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The move from Spain to France with Rio, part 5

our big, fluffy Basque sheepdog aged 17 months. By Sue Dayman,

We're still unpacking boxes - I didn’t realise we had so much paraphernalia! We must have forgotten what we had in storage and now find we have hundreds of books, countless lamps and a myriad of mirrors. There’s not such an excellent choice of shopping facilities here as in Spain, where we had an absolute field day once we found the house to buy. It’s been great fun spending, but not so amusing trying to find homes for everything, as the house has only limited storage, and therefore Rio‘s enjoying his obstacle courses in every room jumping over priceless possessions. The nice thing is we can take Rio into shops with us here in France - not food shopping, before you start wondering. We’ve just bought two comfortable lie-back chairs with footstools for our second TV-cum-reading room, and hope that Rio remembers he has his own armchair in the Grange so he can’t sit on ours. We’ve discovered he’s been creeping into the ‘sejour’ (lounge-dining-kitchen) during the night and secretly stretches out on our cream faux suede sofas. We know this because there’s evidence of cream coloured fur, although he’s magically back on his rug in our bedroom when we wake up in the morning.

We’ve purchased a magnificent, king-size telly for the main room and the bloke's here now putting in Sky Plus so hubby can get all the sports channels and I can even pause Coronation Street if the phone rings. Up until now, we’ve had no television to watch, we haven’t missed it, as there’s so much wildlife to watch in the garden, including Rio and his doggie friends Oggar and Lucky. Rio’s been following the Sky chap around all morning in his usual ‘helpful’ mode, which means getting right under his feet. He’s mesmerised watching him drilling through the two feet thick stone walls for the cables; I expect he’s wondering how he can do it without any paws or teeth. We’ve also bought a very heavy iron and concrete table for the back garden, the trouble is it’s so heavy that we can’t move it. We chose it because we thought it would be 'Rio-proof' - meaning that he can’t chew it. Before we left our rented villa in Spain, we checked over all the furniture, and found many tiny holes made by his baby needle-like teeth, and a few bits and pieces actually chewed. We spent several days filling wood and varnishing. Rio likes the new telly - so much that he leapfrogged up at the plasma screen when the Pedigree Chum ad was on, and we thought his feet were going to go right through it. We both leapt up and shouted at him and he jumped out of his skin and lay down on the new cream carpet so we shouted again and he sat on his own rug. Poor Rio, it’s a dog’s life.

We received an invitation to dinner at a new friend’s house - Rio included. It took only fifteen minutes to drive there, down pretty country lanes, along interesting hedges full of wildlife and delicate flowers, and over the river, but then we drove back and forth for another half an hour trying to find the actual address, with Rio squealing at every rabbit, donkey or deer on the way. It’s not often around here that you have a house number or name, just a named area and hope for the best. Of course, if I could work the Satellite Navigation in the car it might be easier, but the instructions are all in Spanish, which I never did completely master. After having knocked on a few doors for directions, and finding that we were miles away from our destination, we eventually arrived at Laraine’s house and parked. Rio jumped excitedly out of the car just as another guest drove up. We attached his lead as we didn’t want him to get lost so far from home not knowing his whereabouts, remembering that he is not yet fully grown, and not yet obedient enough to stay with us at all times (will he ever?) While the aperitif was being served in beautiful golden evening sunshine on the terrace, I put Rio onto a long chain under the trees with a bowl of water. He soon got lonely there and whined and barked his high pitched bark until I could stand no more and brought him up onto the terrace to join us and the other guests. I attached him to a post, but every time he moved it sounded something like a prisoner’s ball and chain being dragged and scraped across concrete, spoiling the atmosphere, so I let him off….and he went off… like a rocket….and disappeared. Again.

Rio

I sipped some chilled champagne, making an effort to join in the conversation, when all the while I was wondering if Rio was lost…or under a car. It felt just like being a new mum again, when you can think of nothing else but whether the baby‘s sick or o.k. without you. All I could think of was my Rio‘s safety. The beautiful sound of slow blues-jazz was playing in the background, breaking into my thoughts, and I remembered a time when I met the late Nina Simone in a famous jazz club in London, only to tell her, when she asked, that I didn’t like jazz…

The first course was served - a wonderful concoction of fresh prawns cooked in olive oil, garlic and chilli pepper. Where’s Rio? Hasn’t he smelled the food? I was still worrying. The next course was presented: delicious, juicy chicken oven baked in garlic, and at last, Rio turned up salivating onto the stone floor. He cantered the circumference of the table, checking out who would be an easy touch for a crumb…no one obliged. He sloped disappointedly under my seat and stayed there throughout the rest of the meal, hoping for somebody to drop something edible accidentally onto his quivering nose. When Laraine got up and started to remove the dishes from the table to the kitchen, Rio thought she was stealing his well-waited-for scraps. He suddenly jumped up and wrinkled his big black nose at her. This used to be a prelude to a snarl, which used to be a prelude to a freeze, prior to a nip. I told him off and he slunk back submissively under my chair while we polished off dessert and the rest of the champagne. Life is good.

Rio went off with his little pal Lucky yesterday and we couldn’t find them once again. Eventually, after several hours, they came back coloured orange! It’s the soil here, beautifully rich, fertile….and orange. Except in our garden where, for some reason, we have clay, just as in our last three gardens. Jolly hard, difficult-to-dig clay. Perhaps I should have been a potter, then it would be ideal. I say it’s difficult for us to dig, but Rio doesn’t seem to have any trouble with it, judging by the tunnels we often find, although he hopes we think it‘s the moles. At least he’s learned to return home, which means we may not get any fencing to enclose the garden, which will, thankfully, save some of the old banknotes. He was covered in burrs yet again, too. The brush wouldn’t go through his fur and I had to pull knots of fuzz off him, which he wasn‘t very happy about, but resigns himself to after making a bit of fuss. Normally, he enjoys being groomed; he gets a good scratch and brush and even joins in biting out any knots I can’t do, or thorns I can‘t remove. I’ve been saving the fur, as it’s soft and fleecy - a bit like the fur of a llama. I just need someone who owns a loom to weave it and make a pair of socks! I have two bags full now, more than enough for a pair of baby’s booties. Baa baa black sheep have you any wool; yes sir, yes sir two bags full…

If you have enjoyed these articles, please email me at:- suedayman@yahoo.com
Or even if you haven’t, I would love to hear about you and your canine friends.

More next week.
© Sue Dayman Mauroux, Lot.

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