The Dog.

Okay, here’s another one.  I think I am suffering from withdrawal symptoms of getting to talk about Me, Me, Me.

This what Blogging is.  So don’t kid yourselves.

However, The Dog.  The Blind, Demented and Incontinent Pug staggers on.  Actually, it is me who is staggering.  I mop up rivers of pee every day.  But what can I do?  She has forgotten where the garden is.  And I simply can’t have her put down for something quite so unimportant.  And I do have a tiled floor.  I might feel differently if I had a carpet, but I don’t.

I knew you see, when my lovely Rom died that there would be some ghastly dog that needed rescuing.  I just didn’t realise how awful this could be.  But I deserve nothing better.  Fifty years of wonderful dogs, and never a bad one, so this is par for the course.  It’s Pay Back Time.  Karma at it’s best.  Karma isn’t always bad.  Sometimes you get the chance to earn a few Brownie Points.

I have never trained a dog in all my life.  They just behaved.  But then I treated them and my children like recalcitrant puppies.  Please don’t do that.

I suspect that the children weren’t all that keen ultimately, but it worked when it mattered.  And I don’t care anyway.

They are all good kids.

I watch her most of the time these days, just in case.  But she isn’t looking like dying any time soon.  She no longer flinches when I stroke her, but I don’t want to go into that.  There is nothing even remotely unpleasant about this dog, so I cannot imagine why anyone would have wanted to hurt her.

I don’t know what I will do when the day comes.  But I will never rescue another dog.  Just too much that I don’t know.

 

Oh My.

I have finally managed to get back into My Bog, sorry, Blog.

The afore mention son messed about with my laptop, deleted the cookies and locked me out.

He also locked me out of every other Blog.  Sorry about that, Last Furlong, Bill Sticker and Legiron.  I haven’t actually abandoned you all.

But he and me have had a hilarious time trying to get him registered in the French System.  Really not easy.

However, because he lives with me The French System wants to know the ins and outs of my particulier cat’s backside.  And are now trying desperately hard to throw money at me, which I don’t actually want or need.  Although some might think I do.  The French State thinks I do.  The British State Pension always was a joke around here.

But they have decided that I can’t afford the 69 Euros a month that my Health Insurance costs me.  And I do reluctantly agree.  So I might accept that for free.

And then there is The Banque Alimantaire.  That’s The Food Bank to the uninitiated.  So I went.

This is a howl a minute.  It’s a Social Club.  We all queue up outside smoking  and chatting while we wait our turn.  And then they give you Free Food.  But I do have to say that the four extremely old ladies who are in charge are never anything other than totally pleasant. Probably because they don’t have much idea either.

The first two weeks I didn’t get very much, but free food is always welcome.  So no complaints there.

And then came the First Week of The Month.  Just too much for me to carry.  I stood on the step bemused, thinking how on earth am I going to carry all of this.  Until The Queen Bee, there is always one of those in these situations, told someone to help me.  And a very nice man did just that.  He carried my stuff back to my van for me.

They have all sussed that I am English by now, but this appears to be a bonus.  Even some of they Brits are poverty stricken, as it were.

I am not sure that I am.  But after two horrible van repair bills, I suspect that I might be.

This has been one of my better experiences, although France has always been good to me.

Actually, I am a bit schlushed by it all.  You find kindness in the most peculiar places.