C'est fini

At 6:30 this evening I was with my neighbor at the vets as the decision was made to put Picasso to rest. He had been suffering from seizures all day and they were just getting worse. My neighbor had done what was right: she gave Picasso time, a chance to see whether or not he might recover and when it was apparent to everyone that recovery was not going to happen she let him go. It was the best thing for him. We both held him and pet him in his last moments and shed our tears. I let her have the last few moments with him, he was her dog not mine, and then we hugged and cried and said what a good dog that snaggle-toothed slobber hound was. Despite having moments of irritation with him and annoyance at feeling bound to take care of a dog that wasn't mind I cared for him a lot. He just wanted to be loved. It's hard to imagine that he will no longer visit us, resting his big, slobbery head on my lap while I sit and read. Yes, I will no longer have to clean the drool from my pants or mop up the watery mess in the kitchen, but I will miss him greatly, as will Ally.

Farewell Picasso you were loved and will be missed.

Shake, shake, shake

"BANG! scritch, scratch, scratch" were the sounds that awoke us at 4:00 this morning. Bleary eyes staring at the clock I thought, "what the hell was that?" DH, barely more awake than I grumbled, "Picasso (more like Piiiicaaassssooooo...)"
"You think it's him?" I asked. "He never tries to get out of his cave (he's closed in with some plastic crates, that's all). "Should we go check on him?" I mumbled. "hmmphh..." was DH's reply. At that point Ally jumped off the bed and went to investigate on her own. I figured I'd better check it out. I threw on my warm, fuzzy turquoise bathrobe and made my way to the kitchen. I unbolted the door and new immediately something was wrong.
Half the red plastic carton barricade was scattered about the floor and there at the end of the hallway lay Picasso in a pool of his own vomit. He wasn't moving, but breathing very rapidly and heavily. "Oh god," I thought, "this is it. I'm going to witness this poor dog dying." I went to him and crouched next to him on the floor, petting him and trying to speak soothingly trying to calm him down. DH and Ally appeared and he took over watching over Picasso as I ran to get my keys, let myself out the back door and ran upstairs to Picasso's owners apartment. I stood there in bare feet with only a bathrobe on ringing the doorbell and banging on the door. No one answered. "C'mon, wake up, " I moaned to myself. I yelled down the stairs to the slightly opened door, "They're not answering. " I gave the bell one more looong ring and then went back downstairs. I put on some clothes, got my cell phone and attempted to call our neighbor. I couldn't successfully dial so I handed over the task to DH and took over watching the dog who was now suffering from seizures. No success with the phone.
Luckily, DH once had a dog with epilepsy so he had a general idea of what to do for Picasso. We got a blanket and wrapped him in it and when he started seizing we held him and stroked him and let him know we where there. DH took over trying to wake the neighbors, he banged on their door and finally started hitting our ceiling under their bedroom in an attempt to wake them. While he was banging away at the door I was alone with Picasso and I admit I lost it. He tried to stand up and kept falling and I couldn't get him to lie down again. He kept walking into things and didn't seem to know or see where he was going. It was heart wrenching. I tried to hold him and tearfully begged him to lie down, but there wasn't much I could do. Finally, after about 40 minutes they woke up. We stayed with Picasso as they (or at least she) tried to get ahold o f the vets. She was so worried that he had been poisoned by licking the Frontline she has put on his butt that evening. I thought that was pretty absurd, but didn't say anything. There was nothing poisonous in his cave, the garden, or our house that he could have eaten. by the time she had gotten a hold of the vet DH was covered in bile and nastiness I was tear-stained, but not quite as filthy as he was.
We went with our neighbors to the vets. I sat in the back of the car and stoked Picasso the whole way. Thankfully, he didn't have any seizures in the car. By the time we got to the clinic he seemed a bit better. Breathing heavy, but no longer having seizures. Oh god, when he would seize I was so worried he would swallow that big tongue of his or bite it off when his jaws involuntarily clamped shut. Tears are welling up as I think about it.
We got back from the vets about 6:30 a.m. not any the wiser as to why he was having seizures, but reassured that he was under the supervision of the vet.
We took our distressed Ally for a walk, ate some food, took a shower to rid ourselves of the mornings trauma (as much as possible) then crawled back in bed for a few hours sleep.
Our neighbor stopped by this afternoon to tell me the vets think Picasso has brain tumor. His seizures have continued and he seems to be in a coma. She was so upset. I felt terrible, what can you do or say in such a situation. For all DH and I complain about their not treating Picasso the way we think they should she really does love that dog. She cried as she said, "Three weeks, three more weeks and I would have been able to move into the new apartment with him. He would have had the home he deserves for the end of his life." See she really did not like leaving him in his cave all the time. Just when she had to make a difficult choice Picasso didn't come out on top at first. She was trying to remedy it by building her own apartment where Picasso would be able to live. Unfortunately, it looks like it's just a little too late.

I'm going to go with her tonight to the vets to see Picasso. If I were in her situation I would be thankful for some moral support, to have a friend there who cares about the dog and understands. Keep Picasso in your thoughts. At least he seems to not be in pain and right now, that seems to be all we can hope for.

Losing the war

that villain dirt is at it again. With his lieutenants; clutter, dog hair, and cobwebs who command the foot-soldiers, those pesky and indomitable dust bunnies. Does anyone else feel like they are fighting a huge war and losing every battle. Yeah, there are a few victorious skirmishes here and there but they are short lived and seemingly futile. I spent hours on Saturday, assisted by my DH, cleaning up the house. I went so far as to pull all the cushions off the couch and vacuum them. We swept, vacuumed, dusted and within in 2 hours after this massive effort took place the house was a disaster again. How is that possible?
Our household consists of two adults, a dog, and a part-time visitor in the form of a snaggle-toothed slobber hound. Yes, some of the disgusting stains on the floor can be attributed to that last slobbery being, but really it shouldn't be this hard to keep the house in decent shape. Yet, all signs point to the contrary. I sweep practically everyday sometimes more than once and still we have great rolling dust bunnies. It's ridiculous. I sweep and then an hour later I see this huge ball of dust and fur rolling down the hallway like tumbleweed across the desert. What gives? Is there anyone else out there who enters their house and just looks around in despair at the endless clutter?
Even when we owned barely two pieces of furniture our apartment was cluttered. If there is a table it is inevitably covered in papers, used Kleenex (disgusting, I know), electrical cords, boxes, books, and general crap. How is it ever to be tamed? Does anyone know a foolproof way of shaming your papers and junk into compliance?
I love when my brother-in-law says, "why bother? it's just going to get dirty again." What a great philosophy. And it's even better because he expresses this point of view to my mother. Who gags in indignation at the thought. I wouldn't be surprised if her head started spinning around every time he said something like that in her presence. The best part is that by comparison even my minimal efforts at cleanliness take on a glow of victory in the eyes of my mother. To my brother-in-law all I have to say is, "Keep up the good work."
With that I'm going to have to excuse myself there are some nasty cobwebs in the bathroom trying to overrun my defenses and engulf the shower, mirror and sink.

Once more into the fray!

the walk of death

Ah yes, the joys of walking 2 dogs at once! And yet, even though I'm being dragged along by these two beasts it doesn't stop people from rolling down there windows and asking directions. The sad part is that even though I've now been living here for about 7 months - yeah, it's been that long, I can't believe it - I have no idea where anything is, and even if I did know where the road was that they wanted I probably wouldn't understand them when they asked or be able to adequately explain if I did understand!

Josh said this picture looked like I was about to shoot the dogs! Ha, ha...but there are days the thought has crossed my mind. Well, maybe not actually shooting them but, you know....
I would have a picture of the most nerve wracking part of any walk with the dogs - l'espace de la mort: the gap of death, but I'm big chicken (more on that later). There is a section of the road that is very narrow, curves, and has stone walls on either side of the road this is what I have so fondly termed the gap of death , or l'espace de la mort when I'm feeling saucy and want to be more French. It seems as though EVERY time we are passing through the gap of death a car, inevitably, drives through at the same time! Now, rationally, I know that two cars can pass through this gap - I've seen it with my own two eyes. Yet, I can't help thinking we're going to be run down. Man, those two dogs take up nearly as much space as a car! Luckily I have yet to be caught with both dogs when TWO cars are going through. As I said you would have photographic evidence, but when I went to take a picture of it there were four people standing around teh apartment right next to l'espace de la mort and I felt stupid and silly taking a picture of it. So...I didn't. I just kept walking. Then when of the elderly gentlemen was walking a few feet behind me and I thought, "oh hell, now what am I going to do? I'll look stupid if I just turn around and walk back. But I don't want to walk all around the neighborhood, I just finished a walk with the dogs." So, like an idiot, I pretended that I was looking for something that I dropped until he was passed me then I turned around and scooted home. How dumb. When he passed he gave me a very bemused, "Bonjour!" and I just know he was snickering thinking, "silly foreigners." Ah well, I was acting silly and stupid and I didn't even get the picture that I wanted!!! Maybe tomorrow.
Hey, tomorrow's thanksgiving - yay! We've been invited by Marion, our Canadian neighbor, to join her in going to Vevey, Switzerland to celebrate with some of her friends and co-workers. It should be fun, even if it means two hours in the car (one hour there, one hour back). I'll let you know how it goes!
So, if I don't post tomorrow- Happy Turkey Day everyone.

Martha Stewart of France

Yep, just call me Martha Mosslins please. Since I have discovered all this free time on my hands - granted it's free time I should be putting to better use, like finding a job, volunteering, or learning French - I have gotten the baking bug. Scary, I know. As many of you know my skills in the kitchen are dubious, at best. But, I do seem to have a knack for baking, thanks mom. I'm sure these talents with a pastry fork were past while in the womb from my mother - the world's best baker. Then again, I did spend a year working in a bakery in Williamsburg, Virginia so that might have something to do with it as well. Who knows? The point is, I have become a fanatic about baking. I like to try out something new each week. Josh, naturally, wants the same things over and over: chocolate snack cake, for example, but that's just not much fun.
Today I was feeling adventurous so I went on a mission into the neighbors yard to steal some apples. After fending off their massive boxer, Picasso...ok, really all I had to worry about was being slobbered on. He's so nice and all he wants is company. The only danger I was in was drowning in his drool as he jumped all over me when I entered the gate. I brought Ally along as a distraction but she's all but worthless. Our pretty, pretty princess puppy does not care to be drooled on, has no desire to run around and play with the much bigger Picasso, and was merely glad to be able to roll around in the grass. So, to get on with the apple stealing. I scrambled up the small, ivy entangled apple tree, which guards Picasso's dog house and started pulling off the best looking apples. Having not thought ahead I am now stuck with my hands full of apples and no good way to get down. I think about dropping them but they'd probably land on the dogs, who are now standing there watching my every move. They probably think I'm getting these juicy apples as a treat for them. As I'm thinking this Picasso lifts his leg and gently pees on the base of the apple tree - is he trying to encourage me to remain up in the tree forever, or is this his way of saying "good luck"? Thanks buddy.
A bit of juggling and the use of my shirt as a basket and I safely find my two feet planted solidly on the ground with the prized apples in possession. Time to start the baking.
After a quick, get away from Picasso. Throw a ball in one direction and run in the other; works every time. Ally heads to the couch for her daily nap - stealing apples is hard work- and I head to the kitchen to start my first attempt at a pie crust. The goal of today's baking is to end up with a Country Apple Tart. I put on Saturday's Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me and get busy making the pastry.
Yep, I even wear an apron. My baking has gotten better but the floury mess I make has not. As you can see I was successful in putting all the ingredients together and getting not only my tart crust, but the filling made as well. Let's here it for Martha Mosslins!!! wooohooo.
Check out that lovely, unbaked Apple tart. It's just begging to be put in that hot, 475 degree F (which is like 246 degree C) oven. Actually, the conversions get me all the time so I had my fingers crossed that I actually had it at the right temperature et voila, after about 30 minutes out it comes.
Hey, hey not too shabby, huh? Alright, you can see a few places got a little singed. It's my first try I'm hopeful that it will be prettier next time, but I have no doubts it'll taste fabulous. I'll have to give you the report after we try some out tonight with Vanilla ice cream. Can you believe that I didn't even taste it when it was hot out of the oven? No, I can't believe it either. Married life sure has changed me. To think just a few months ago I would have eaten it all myself, but now that I'm married I think of my hubby first... Ha! who am I kidding? I just didn't have any vanilla ice cream - Josh is going to get some on his way home!
Well, thanks for sharing in my exciting baking adventures. Now I'm off to do a little knitting. what, did you think I'd do something productive like clean the house or look for jobs? I did that this morning. Maybe I'll go straighten my underwear drawer - just kidding, even I'm not that Martha Stewartish!
Well, this is Martha Mosslins saying Bon Appetite!