Never believe the hype that states that living with woofers reduces your blood pressure and increases your general wellness. If the past week is anything to go by, I’m due in the loony bin any day now. The woofers have been wandering – well one of them has. The once impenetrable perimeter fence has been scaled, or dug under, not once but twice by Sherman. Naturally he planned his first bid for freedom under the cover of darkness, I’d heard him, Arry and Neo doing their usual screech at one of the local dogs having its nightly walk along the road below and then a little squeak. I called the dogs in but only two returned. Muttering obscenities about the idiocy of owning 8 woofers (I know its still hard to say 8 and not 9) and why do torch batteries only run out when you need to use such a utility, I grabbed my phone (has torch) and went down to the bottom of the garden. No Sherman. Now as any experienced dog owner knows, you must not fly off the handle and start screaming your pup’s name when they are missing – it will only scare them but this is very difficult when you can’t see a flipping thing and your Border terrier is brown. I called Arry down and asked him where his little buddy had gone. My faithful (unless there’s a rabbit or a cat or the possibility of either) German Shepherd ran straight to the same bit of fencing I’d searched and stood there, pointing his face towards the lower road. Panicking, I ran out of the front gate and onto said track – nothing. I came back and asked Arry again, who was still standing there looking at me and then back at the same spot. And there was Sherbs, pottering up and down below us, not looking the slightest bit perturbed at what had happened. I ran back out again and called him. He ran towards me like one of those scenes in a Disney movie, tail wagging and smiling face, and then swung a right into a neighbour’s garden chasing a cat. Having found him, again, I carried him back to his waiting bestie where they joyously reunited no doubt with excited conversations about his escapade whilst I poured a very large glass of red.
The following morning I went out and checked the boundary line. I found the first hole right where Arry had pointed it out, a minute gap but Sherman is a terrier after all. And then I found another and another – the mischievous mite had carved out more tunnels than The Great Escape. He made another bid for freedom the next day but this time I knew exactly where he’d gone and once retrieved from the field opposite, I shut him in the apartment garden whilst I shored up the defences with logs, heavy ones. Until Denis is back and fit for work, I’m hoping and praying that my temporary measures will curtail another attempt on my sanity. I can’t really blame Sherman, it’s in his genetics – his mum Alice chased a cat through the old drain between the back garden and the courtyard this morning, something I thought she wouldn’t do again since she nearly got stuck the last time but she’s been on a diet. And speaking of diets, Coco Loco needs to go on one as, owing to his belly just about touching the floor, his wraps keep sliding off. I spend half my day following him with a mop.
Denis had his hernia operation on Tuesday and I went to the dentist. Apparently I have too many teeth on my bottom jaw which considering I don’t have enough on the top one, seems a little unbalanced. Annie, my dentist, has booked me in for a little dental reconstruction at the end of February, something she delighted told me would involve an injection or two. Dentists have a weird sense of humour. Denis had to stay in hospital overnight and owing to the fact that his phone battery died, couldn’t call me. His sister, Nathalie, thankfully did but not before I’d taken out my frustrations on the concrete ‘shelving’ in the utility room with a sledgehammer. I impressed the hell out of Nick our ‘everything that needs doing I can’ guy although he did give me a wide berth for the rest of the day. D did pop in the next morning, chauffeured by his brother Thierry, first to see Mumo of course before I steered him back to the car and told him in no uncertain terms to go to bed or I’d sic him on Dr Lefevre.
Aside from trying to prevent breakouts and keep my gardener from ripping out stitches, I’ve been busy getting the plants ready for the week ahead. The weather is turning with possible snow showers by Thursday. The roses have been cut back and the palm tree wrapped up, the latter being a bit of botched job as I’d used any remaining plastic fencing to stop you-know-who from doing you-know-what. We need to stock up on fat balls for the birds too, looking out from my terrace the other day reminded one of a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds” – thousands of oiseaux perched on the bare trees staring down at me expectantly. Mind you, it’s a bit of a Russian Roulette scenario as a trio of mercenary buzzards have decided our garden is easy pickings – pigeon feathers everywhere.
On a final note, I just wanted to say thank you for all the condolences for the passing of Gizmo. He is much missed especially as he was always curled up at the top of my bed every night, wanting a tummy tickle before lights out. The sweetest of natures and always the gentleman dog, he never gave me a day of trouble. Unlike some…
“Terriers are problem solvers. They’ll do what you tell them, but only if it happens to be in line with what they wanted to do anyway.” (Garth Stein)
Widow plus woofs 