Monday, March 22, 2010
The Village Idiot
So here I am at the Universe Cafe on a damp and gray Monday which has speeded up slightly now that it is late afternoon. Because this village is open on Sunday mornings, it's very dead here Monday mornings.
Dead was, in fact, the question of the day. I had to ask the vet to assure and then re-assure me that dogs are not euthanized in France. I brought BonBon home for home-care; changed her name to Caramel (Cara for short -- 'dear' in Spanish) and cared for her non-stop. The vet taught me how to give her the injections, so I practiced with the pain medicine first and then the antibiotics. Hey, I know what's important.
With three useless legs, she was a patehtic case. I put her in the baby crib in my room; snuggled her into two blankets I bought at Emmahus, found some dog toys and then did laundry again and again as she did dog business in her bed or through the spoke of the crib. Poor thing, it was heartbreaking. And rather amazing.
So was my emotional breakdown.
I suddenly felt like Juno but without the courage; a 16 year old who turns up pregnant and wants to keep the baby but knows she can't care for her.
With sobs, I gave Caramel to the vet today so they can transfer her to Isle sur Sorgue SPA. I did not save her life for them to kill her, but I have been told they won't do that. Of course I wanted to bring her back to America and care for her forever, but I know that's not the right thing for either of us.
I was told that she's young and cute and will be adopted as soon as she recovers. She needs a really nice family and farm ... and French ticks.
I have two lap dogs (aged 5 and 10) and a new life that is evolving. She's a young and crazy gal, born to run. Once her legs work. Her problems have overwhelmed me, so I have rendered back to Cesar what was Cesar's. Did you know that Cesar is a French dogfood?
Since I left the vet's,I have spent much of the day in a trance. Not France. Trance. I pray she gets a nice family. I feel her finla licks on my face. The sick-doggy smell of the house makes me yearn for her.
When I ventured outside a few minutes ago, I bumped into an acquantince of mine -- a guy who lives in a small studio down the street from me. I think he has Downs. I have been friends with him for years; we are four kiss friends, although I do not know his name. Have not known his name for the ten years I know him.
Nonetheless, when I told him I had sold the house and was cleaning and packing, he told me to please call him if I needed him to lend a hand.
I have been so taken with the kindness of my village people -- who either know me simply as Suzy or La Dame Americaine--that I feel like the village idiot for having sold this house. Alors.