Mixed Bag

Thursday, July 31, 2014

     From the look of Beau's turds this morning, he swallowed the entire packet of rat poison Tuesday.  I spent a sleepless night listening to his breathing: very rapid and labored at times.  The rat poison works by creating blood clots which kill via pulmonary embolisms.  So if, 48 hours after probable or certain ingestion of the rat poison, a blood test confirms poisoning, treatment with vitamin K-1, an antidote, must begin immediately and continue for three weeks.

     I drive to Rieux, two towns to the east of Caunes, for the 10:00 a.m. follow-up appointment with Dr. Mougin, who is rapidly becoming my favorite person.

     "I will send you a text message this evening when I have the result, as I'll be out of the office.  If it's positive, you have to bring him back tomorrow and we'll start the treatment.  Even if it's negative, I'll do another blood test in eight days just to be sure there's nothing."

     While Beau and I are in his office, Dr. Mougin also checks Beau's anal glands for inflammation (a common problem), looks at his paws (hairy, they attract burrs, particularly in the webbing between toes), and shows me how to clean spaniel's ears.

     "The canal is like an 'L', and very long --there's no way you can put a nozzle in and reach the bottom", he tells me.  "So you have to pull the ear up gently and dribble the solution in --then you take hold of the bottom of the ear canal, which is just above his eyes-- and you massage the area between your thumb and forefinger.  When he shakes his head, out come the largest particles of ear wax.  You take cotton balls, roll them onto your finger and wipe the inside of the ear to remove the rest."  Beau has always fought me every time I've tried to get at his ears because I've done so clumsily.  Dr. Mougin makes short work of the task.

     Beau drools on car rides, constantly and thickly, no matter what precautions I take, so I take the opportunity to ask what I can do.  He explains,

     "It's like car-sickness in a child.  If you're going on a trip, you give him this  pill --he reaches for a packet in his medicine cabinet-- 30 minutes before and he will be fine.  In fact, in many cases, once he has a nausea-free car ride, he never needs the medication again, because having had a pleasant car ride, he doesn't associate the car with illness.  It's largely psychological"

     That would be a relief, because presently, a large portion of my car is spotted with Beau's saliva --not to mention the clothes I wear in the car.  I'm more upset about Beau's discomfort than having to launder my clothes, but if drool didn't fly everywhere when Beau is in the car, it would be nice.

     Finally, Dr. Mougin warns me about laurier rose, the sweet smelling shrub that grows wild everywhere here.

     "I've never had a case of intoxication, but it is poisonous --for humans as well as animals."

     Laurier rose is otherwise known as oleander.  It grows in front of my front door, a lovely effect, but now that I know, I've got to keep Beau from putting it in his mouth.

     I leave Dr. Mougin grateful for having a vet so well-informed on all aspects of caring for a dog, and await his text message this evening.  I'm now aware there's one more thing to be careful of --oleander; and, I'm concerned that the poison test results will be positive.  On the latter account, I've a trip to Mèze tomorrow I'll have to call to cancel.  And I need to go to Carcassonne this afternoon to track down the water and electrical companies: I haven't yet received a bill and must establish an account to be paid automatically from my bank account in Caunes before the services are turned off.  Lots on my mind, I drive slowly back to Caunes and arriving within the village limits, down the hill designated rue Joseph Sicard.  At the bottom of it is my street, and parking.

     There is a parking space, the last, just at the  beginning of Porte de Narbonne.  Frazzled by concern, I misjudge the angle I need to slide into the space and scratch the door of the parked car adjoining:

     Aaargh! 

     What to do?  I've damaged my own car before, but never someone else's.  I re-park the car, correctly, this time, and get Beau out, then head for my house.  In the basement I have "deep scratch remover cream" and an accompanying microfiber cloth.  I grab the stuff, then some paper towels and water and head for the parking area.

     When I made my error in judgment, a man and a woman were talking animatedly behind me.  I expected that they would look up from their conversation to say something about my mishap, but they kept talking, and shortly, moved off, without so much as a glance in my direction.  My error seems to be known only to myself.

     The car I've scratched is a navy blue Volkswagen, model "Golf",  with "United Kingdom" license plates.  Inside the car, between the front seats, I spy an enormous Blue Guide: France.  Well, at least I'll be able to write the note informing the owners in grammatically correct English (which would be less likely in French, thereby adding another wrinkle to my worries).  I wash down the point of impact, the driver-side front door: much of the evidence of the contact disappears, but I have scratched the car door some and can't make the marks entirely disappear.  I apply the cream and rub it in with the cloth: more scratches disappear, but not all.  Having done all I can to minimize the damage, I return to the house.

     I look for a piece of paper and a pen, and having found them, write:

     Dear Fellow-Driver:

          I SCRATCHED your car inadvertently.  If you need to contact me for insurance purposes, I live at 10, porte de Narbonne.  If you leave me a note with your telephone number, I will contact you.  I regret having created such an inconvenience.  MARTA VARELA, 10 porte de Narbonne.

     Grabbing my knapsack and Beau --who will shortly have the walk he was denied this morning on account of the visit to Dr. Mougin-- I close the door and walk down porte de Narbonne towards the place of the accident.

     However, the Volkswagen Golf is gone.  In its place is a silver Peugeot from which an older man and woman are exiting.  He is carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers, no doubt a gift for those they are visiting.  I put the note in a file I'm keeping in the car should I chance upon the owners --at least I can demonstrate that I tried to do the right thing.

     Walking past the place d'Europe on the way to the soccer stadium where Beau always has his exercise, I realize it's market day in Caunes and decide to buy some fruit from my neighbor, Nicole Granier.  There are no apricots to be had, nor any mirabelles; but there are white and yellow peaches, and those small, round, green plums known as Reines Claude --Queen Claudes.  I buy a mix of the three, paying Lolita, the granddaughter of Julien, another grower and neighbor.  Last time I saw her she was working at an internship at Caunes' tourist office. Her internship over, she helps Nicole on market days.

     Buying the fruit makes me feel much better.  As I walk towards the Stade I hear the noonday church bells ring and take in the day: it is sunny and gorgeous, dry and the wind is minimal.  The day so far has been a mixed bag, but the cycles of the season don't change.  The grapes are ripening on the vine, in a few weeks the recolte will begin.  There's still a chance August, when everything closes and most French are on vacation, will live up to everyone's hopes.  And then, maybe, the owners of the Volkswagen Golf  will be far away, remembering their lovely holiday in France more than the damage I inflicted on their car.