBDy2er7ILVT0rWzygG-5apk7Ew9UCP-TKDDLUN2WHM-MqOGPkkf9LsA/s400/IMG_2872.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"> </div>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-13499735145663755802007-05-12T14:59:00.000+02:002007-05-12T21:55:57.223+02:00Scupper<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1_GCOEVI9OcZTssOhdRur0lLnH3RVWj7dyZo96rO66F-T3z3kQaOD5FqwsCh6TI6L6TIh_4uYo7LFUKdQVBMspaShuu9Zxa5vao0-ak26hXvWXPNhZ7bOA_KVaCD4ZUJyxsO_Zw/s1600-h/scupper-1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5063741414350659522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1_GCOEVI9OcZTssOhdRur0lLnH3RVWj7dyZo96rO66F-T3z3kQaOD5FqwsCh6TI6L6TIh_4uYo7LFUKdQVBMspaShuu9Zxa5vao0-ak26hXvWXPNhZ7bOA_KVaCD4ZUJyxsO_Zw/s400/scupper-1.jpg" border="0" /></a>Scupper at Pension Milou<br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Bosun had a best friend at <a href="http://www.pensionmilou.com/">Pension Milou</a> – a Jack Russell terrier called Alfie.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Bosun sadly died and life, as it does, went on. You can read more here: <a href="http://life-with-dogs.blogspot.com/2005/12/bosun-le-chien-pcheur-de-monaco.html">Bosun - le chien pêcheur de Monaco</a>.</div><span style="font-size:0;"></span><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: left">Sometime later, when a group of Brits were trying to help the <a href="http://refuge-de-flassans.blogspot.com/">Refuge de Flassans</a> 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 -<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Well, he landed on his feet when Nick and Victoria, and daughter, Daisy, gave him a new home.</p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left">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.<br /><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1oKJd3ScRrOp01snDN0U-oi50r3nr_pLQNH8cL8sdd1fuU9YKcFOY5xIxDFC4Sdo0e3D69hCqhdVrNf67gU28d9YAUUqGoCR3W0PV8ZINIzL4wIabf-KMkT6GxBPdC7SGEP-qpA/s1600-h/Picture+010.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5063754621375094738" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1oKJd3ScRrOp01snDN0U-oi50r3nr_pLQNH8cL8sdd1fuU9YKcFOY5xIxDFC4Sdo0e3D69hCqhdVrNf67gU28d9YAUUqGoCR3W0PV8ZINIzL4wIabf-KMkT6GxBPdC7SGEP-qpA/s400/Picture+010.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Travelling from England to France<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The family wanted a wire-haired male. Scupper was the only boy and fortunately had the right coat. <span style="font-size:0;"></span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He was hand-fed and being the little fighter he was, he made it with all flags flying.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Scupper had found his family.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>And when he was old enough and with all the right injections and papers, Nicholas collected him and brought him to France.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOuzCcVo0CsxmLKB6FAqJO6Q13cKvOpbJMhur8EUQCKvkHv3IsK83YUZX1xBy4j2YOkO-IRZ3VmeS6sVjm6LeDWTIZPwhz-0nELBTkYBWD2m4rLCBQQTwLQsg4ma_TCXp73LkIbg/s1600-h/Nick+and+Scupper.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5063756549815410674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOuzCcVo0CsxmLKB6FAqJO6Q13cKvOpbJMhur8EUQCKvkHv3IsK83YUZX1xBy4j2YOkO-IRZ3VmeS6sVjm6LeDWTIZPwhz-0nELBTkYBWD2m4rLCBQQTwLQsg4ma_TCXp73LkIbg/s400/Nick+and+Scupper.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Nick and one very small, tired puppy<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: left">Soon after this, I got to meet him.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1r05DZDJ0rzQvF5q13p7UXQ3ifvkRK7htSh8qUbmdGw4COafZ9GSxXSPrDeH9TTGYA_RGUg5blAR-PtuNXRycdRH2W7VnoGgOvAcJKMTaku5ibX9xFE7ncNjal1TqMKPwL8IgWQ/s1600-h/Christmas+06+139.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5063739992716484514" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1r05DZDJ0rzQvF5q13p7UXQ3ifvkRK7htSh8qUbmdGw4COafZ9GSxXSPrDeH9TTGYA_RGUg5blAR-PtuNXRycdRH2W7VnoGgOvAcJKMTaku5ibX9xFE7ncNjal1TqMKPwL8IgWQ/s400/Christmas+06+139.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Daisy and Scupper<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Scupper and Neptune spent their time either in Monaco or in the house in the country - in the Aveyron.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">His first brush with disaster came in February when he ate some slug bait. <span style="font-size:0;"></span>He was taken immediately <span style="font-size:0;"></span>to the vet who put him on a drip.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>His system was flushed out and after a few days, happily, he recovered.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB_rWnx19tginnMVfRBv-yhT0Lf17yv1q6C_arnHudbZPzlv764-pF5lPKu6rnmlMTDxBeP-ei3FuYSAdEXaoe1_Y3iF0My9W9fjF_LSw7Paj2Ehawu-qPPnMfeYzNMuDBMbIcqQ/s1600-h/DSCF0954-1.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5063716713993740178" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB_rWnx19tginnMVfRBv-yhT0Lf17yv1q6C_arnHudbZPzlv764-pF5lPKu6rnmlMTDxBeP-ei3FuYSAdEXaoe1_Y3iF0My9W9fjF_LSw7Paj2Ehawu-qPPnMfeYzNMuDBMbIcqQ/s400/DSCF0954-1.JPG" border="0" /></a> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Water is fun!<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Even with his special collar on, he looked adorable because he was.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7fvbU7FavFKkUOVZwsHg_7cYd5d3kSJobP86Us8yUGLbR9A4fYeEQLFPRyflMC27i22bv7kJaytnfjVVOTZ8E6gNrtlMwsB3TXli4HnTwBOkCYHoVgVn7dhtjBqNtpC9vNycDdA/s1600-h/Scupper+Christmas.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5063676337006190354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7fvbU7FavFKkUOVZwsHg_7cYd5d3kSJobP86Us8yUGLbR9A4fYeEQLFPRyflMC27i22bv7kJaytnfjVVOTZ8E6gNrtlMwsB3TXli4HnTwBOkCYHoVgVn7dhtjBqNtpC9vNycDdA/s400/Scupper+Christmas.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Christmas 2006 - Victoria & Daisy with Neptune & Scupper + biscuits!<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Two weeks ago today – a Saturday – he was at home in the country and, as he always did, followed his friend, Neptune, outside.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMRSkoqgD2tRR969kvHqyG7D2TZtaXcibEqJihh_siicYz50GjgVHSyM3Q5mPjD6yq1RDSLvglZQXb-mWxUI0h72l2he2eLbcbzEsKNJKGWZjKG7q1q9cbUbHAD9etn_k9t5guHg/s1600-h/October06+014.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5063740611191775154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMRSkoqgD2tRR969kvHqyG7D2TZtaXcibEqJihh_siicYz50GjgVHSyM3Q5mPjD6yq1RDSLvglZQXb-mWxUI0h72l2he2eLbcbzEsKNJKGWZjKG7q1q9cbUbHAD9etn_k9t5guHg/s400/October06+014.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Buddies: Scupper & Neptune<br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: left">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.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRNyx3de1K7EqecF7NRoZcqub852VJa4-UMHFunxcrG0UlBSgZUsTLV1OkMk_jbd3kf0NgHWYCNlsJ0d5gL8yJIAngtc-r3y3_TdUeMTN9XhuQxA-Pyc3Iad-ucO5yLJBFtohoWw/s1600-h/DSCF1589.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5063762545589755922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRNyx3de1K7EqecF7NRoZcqub852VJa4-UMHFunxcrG0UlBSgZUsTLV1OkMk_jbd3kf0NgHWYCNlsJ0d5gL8yJIAngtc-r3y3_TdUeMTN9XhuQxA-Pyc3Iad-ucO5yLJBFtohoWw/s400/DSCF1589.JPG" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Daisy & Scupper - gardening?<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"></span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He couldn’t survive without a constant drip and even then, probably not for long. He would eventually suffer more.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.’<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9FDy9PQkRGkIv0POvipdGvuMTS81ErhDSZrmEdgIwKfSpt_w6deXc5pGrEWdyo0IbxiJvXM4U3r1rKjFiCzUPZLy1xvSaPNuOAJuJoKp33SEdnKNsoaXCMK83_nltB_8SftUXnQ/s1600-h/Picture+039.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5063755342929600482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9FDy9PQkRGkIv0POvipdGvuMTS81ErhDSZrmEdgIwKfSpt_w6deXc5pGrEWdyo0IbxiJvXM4U3r1rKjFiCzUPZLy1xvSaPNuOAJuJoKp33SEdnKNsoaXCMK83_nltB_8SftUXnQ/s400/Picture+039.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Place du Casino, Monte Carlo<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">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. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">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?<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOmCJHb4_EM-2rIV75O-3Qg2If8z-AvGqFKo5KcRE4DFNnu00d-4-6ewSA7S-Lb7yt5PmoKzMoHiSEFFQTm-87K1Se3gudRmwZwJo_Ghp3Y7usFzvxK6RIhbUCclzqch3xaxiI1Q/s1600-h/Neptune+Scupper+in+snow.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5063677041380826914" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOmCJHb4_EM-2rIV75O-3Qg2If8z-AvGqFKo5KcRE4DFNnu00d-4-6ewSA7S-Lb7yt5PmoKzMoHiSEFFQTm-87K1Se3gudRmwZwJo_Ghp3Y7usFzvxK6RIhbUCclzqch3xaxiI1Q/s400/Neptune+Scupper+in+snow.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">Aveyron in winter<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">It’s strange how some dogs have such an effect on you.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:0;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">Oh Scupper, we miss you.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>You deserve a poem, Scupper - hell, you deserve a life! A life, longer than 10 short months. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqsNJpCCTvHvxsRB9dMpALqwH6ftxudMriepmbpbKDrr4I69FqMeDGzdDnkSwo_3s_XkKTPx4r80TWUEuqHTWW9PI060A-nuMG_dHksF6uiwIJGt0wrD92qCIAqSL9IqkoM46fCQ/s1600-h/IMG_0241.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5063684269810786098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqsNJpCCTvHvxsRB9dMpALqwH6ftxudMriepmbpbKDrr4I69FqMeDGzdDnkSwo_3s_XkKTPx4r80TWUEuqHTWW9PI060A-nuMG_dHksF6uiwIJGt0wrD92qCIAqSL9IqkoM46fCQ/s400/IMG_0241.JPG" border="0" /></a> </p>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19332364.post-57276631362360679192007-04-20T12:35:00.000+02:002007-04-21T13:48:47.347+02:00Circles of Life - 2Why do we choose the breed of dog we do? – part 2. You can read the first part <u><a href="http://life-with-dogs.blogspot.com/2007/04/circles-of-life.html">here</a>.</u> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5oG9QqL3ZXoEhU8paVadlvitbmnq0UFkfVxY2MJR3o8xRaTdOyqVn1Yle9HMIAUnqCVGwhZ9C4sxK8vYDGQ_8LlBVNNkROLRho0niubVMCY9BeiYPHXmBcwh4Hr7OYjOsgG9gzQ/s1600-h/Poppy+Scruff+Jilly.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5055833898078631362" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5oG9QqL3ZXoEhU8paVadlvitbmnq0UFkfVxY2MJR3o8xRaTdOyqVn1Yle9HMIAUnqCVGwhZ9C4sxK8vYDGQ_8LlBVNNkROLRho0niubVMCY9BeiYPHXmBcwh4Hr7OYjOsgG9gzQ/s400/Poppy+Scruff+Jilly.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Poppy and Scruff<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.]<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Peter and I, happily, are still great friends.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>We always kept back copies of the Sunday papers - doesn’t everyone?<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Could we find it?<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Of course we couldn’t.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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!<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Duh!<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>No matter, Scruff was adorable and she and Poppy played together. Our doggy family was happy and so were we. </p><p class="MsoNormal">So why did we get those two breeds?<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Not necessarily a reason to choose a dog.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I was lucky - I fell in love with this breed and it’s been that way ever since.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcGKLePOPsNdbtJSeNjmtcl9W8mN4AkY4OzEb9yq7U8xLKnakRys9TmLxCo1gv2X3zvnL9nN-3xyHrPQPu7mybacyDHLEtnqDdviBmtrv1a8bI0yYzuxfUUU_KjWOn7JDyf9HD2Q/s1600-h/Sloopy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5055834220201178578" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcGKLePOPsNdbtJSeNjmtcl9W8mN4AkY4OzEb9yq7U8xLKnakRys9TmLxCo1gv2X3zvnL9nN-3xyHrPQPu7mybacyDHLEtnqDdviBmtrv1a8bI0yYzuxfUUU_KjWOn7JDyf9HD2Q/s400/Sloopy.jpg" border="0" /></a> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Sloopy, the first Old English Sheepdog<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">But it wasn’t to finish there. Suddenly three were a crowd. Two would play and one would be left out.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Logical to get a fourth? Of course.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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. </p><p class="MsoNormal">We were shown an enormous run containing around 15 or so adult Old English Sheepdogs.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1OYelAlMhEK3oEj1VA_TkqTgx1eUqu7H72vRM18tsGulEYeoIo0exP_9-Mcc5RNg-OOzfmOrwIsqge8GIIGEtXE-7NNjKaeK_7xApedgQ_21YZOkjFoBczHu8PZN8rRgPrxQlQ/s1600-h/Muffin+Peggotty.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5055833232358700466" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1OYelAlMhEK3oEj1VA_TkqTgx1eUqu7H72vRM18tsGulEYeoIo0exP_9-Mcc5RNg-OOzfmOrwIsqge8GIIGEtXE-7NNjKaeK_7xApedgQ_21YZOkjFoBczHu8PZN8rRgPrxQlQ/s400/Muffin+Peggotty.jpg" border="0" /></a> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Muffin and her daughter, Peggotty, my first showdog<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">So there we were with our four dogs:<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>a crossbred poodle, a Westie, who should have been a Maltese terrier, and two Old English Sheepdogs.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I told her I thought it was cruel as ‘didn’t they walk the dogs round and round in circles?’<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpkyAR6B7TpnTQl63PG3qM4qsacidxYeFOzlfvekfmB0XehQKV5PpCIgh3xAN5b252DfRzyWTd3o6y4yQlc6AQejy68s9rwNoh4r-f0fIr8eSw6o6LyzrgoGtSG2A-36r3Y8Xg0g/s1600-h/MillyMistletoe.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5055813539933648242" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpkyAR6B7TpnTQl63PG3qM4qsacidxYeFOzlfvekfmB0XehQKV5PpCIgh3xAN5b252DfRzyWTd3o6y4yQlc6AQejy68s9rwNoh4r-f0fIr8eSw6o6LyzrgoGtSG2A-36r3Y8Xg0g/s400/MillyMistletoe.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Champion Pelajilo Milly Mistletoe<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpUJvjR2PSuDJrxkkbyBCMopVNQLogMRabMpeO6ym_Q9uKYsGFa9G1sIImZKY9K0aYrg0akvgN7Skqh29l5PGjyRP6VrolgwUneezZD-ujO42J3cX-Gin9lBWXqPksXuTCIVgawg/s1600-h/crufts2-72.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5055818075419112866" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpUJvjR2PSuDJrxkkbyBCMopVNQLogMRabMpeO6ym_Q9uKYsGFa9G1sIImZKY9K0aYrg0akvgN7Skqh29l5PGjyRP6VrolgwUneezZD-ujO42J3cX-Gin9lBWXqPksXuTCIVgawg/s400/crufts2-72.jpg" border="0" /></a> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Judging Crufts 2006<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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?<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’d forgotten sweet Zelda, a wonderful creature, more a person than a dog. </p><p class="MsoNormal">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?<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh54bBcsSGk4dQWjgMSYYALDx5k4Af30vpCUSG5YhWti0m73dGL2mCg49RCbNlbm6zxteTlts9KDUQsUnZ7wJZXkbvSJHf8LWMRrQeDKEJ1WbPCiF7Ph_lN1tQmDo62LxNzkLMOxA/s1600-h/Nancy+Bondi.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5055837703419655666" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh54bBcsSGk4dQWjgMSYYALDx5k4Af30vpCUSG5YhWti0m73dGL2mCg49RCbNlbm6zxteTlts9KDUQsUnZ7wJZXkbvSJHf8LWMRrQeDKEJ1WbPCiF7Ph_lN1tQmDo62LxNzkLMOxA/s400/Nancy+Bondi.jpg" border="0" /></a> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">UK & Australian Champion Bumblebarn Scramble of Pelajilo on Bondi Beach, Sydney, 1985<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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 <u><a href="http://www.pensionmilou.com/english/milou_page.html">here.</a></u></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLHhtYHsiRf-tthpLdMQnsGE3jkJuYv9m7doFGCD-KPwii7C4bfR2xnHGIDwl55w0yXVs9WIltUIEGe7dA_xSIKyVKakJ5iNSeaoCphMK9ExbWIt2k0v0g8Wu1HBZz52TfdKFS4w/s1600-h/Milou+at+Roquebrune+-+aged+4.0.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5055839485831083522" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLHhtYHsiRf-tthpLdMQnsGE3jkJuYv9m7doFGCD-KPwii7C4bfR2xnHGIDwl55w0yXVs9WIltUIEGe7dA_xSIKyVKakJ5iNSeaoCphMK9ExbWIt2k0v0g8Wu1HBZz52TfdKFS4w/s400/Milou+at+Roquebrune+-+aged+4.0.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Milou, aged 4 when we lived in Roquebrune<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>And then, there I was last year, driving home with a needy hound in the back of the car. So why?</p><p class="MsoNormal">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!<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>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.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGvgiuKzWE4_pVLrKK6j9Xw6M1_qey0gQCUGXlv9ZvyFwEc2k9OfLuv8cQwuWjIB_HN8hGdYMOFnEVbhLroY0RcjClEdN2L35XUZOzGaCDJwr418yPxg_96MxJ6TWhnMSs3L7WtA/s1600-h/IMG_1806.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5055810554931377490" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; cursor: pointer; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGvgiuKzWE4_pVLrKK6j9Xw6M1_qey0gQCUGXlv9ZvyFwEc2k9OfLuv8cQwuWjIB_HN8hGdYMOFnEVbhLroY0RcjClEdN2L35XUZOzGaCDJwr418yPxg_96MxJ6TWhnMSs3L7WtA/s400/IMG_1806.jpg" border="0" /></a> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Beau<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Isn’t that why you chose your dog – or he chose you? </p>Jillyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08059152467099868300noreply@blogger.com3