Tag: dog

Jacques Report

Posted in FranceTagged , , , 11 Comments

He’s not here any more.

I woke up yesterday morning to find him snuggled up against Sky, using her tummy as a pillow. We had an appointment in Nantes, so I got ready and off we went, to get to the bottom of all the crazy things going wrong with him. They did a scan and found out: bone cancer. It was everywhere. Everywhere. Jacques must have been in terrible pain and never let on.

They sedate dogs to do scans and had kept him sedated. The vet practically begged me to let him put Jacques down, but it wasn’t necessary. Once I understood the situation, there was really no other choice. So now he’s gone.

I’m strongly tempted to follow the example of blog-buddy Tom. Tom had what he called a dog blog. We were partners in little white dog worship. When his Maltese died of heart failure, he ended the blog. Like Tom, I’m likely to make the announcement of the death of my beloved little white dog my last post.

This blog began with a death and it may well end with one. When Robert died I moved permanently to France, where we had already been spending half our lives. I got Jacques as a way to reconnect myself with the world; he kept me from spending my life crying on the sofa. I started the blog to stay in touch with my US friends, and to chart my transition to life here.

So, the house renovation, the garden transformation, some travel, Jean-Yves. You didn’t read about the guys I dumped because they didn’t understand the importance of Jacques in my life. Jean-Yves treated him like a beloved stepchild. I wish he were here to be miserable with me.

Anyway, with Jacques’ death, I have transitioned. It’s all over but the paperwork, which in France never ends. Still, France is home; I don’t foresee another move. The house is done. It’s just maintenance, now. We’re planting out long-dreamt schemes for the garden. Now it’s all about fertilizer and pruning.

Somewhat to my surprise, I’m an old lady. I don’t feel old but at 71 I guess I qualify. Old men are dying like flies, so I have to figure there will not be another Robert or Jean-Yves. I am grateful for my years with them and dare not presume that a third lovely man will come into my life. Well, they do, but not in that way.

Tom got it exactly right. Like him I may leave the blog up for a while, but close comments. Some of you have my email address. I would love to hear from you. Some of you are blog buddies; I will check in, so keep blogging. Some of you even know where I live; the door is open to you. For everyone else in my tiny community of followers, thank you for being here.

Sky Report

Posted in France, WolfhoundTagged , 7 Comments

This isn’t working out the way I thought it would.

Long ago, toward the tail-end of a crumbling marriage, I decided I needed a dog. Only a Wolfhound would do. I found a serious breeder with pups who lived out in the desert and made an appointment to see her. She forgot and wasn’t home, so I toddled around her dog pens. An unlocked one contained a friendly-enough dog. There must have been a bench in his pen, as I sat down with him, just for a minute, to wait. What felt like a couple of minutes stretched to nearly an hour, perhaps the calmest hour of my life. I was actually sorry the breeder showed up. That memory of warm desert breezes circling me and this quiet, accepting dog have sustained me through some terrible times.

A pup came home with me and spent the evening’s dinner party sleeping, plastered to my chest. Calm: it was heaven. The next morning he went home. Another nail in the coffin of that marriage.

A couple of months ago it seemed like a good time to try again. No such thing as too much zen. More serious breeders, another long drive and hey presto, Sky was mine. The thing is, she’s antsy, not at all calm.

Here she is, barking at Gandhi.

Here she is, barking at shadows passing across the glass.

Here is her favorite toy, after about three minutes in her possession. She likes to pick at it, scattering those rubber bits around the room. Bonus points for muddying the floor. No points for reminding me that she’s a kennel dog, not even remotely house-trained. I’ll spare you a photo of that.

She’s settling in. We ripped her away from her dog-dads, her remaining children and maybe fifteen of her sisters and her cousins and her aunts. It was quite an adjustment but she seems okay with the basic concept. She adores Jacques.

She is gorgeous and has charm to burn but calm, zen, forget it. She’s quite emotional, coming up to me every couple of hours just to boop noses and get a hug. She is constantly looking for food and is tall enough to explore the countertops. She gets that going outside is good — treats! — but hasn’t worked out that going inside is a no, just no. We have a routine now that starts with her waking me up around 8, fair enough, and going from there. She knows every daily ritual and insists that we follow through, on time.

And me? I’m the charlady, washing or steam-cleaning the floor every day, though to be fair it’s nearly always mud, now; changing sheets and floor towels about every other day. Lots of laundry. Lots of pet deodorizer. And no zen.

Jacques Report

Posted in FranceTagged , , , 14 Comments

I think last time I mentioned that Jacques has arthritis. I wondered about it over the summer, when he hesitated to jump into the car. Now it’s winter. We had weeks of cold and rain, followed by weeks of freezing temperatures, now apparently to be followed by more weeks of cold and rain. It’s hitting him pretty hard.

I made arrangements for Sky during that first rainy period, when Jacques could still have played with her. Organizing the trip to pick her up was a major operation, so I went ahead, rather than cancel. And of course with all the medications, I figured Jacques would feel better. Wrong.

Last night he was vomiting and shaking with pain. I take CBD, but I don’t know enough about dosages to give it to such a little guy. But last night I thought I’d better give it a try. I gave him something from the vet for his tummy, then a squirt of “pet-strength” CBD, something I had reserved for Sky’s more rambunctious moments; I now believe that those tales of Wolfhounds being couch potatoes indoors are urban legend.

It probably takes 20-30 minutes to take effect. I gave him 10 and squirted some more into his mouth. 10 minutes later, he started to relax. if he started shaking again, a little more. Finally he settled into sleep, as did I. This morning I saw that he had moved around the bed a bit. Sweet, getting back to normal, I thought, especially when he jumped off the bed and came downstairs on his own. For the last few days, I’ve been carrying him.

But he won’t eat, not even treats. One thing and another, I’m worried. We’re going back to the vet this afternoon. I’ll tell her about the CBD. It’s the single most effective thing he’s been given so far. And yes, he got a little bit more this morning.

I’m baking CBD-infused dog treats. I’m baking CBD buds to make more. If you buy the stuff pre-made, you’ll empty your bank account in no time. I’m going to try to tempt my little pup with his favorite meal: yogurt mixed with turmeric and apricot jam. We’ll see how it goes.

Jacques Report

Posted in France, VendeeTagged , , 13 Comments

Remember Poodle with a Mohawk? Linda Barry? Never call him Fifi again? Hah. Poodles. It’s all about fashion for them. Westies take action. And Jacques has gone rogue.

It’s his new dog door. Reignoux finished buttoning up my house. It’s all bulletproof now, assuming I remember to lock it up. As part of their work, they designed a dog door, custom-made for Jacques. We drove out to their shop, where they measured him as carefully as would a Saville Row tailor. Chest height, shoulder height, head height, body width, they got it all. Then they designed a door to fit Jacques, of course, but also to suit the look of the door. It’s hard to see, but the knob on the left goes to a sliding metal panel. The vertical reflection on the right, halfway down, is a latch. When the panel covers the dog door, the latch pins the panel in place. Hey presto, nobody is getting in. And no nasty white plastic.

This is the thanks I get. Here the little delinquent is, on his grooming table in the utility room. He loves his door. I can’t keep him in. He runs out and barks, randomly, just for fun. Then he runs back in, probably hoping the neighbors will complain, so I can say “Jacques? Barking? no, see, he’s right here.” Yesterday he brought in a dead pigeon — dead for a while, so at least he’s not killing pigeons, yet. I guess he wanted to give it a decent burial, maybe in the sofa cushions. Fortunately he changed his mind and took it back out again. I have no clue where that pigeon is now. And today, look. Did he really need to roll in the mud? Is being clean all that painful?

I basically triage-cleaned him. Of his various dry shampoos, it turns out the mousse is better than the sprays. He’s sort of tan, now, which I hope won’t rub off on the furniture. I put some antiseptic and skin soother on that ear, so it’s a normal light pink. A little work on the nails and job done, he’s back in action. Not clean, exactly, but better. For now.

Jacques Loves Summer

Posted in JacquesTagged , , 7 Comments

He does. Who can blame him? He is sitting on a picnic-blanket-sized towel made by an old friend, who is reviving the handwoven towel craft in rural Turkey. I took this on the terrace the other day — our first sunny day in quite a while. And if you find Jennifer’s Hamam (jenifershamam — If your Instagram feed is a full as mine, you’ll want to find it, look at all her photos, and like mine. Vote early and vote often!) on Instagram and vote for this picture, I just might win a few towels to help us all enjoy our summers a little more. No pressure. He’s so cute, I might win anyway.

Birthdays are better in France

Posted in FranceTagged , , , , 12 Comments

This birthday was a big one. I hesitate to tell you I turned 65. I want to hide behind all those old lady caveats — “but that doesn’t really describe me,” “but I don’t feel a day over 24, 35, whatever,” but all that just makes me sound, you know, old. Nothing to do about it, really. It is what it is.The best thing I can say is that I celebrated in France. Friends got this old lady out to a nice restaurant or two. Other friends celebrated at home. Much champagne was consumed, enough to help a person forget most anything. And Mr. France, in a stroke of absolute genius, booked us into a week of thalassotherapy.

Les Thermes Marins are at a grand old hotel on the beach at Saint Malo. In case you are wondering, I get nothing for mentioning them. I’m just saying. I could go back any time. More yoga, more massage, more time doing guided meditation while floating in warmed and purified sea water, bring it on. Oh, and as long as you don’t drag him right into the spa, your dog can come, too. You can see him above, hoping that if he holds still for a bit, we can go to the beach. and here, if the link works, is he actually at the beach.

We weren’t ready to go back to Paris, so Mr. France found a little hotel that is part of a group called “Relais du Silence,” luxury hotels out in the middle of the countryside. So which part of the countryside did we choose? You get one guess and one hint.

Now back to real life.

Jacques Report

Posted in JacquesTagged , 10 Comments

image

This is Jacques at the vet. We had just gotten to the house from Paris and the little apartment bound guy was running off some energy. He found a cat and chased it way deep into the back garden. You see only part of the result. His bloody little butt is the other part.

I’m sure the cat owner would argue that his beloved was acting in self – defense. Me? I would argue that the psychopathic sport – killer was trespassing and disrespecting the security guard. He deserved far worse than a good scare. If I lived in Texas, like my sister, I’d be packing heat; “cat” would be written on every bullet.

However I’m in France, so I found a nearby 24-hour vet. Jacques got a shot for the pain, plus some pills and ointments. We’ll see how he does. It’s amazing how the French kicks in when it has to. Ordinarily I can barely order a coffee.

There are cat people and dog people. I guess you could say I’m a dog person.

So Jacques got a scratched eyelid. The eye itself was not damaged. We can’t really tell what happened at the other end, apart from a solid hit. He’s taking antibiotics. I added Neosporin for his bottom, in addition to the vet-supplied drops and ointment for his eye. Of all things, his tail may be broken. He cries every time we touch it, so we’re waiting to see about that.

I’ll stop now. You don’t want to hear my 10 – point rant on why psychopathic sport – killers — oh, oops, cats — should be kept indoors.

Felled by jet lag

Posted in UncategorizedTagged , , , , 3 Comments

Must wake up.

Apart from that extra five or six daytime sleep hours — no, it doesn’t really affect the amount of sleep I need at night — it has been a good day.

I got my hair cut. I’m a regular now, greeted like an old friend. The stuffed ostrich behind my hairdresser is totally ordinary, part of the furniture, though I would miss it if it were gone. The surprise was that David Mallet took a break from doing shoulder-length blunt cuts on stunning young women — straight out of Haircuts 101 — to do something sculpted and very flattering for a woman even older than I am. I was impressed; when the situation calls for it, that man can cut hair. The place was happy and busy, maybe because Fashion Week just ended and everybody can get back to real life. This is one of my favorite places in Paris. I am glad I can finally go in there every six weeks, just like I’m supposed to.

On the way to the Metro I found a shop that sells incredible housewares. No, sorry, don’t know the name, but it is just off rue Rivoli. Across the street is the Louvre des Antiquaires and to the left and across rue Rivoli is the Louvre itself. I resisted the stunning sushi plates and tea bowls, only just, contenting myself with a little Chilewich mat for dog bowls. Zero One One? Was that the name of the shop?

Did I mention the puppy? No? Well, he’s not here yet. All in good time.