Puppy Blues

You may remember we were planning a wedding: Van-Ly and Asterix.  Things are not going well.

Why are those of the dog fancy such, well, bitches is the word that comes to mind?  We sent Van-Ly's hip x-rays off to the Chow Chow Club of France before I went to the hospital.  As yet, we have heard nothing, so yesterday I telephoned the president of the CCF.

"Well, why did you leave it so long?" she asked?  I explained that Chows are not thick on the ground in our neighbourhood and I'd acted as soon as I found one.  I didn't think it would take so long.  I mean how many damned Chows can there be being x-rayed at one time in France?  "But it takes at least a month and longer in summer," she said.

Summer.  Otherwise known as The National Excuse for Not Working.

We haven't started the procedure for Asterix's x-rays because I didn't want to spend the money if Van-Ly's didn't turn out well.  And Van-Ly should be going into heat mid-August.

Which basically means we've run out of time and I've wasted money.  "Money is not my concern," says Madame le President, "dogs are."

Bitch!

Family Affairs

I would be writing more, but I'm not feeling very well.  Don't know what it is, but I suspect the pain killers given to me after the stent was put in, so I've stopped taking them.  They -- or something -- also are making me sleepy, so that's what I'm doing: sleeping.  And dreaming of puppies.

We have found a perfect five-year-old male Chow.  Or he will be perfect as soon as he's registered and X-rayed for hip dysplasia. Just look at those study, little legs!

We had a family meeting the other day.  Asterix -- that's the bridegroom's name -- does seem to prefer Nala, even if she did keep growling at him, but we'll leave her home next time.  Van-Ly will be X-rayed on Friday and the pictures sent off to the official doctor of the Chow Chow Club for grading.

We are hoping for a September/October wedding

Faits Divers

A while back, France introduced new license/registration/number plates which come into force when you buy a new or used car.  The plate design no longer carried departement numbers and there was a huge outcry from the public.  So the government gave in and said that a panel on the right side of the plate would have the number.  Any number; the number of your choice.  If it would make you feel better to have people think you live on the Côte d'Azur, then you just go ahead and buy 06 number plates, never mind you live in Alsace on the German border.

I have seen the urologist, anaesthesiologist and the dentist this week.  The anaesthesiologist looks too young to be a doctor.  This is a first for me.  With his youth and stubble, he looks as though he ought to be out on his motorcycle mugging old ladies.  But he was nice enough to order thyroid tests, so I won't have to go see my endocrinologist.

Teeth are O.K. and cleaner.

Van-Ly has just had a false pregnancy.  (And good thing false, too!)  I'm told that, in the wild, when a bitch in the pack is pregnant, the others have false pregnancies and produce milk so that if anything happens to the mother, the babies will survive.  How clever.

My little bitches, less clever, have no one to get pregnant for, although it did solve one problem.  We bought Nala a bed last week so that she would stop leaning against the wall and turning it black.

Of course, she hates it and won't go near it, but Van-Ly was in her nesting phase, so she used it.

Now, neither of them will use it, but it's still serving its purpose.  It's blocking the wall.

This Week in Sahune

If you don't recognise "Nom"
you might try LOL Cats
or the Urban Dictionary.


I'm tired of waiting for summer.
Want to wear my Xmas T-Shirt.
Which dwarf do I most resemble?

Here is my indoor hat
from a site recommended by friend Rena.

Here is how it is usually perched.
Which dwarf do I most resemble?


Harry & Mio playing (honestly)


Watcha doin'?

A picture I never thought I'd see:
FloJo & Miosa sleeping together.
F has returned to trying to kill Mio.

Another picture I never thought to see.
Nala is so sick she didn't move
when Mio joined her on her rug.
Usually she leaves.
It's pyometra and she's being operated on today.
If you don't know what pyometra is, don't ask.
(Unless you have an unspayed female dog)

Snowbound in Provence

I knew I'd get to use that title one day.

This is the scenic view from our current living quarters. Actually, it's worse than it looks in the photograph. Yesterday I saw one tractor-trailer rig and one car. So strange on a main road. We don't have a lot in the way of snow removal equipment.

We were on the road, though. I ran out of pills and we had to get to Nyons. The further we went toward the Rhone, the worse it got. I called the hospital (which is in Montélimar and on the Rhone) and they said it wasn't worth coming; they gave me a new scanner appointment for Tuesday. Unfortunatey, the forecast says it might be as bad or worse by then.

Of course, I look at the roads and think that these people would die in Chicago, but then I remember that I had snow tires there. It was a bit skiddy yesterday and no one here is used to this sort of weather. I'm sure that if Nick didn't know what I'm like without my antidepressants, he wouldn't have gone.

Van-Ly likes it, though.

Not-So-Old Faithful

I would like to report that, when I fell going up to the garden today (I cannot believe the feeb things that are happening to me), Van-Ly arrived out of nowhere to first stand over me and then lie down next to me.

No serious damage; a few bruised ribs, I believe. When I fall, I fall flat out. Very peculiar.

Dog on a Hot Tile Roof

Here's my little athlete.



Did I ever tell you about the time we thought she was kidnapped because she went into the stand of bamboo and couldn't get out?

Family Blood Tests

Got my blood results back today. CA-125 is at 51. Last reading was 66, so I don't figure to die -- or sue -- before my postponed surgery.

Van-Ly has results, too. (Dog blog, remember?) She's been mopey the past couple of weeks, so I finally called the vet for an appointment yesterday morning. I had hardly hung up the phone before she was her old self, but I'm the vengeful sort, so I made her go anyway.

She has high cholesterol. When her blood is separated from the plasma, you can actually see how greasy it is. Most peculiar. Cut down the fat, the vet said, and come back for a checkup in 3 months.

She obviously takes after Nick's side of the family.

The stockings were hung. . .

. . . on the window with care. . .

. . . and lo! and behold!
Van-Ly was there. . .

. . . on the terrace
. . . barking up a storm
. . . growling ferociously. . .

. . . at the stockings.

We have received so many greetings this year. Thank you, all. If I do get around to individual cards, it will be in the best French tradition: for the New Year -- before the end of January.

Have a happy holiday!

Nick, Margot, Van-Ly, Nala, FloJo, Harry and Miosa

Ski Season

Have I mentioned that we live 45 minutes from good skiing? O.K., an hour now that France is installing radar cameras everywhere. What a life: Provence and skiing in one package. We have become the ultimate in fair-weather skiers. If the forecast isn't wonderful, we stay home.

This year, for the first time, we've bought a type of pass which allows 10 days of skiing, taken as needed. The good part is that we could go skiing, guilt-free, since it was already paid for. The bad part, I discovered this week, is that you know when your last day arrives. This is more of an emotional shock than just not getting around to going again.

Finite skiing is just one of the things I've learned this year. I've also begun mastering the new technique for the new skis. I love it that at my advanced age, I'm still improving on the piste. This is due more to my new parabolique skis than any increase in athletic ability. As an athlete, I'm about on a par with my Chows. As an example, Van-Ly was rapt in front of the floor-model bird cage in the village hotel bar yesterday, when one of the birds suddenly flew from one side of the cage to the other. Van-Ly jumped sideways to follow it and promptly fell over. "Pas très athlète," one apologises in French.

I had to have new skis because after I tore the second anterior cruciate ligament, it was either give up, get new knees or get new equipment. The new equipment (cheaper than new knees) has made me a new skier. I have been wanting Nick to get a pair, not least because it's starting to look funny showing up in the pointy-toed skis he's still using.

Our clothes are pretty out of date, too. We are still skiing in all-in-one ski suits, which, I recently read, are the height of unfashion. The station where we ski is pretty unfashionable, too, so it doesn't bother us, but I did have a yen for new after-ski boots until a couple of weeks ago. That was the day of the Turning Point. There comes a time when your equipment and clothing are so old, they become a fashion statement. "Hey! I can ski. I don't have to wear Yves St. Laurent."

Anyway, I love my ski suit. It's gunmetal grey, with bright red on the bodice and two pleats and a hood in aqua. It has a crudely stitched repair across the right buttock where I must have sliced it on a ski in a fall. Various tatters and worn bits are patched with coordinating bright red rug tape to match the original colour scheme. It's blouson-y and has served me well for a good 25 years or more -- through thick and thin, as it were.

Nick's suit is in about the same shape, not so patched, but with mysterious black spots on his bottom that look like ink spatter. It used to be silver and bright orange, but has dulled to a warm yam colour.

We are the only people on the piste with back-entry boots, bought the same year as the suits. I adore mine. They were the first comfortable boot I ever owned and they feel like bedroom slippers. Who could ask for more? I'm trying not to fall for the propaganda telling me that new boots will do even more for my skiing than new skis. (Hmm, but the propaganda for the skis turned out to be true.)

My real worry is that I will be skiing down the piste one day and will have a Muriel. Our late friend, Muriel, grew up on skis. She wasn't an elegant skier, but she could get down anything in a workman-like manner. She was pretty much dressed like a workman, too. Borrowed pants, unmatched jacket borrowed from someone else, boots that she'd had since her foot had grown to adult size. Anyway, we were halfway down a fairly steep slope one morning when Muriel pulled to a halt, looked down and exclaimed, "Ah! That's what's the matter." The top of her boot had come away from the sole for about 3/4 of its length. For you non-skiers, that means that her ski was hanging on by a thread. Muriel lit a cigarette, had a few puffs to relax, and then proceeded to ski down the rest of the hill.

I'm not as good a skier as Muriel. I'd have to walk down. But I keep hanging on to my boots. Nick's boots are probably as structurally sound as my own and his ski suit covers up the rotting fabric on the tongues.

Our ski poles are so old that the fashion for squiggly racing poles has come and gone, and we're back in style, again. I say style. Nick's poles have developped an unorthodox curve and the baskets on mine have a distinctly home-made look about them. They were cheap (who spends money on poles?) and came without the holes used to secure them when not in use, so Nick drilled them in the workshop. Nick's a designer; ergo, designer poles.

Our after-ski boots can only be worn by the socially feckless. All the fabric on Nick's is rotting away. Mine are newer, but for 7,50 at the market you don't get waterproof, so I've lined them with plastic bags which occasionally peek through the tops.

As to accessories, the hats are old, but, then again, hats don't wear out unless you fall on your head a lot. And I have gloves of fairly recent vintage, this being the first time I've skied in warm weather.

The crown in the jewel, however, are my mittens: silk-lined, down-filled leather that are going on 40 years old. No scratches, no tears and they keep my hands warm while everyone else is wearing Gore-Tex. I paid what seemed to be a fortune for them at the time, but they have to take the prize for money well spent.

So, anyway, Nick will get new skis for next season. But from the boots up, you'll still recognise us when you see us on the slopes.

On the Basketball Court

We didn't train yesterday. It was miserable out and, besides, I had a doctor's appointment, and, besides, I hadn't slept well, and, besides, I opted for a sieste. That's a siesta in French.

Today we changed our training ground as I wanted to see how Van-Ly would react to the village. Also, I had to go to the post office. We went to a car park the size of a basketball court. I guess it's the size of a basketball court: there are baskets at either end. The car park/basketball court used to be the children's gardens for the school, but our mayor likes to tidy up. He used to be a high muckety muck in the international division of Credit Lyonnais. When they were still solvent. Moving all the cars into one place was more important to him than the children having their gardens. This is France – worse, this is Provence: no one parks in the car park.

So, Van-Ly and I trudged back and forth across the cement with our usual hit record. I don't care what Koehler says, I did stop and untangle her once. Someone came to dump their rubbish in the bins and she was distracted (hey, distractions!). And then an ambulance drove by. No problem; we have an ambulance service in the village. They mostly act like taxis, taking the sick and elderly to their outpatient appointments. Another distraction. A couple of times she went roving and I turned and ran. She caught on as quickly as if we'd been walking. And a couple of times, I didn't catch her out. I still think we need to up the hit rate.

Once she cried and once she rolled in a puddle. I wanted to cry, too, if for no other reason than for the boredom of it all. I'm pretty sure that's why she was crying. Fields are better.

When Nick came back with Nala, she wanted to run to them. I turned and ran and she followed me. All right, she's not great. But for a Chow: she's great.

No training tomorrow. Press conference in Avignon for the artisan/artists exhibiting in a Salon, including my husband, the artist/artisan furniture maker. That and 1.30 euro will buy you a cup of coffee.

The Curse of the MP3 Player

Back to the field with Van-Ly and Dickens. The batteries gave out after two minutes, but – aha! -- I had brought spares. Which were already dead. Sigh. I had to put up with training without distractions. And did very well, you'll be pleased to know. Van-Ly wasn't bad, either, but about half the time I feel a brief tug before moving off, so she obviously isn't paying enough attention, yet. And sometimes she walks in front of me, but not too far: only about four or five feet. I only managed to catch her out once with a reverse, so maybe she has eyes in the back of her head? I think we'll do one more day of this before trying distractions. Hope it doesn't rain tomorrow. Is my poor baby ever going to get to play, again?

Training Day

What with two short session in the rain last week, I suppose today could be re-considered as Van-Ly's first day of training. It was really exciting! Oh, not the longe line. The longe line is bor-or-ring. The only thing that gets me through thirty to forty minutes of walking in circles, squares and trangles is my MP3 player. (Two shorter sessions would not be better because there'd be two sessions.) I'm listening to Little Dorrit and it's approaching the climax. Dickens is impossible to read, but wonderful to listen to with a good narrator. If it weren't for Audible.com, I'd never do any housework. I'd certainly not do dog training.

Anyway, we went into the field and battled the thistles. There are no trees except around the edges; I just walk what I judge to be about 50 feet at a time. Van-Ly is not always right up to the mark, but she puts up no resistance. She's a good girl. As for me, I haven't yet had to use the tape I bought for my mouth (KMODT, page 30).