Late this morning, my phone rang. Seeing an unfamiliar cell number, I answered in French.
“Madame Wilson? Do you speak French? My English is…I am here from the kennel, for your dogs.”
What followed was a predictable amount of confusion as I tried to explain that we expected them tomorrow, and were unprepared, and there must be some mistake?
“It is a…a…I am sorry, my English is very….”
“So say it in French!” I snapped, clutching a surprised (but very willing) Jalouse against me. Jolie, hearing my tone, jumped up and set about licking every square inch of my face. She likes to be thorough.
So, apparently, they screwed up and the car isn’t available tomorrow, so they…well, they came today. Obviously. But they won’t charge us for the extra night; isn’t that sweet?
“It’s not–thank you; that’s kind–it’s just that I will miss them.” I have a hell of a vocabulary these days: thanks to Harry Potter and French Glamour, I can now say that I am distressed, overwhelmed, heartbroken. But saying those things connects me to them, and the kennel woman looked pitying enough as it was when she reminded me that I could call to check on them whenever I wanted.
So I bundled them into the modified van with scribbled feeding instructions, a couple of toys, and one of my socks (Jalouse really, really likes it), and then I was on my own.
Now, on the one hand, it’s just as well: on Sunday I broke in a new pair of running shoes, and all but broke my own stupid foot in the process. The realization that I would actually have to do all of the little things like icing, ibuprofen, bandaging, and staying off it was slow to sink in, but by today it was becoming clear that the dogs would have had to get most of their exercise by chasing each other around the couch. Not that they’d mind–it’s their favorite pass-time–but real walks are better for them. So now I can ice and elevate and medicate without guilt.
I should be able to, I mean.
Every time I leave the kitchen, my eyes automatically cut to the dogs’ water bowl. It’s been half full since this morning, but still looks clear: a simple refill is in order. Except that that’s a waste of water, now, isn’t it? Eventually I had to put the bowl away. And every time I pop ice cubes out of the tray, I listen for them to come running into the kitchen for chips, and I expect to see them on every piece of furniture that I see, and the place just feels…empty.
But in a couple of days we’ll be basking in Nice, and then we’ll be back, and then they’ll be back, and we’ll be tan and they’ll be groomed, and I can go back to being desperately annoyed by their many, many shenanigans. And that will be nice, too.