This is not an easy week about which to say anything pertinent nor to post pictures featuring fewer than four legs - not for the first time I hear you mutter. One could begin by saying that it's been a hot week, a very hot week, which is not unusual for mid-August. Like the dogs (when not scratching my orbiting heat bumps) I spend a lot of time in air-conditioned horizontal contemplation, waiting for autumn.
If truth be told, what we've done mostly over the past several days is to care for little Prickles. For some time he has been ultra-fussy about his food and liable to throw up anything that upsets him. (Fortunately, Jones is a good cleaner-upperer.) This month he began throwing up just about everything he ate which we found most disconcerting. The washing machine has worked overtime. So off to the vet he went, much against his inclination.
An x-ray showed the cause to be a stomach tumour. We decided against an operation as he's at least 13 or 14 years old, never mind that he hates entering the surgery. Instead he has been prescribed cortisone and Jones has put him on a diet of liquids and patés that he seems to cope with - most of the time. We don't know whether the tumour is malignant and it's impossible to know how long the little dog may survive. At the weekend Slavic and I completed the grave we've been preparing for him, fully expecting that he would shortly be occupying it.
In the meanwhile we've continued to take him with us in the car (as usual) - which he loves - and sat with him at night, or part of it at least. So far, somewhat to our surprise, on his limited diet, there has been no obvious deterioration in his condition. Most of the day he spends in his basket or sprawled on the couch. In the mornings he accompanies Barbara out of the front door for a brief leg-lifter while the rest of the pack set out with me on a trek around the hills.
I make my way clockwise around our circuit, Barbara travels anti-clockwise. We confer briefly midway and meet at the gates on our return. At that stage the dogs are awarded treats (very important: it encourages the stragglers to come in promptly); Mello dives into her bath, I prepare doggy breakfasts, Jones makes coffee and we get on with the day.
Pally inevitably comes back last. He remains by nature a loner. When he isn't zonked out in the heat, he noses off around the garden or park until he finds something of interest. Then he barks. He barks a lot. His persistent barks in her garden one afternoon drove an exasperated Jones to investigate.
The cause turned out to be a large snake that Pally was confronting. So she yelled for me to come back from the park. (I have my uses). By the time I'd arrived on the scene, snake gripper in hand, the serpent had slithered off into the undergrowth, where we left it. Except on open ground, they're all but invisible. What's more it was a big snake. I don't believe in fighting above my weight.
This week we started collecting carobs. At last they've started dropping from the trees - at least a month late. This season's beans are smaller and drier than usual so it takes a lot more work to fill a bucket. Since they're sold by weight, small and dry is bad news for farmers and good news for the merchants.
As Armenio pointed out to me, it's the seeds lined up within the pod that are valued by the food industry. The pods themselves are essentially fodder. With dry beans the merchants get more seeds for their money. For the most part our carobs are still tinged with green and unwilling to part with the branches. Unless whacked down, they'll take their time to fall over the next several months.
By evening the temperatures slip back to the mid-20s, ideal for dining outside. A mozzie candle serves to keep the little blighters at bay. Jones kindly prepares dinner. I keep the dogs in order, keep an eye on the garden, observe the alignment of the planets, look out for any aliens and watch out for the lizard that hunts for his supper around the patio lights (busy man!).
The little fellow lurks in the shadows until he spots a likely meal, generally a moth. Then he sneaks up, gathers his energies and zap!, a flick of the tongue and they're gone. There was a real glut of moths a few weeks back. Now they're much thinner on the ground - or rather, around the lights on the wall. (What there isn't a shortage of is wasps, yellow-jackets that pester the dogs each time I put down their dishes.)
MARIE'S LIZARD
I often reflect how useful it would be to run effortlessly around a vertical wall Spiderman style and to grow new body parts to replace those that get lost or damaged. It really appeals. Evolution has failed us. On the other hand I don't much fancy a diet of moths, as much as this might promote my weight-loss programme (down 5kgs in two months and counting).
FROM JONES'S NEPHEW IN CAPE TOWN
We have also been watching local TV and learning lots of Portuguese grammar for exams due in October. Portugal's male-leaning language doesn't seem to arouse the same gender controversies as upset (some!) English speakers. I note that the Guardian, to which I subscribe online, has become gender sensitive. In a questionnaire the newspaper inquired whether I identified as male, female or other - the first time I have faced such question. I responded in the "other" block that I identified as a retired European expat in Portugal. Seems adequate to me.
ROLL ON AUTUMN!
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