The day Lou was stolen!

Lou

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

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


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

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

Tug-o-war with Cleo, the dalmatian

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

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

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

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

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

Cuddling up to Sophie, the boxer

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

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

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

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

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

Columbo

Columbo

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

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

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

Columbo having a fit

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

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

... doing his 'Thurber Dog' impersonation

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

...drugged

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

...missing a bit of ear

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

...and here it is

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

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

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

Sharing the sofa with Digby

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

Brief Encounter

Bimbo

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

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

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

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

And then there were three...

Bimbo in the refuge caravan

Saturday April 1, 2006: April Fool’s Day. Second visit to the refuge today. It’s a beautiful day, how a south of France day should be; bluest sky, slight breeze, the odd cloud wafting along – unlike that first visit when it rained all day long - the day I adopted Columbo and Rox.

Katie – beautiful, talented, artistic Katie - who created and works on the Pension Milou website, is with me. She, to take photos of the dogs for the Refuge de Flassans website and me to take notes.

We take our time; get to know some of the dogs. I go off and find Benji, a beautiful Griffon I’d noticed last time. I’d looked at his photograph and thought about him over the weeks, wondered if I shouldn’t perhaps adopt him but he’s a lively dog, perhaps too lively for life at Pension Milou, especially with Columbo and his epilepsy. I have enough lively dogs en pension as it is! Anyway I’ve not come to the refuge today to adopt a dog, that’s for sure.

Katie is taking hundreds of photos; we go in and out of runs to speak to the dogs – so many great dogs here who will make superb family pets if only they can find new owners.

Eventually we are thru and gather at the entrance to the refuge to say our goodbyes: to Marjorie and Maria, the caring English bénévoles (volunteers) who go to the refuge every Saturday to help feed the dogs, and to Nicole, the hard-working English girl who works there now.

Meeting Bimbo

I look around: a black and tan hound, with the longest ears I’ve ever seen, lumbers towards us, gently wagging his tail. I don’t know where he’s come from. Maria explains that this is Bimbo and he’s sleeping in the caravan at the moment, as he’s not been well.

I'd heard about Bimbo. Knew that he often gets massive ear problems. Both ears had been operated on in the past but he needs further surgery. He is recuperating, following some veterinary treatment, from another spell of infection and fever. Maria tells me she feared for his life the week before - he had been so wobbly on his legs and refused food. Today, he's weak but he comes out to greet Maria, who has been giving him special food to tempt him to eat. She says he is much better than he'd been the week before.

In the caravan

He wanders back into the caravan and I go in. He’s lying in the corner on an old mattress looking pathetic as only hounds can. Hang dog helpless. I leave the caravan. I go back in again. I come out and say, ‘Perhaps I’ll give it some thought. See how it goes. Maybe I’ll take him another time.’ Maria tells me I should only take him if I feel it’s absolutely right. Then Katie comes up and says, ‘Oh brilliant, Jilly, you are going to take Bimbo.’ She’s right of course. I couldn’t have left without him. And so whilst Nicole and I sort the paperwork in the office, Maria, Marjorie and Katie, get Bimbo into the car.

Maria & Marjorie caring for Bimbo - I'm off to do the paperwork

In the car, waiting to leave the refuge

Once home, I bathe him but avoid his poor ears. On Monday we go to Louise, my vet. She draws two full syringes of nasty viscous fluid from a big lump way below his ears. She confirms it's not an abscess and says he’ll need specialist surgery but first puts him on antibiotics for a couple of weeks. Then he goes to Dr. El Baze in Nice. He is four and a half hours on the operating table. It’s a complicated operation.

The vet has to unravel the nerves that lead from ear to eye – he says he is concerned that Bimbo’s eye reflexes will work properly. For the moment he’s having les larmes artificielles (artificial tears) three times a day and we’ll know in three weeks if there is any lasting damage to those nerves. Dr. El Baze has removed both eardrums. Bimbo has stitches right along the edges of the ear, the ear canal and way down his neck on both sides. With his head shaved on either side and all the stitching, he looks like some punk rocker except this dog won’t hear music of any sort again.

The vet asks me something about my car. I find him difficult to understand. I assume he is asking if my car is comfortable, concerned that it won’t be too bumpy a ride for poor Bimbo. ‘Well it’s an old car,’ I say, ‘15 years old, but the ride will be smooth enough and I’ll drive slowly and carefully round bends and up the hills. Maybe he should stay in the surgery overnight,’ I suggest. ‘No, no,’ he says, ‘I’m asking about your car because he is dripping serum all over the place and I don’t want your car to get messed up.’ Well, thank God for that, I think: the car passes muster. I tell him, ‘Dog people don’t have posh cars.’

A shaved, stitched and poorly Bimbo

Bimbo drips serum and blood all the way home and continues to do so for several days. The swelling in both ears is horrendous and burning hot to the touch. He’s on painkillers and antibiotics to fight the massive staphylococci and streptoccoci infections. Poor dog, he has a very bad two or three days but then, miraculously, he starts to get better. So much so that by the fifth day, following the operation, he’s up on his hind legs trying to steal food of the counter. Good boy!

I’ve never seen a Bruno de Jura before and that’s what Bimbo is - bit like a Thurber dog really. They are one of six varieties of Swiss Hound that go back to antiquity. A mosaic found in Avenches places them in the Roman Helvetia era. In the 15th century the Swiss Hound was popular among Italian dog-lovers, and in the 18th century it was extremely popular with the French. The breed standard for the Swiss Hound was established in 1882 and revised in 1909.

I can tell you that Bimbo is the most gentle dog, very intelligent and best of all, he makes my most favourite sound in all the world: thump, thump, thump - the thump of a contented dog’s tail everytime I walk past his chair.