Once-dashing encounter

While we were talking, Nando had come up next to me. I figured he was surprised that I knew someone here and was engaged in more-than-casual conversation. "Vi conoscete?" He asked me.

"Well, yes. I mean, we know each other’s dogs."

Nando was staring at the woman. She was staring at him. I wondered if perhaps they hadn’t met at some point while Nando was walking Homer. "La conosco?" He asked her. She said, "I was wondering the same thing."

But of course. (I don’t recall which of the two of them figured it out first). The woman’s father worked for the railroad with my father-in-law. Once that connection was established, the woman quickly filled in missing links. She is one of three daughters, the oldest, but still nine years younger than Nando. Plus, she remembered him as young and dashing, with thick black hair. Shaven bald as he is now, it’s not easy to reconcile the two images.

I whipped out the picture I keep of him from Lido di Estensi 31 years ago. "Ah si, this is the way I remember your husband."

Bloat-viating

But bloat is common to big dogs. It involves twisting or torsion of the stomach with a subsequent blockage of the esophagus at one end and the intestine at the other. It happens quickly and can be fatal. I’d been warned about it in connection with Weims so I wasn’t surprised. But still.

"It’s not possible that he was poisoned? That he picked up something on the ground? Homer is so fast that I worry about that possibility all the time."

She shrugged. "Anyway, we now have another dog. A Labrador, a female. She is four months old, and just lovely."

Stomach turning

The woman saddened as quickly as I had brightened. "E morto. Homer was the last dog to see him alive and well. He took ill the very next morning and died within two days."

It was my turn to be sad. "But he was young. What -- nine months or so?"

"Yes, and maybe that was part of the problem. They are such a big breed of dog and grow so fast. Maybe his digestive system hadn’t matured in keeping with the rest of him. The vet told me it was torsion of the stomach." Her look told me that she didn’t necessarily believe the vet.

Newfound dogs

A few days ago, Nando decided to walk with me and Homer after dinner. I had noticed that the event in Piazza Santa Maria that evening was a beauty contest or defile, or something that might amuse him. There were lots of people milling around as the event organizers finalized preparations for a walkway, tables with flowers (for the judges and special guests), speaker system, etc. As we were slowly crusing from one end of the piazza to the other, a dark-haired woman stopped me. "How’s Homer?"

Not the first time people have greeted him when I haven’t had a clue who THEY were. It happened twice today as well. But this woman was up close; she could see the puzzled look in my eyes. "We met this summer. You were coming out of the gelateria with Homer and I was there with a large . . ."

I remembered instantly. "La terranova (Newfoundland dog)." I will never forget how startled he looked. Just like a human, with his doggie eyebrows straight up as his eyes widened. I smiled again at the recollection. "Come va?"

Dog dilemma

Taking off quickly for a trip to the US is not a question of money alone, or time alone. It’s a question of Homer. I can’t keep leaving my dog in a kennel cage. Where is Mme. Blanche now that I need her -- and could actually bring Homer TO her? When I had tried to track her down a month ago, my vet in St. Jean told me he hadn’t seen or heard from her in two years, and that former clients of hers had told him that she was no longer taking in dogs as guests. The vet also said he understood she was "quite ill" some time ago. Hmm, that doesn’t sound good. As for her Airedale, Amadeo, yes, he had died shortly after the last time I’d spoken with Mme. Blanche. Had he been put down?”, I asked. Yes, was the reply, because he had been in a bad way at the end and it was the humane thing to do.

That alone might have made Mme. Blanche very ill, I thought quietly. She had been devoted to her Airedale -- in the right way. Devoted, loving, loyal, but still with both feet on the ground. And she still had Pomme, Amadeo's Airedale companion; she would not have let herself go because of Amadeo alone. I barely knew her, but she was the only French friend I had on the Cote d’Azur.

Pit's conundrum

This dog had undergone a major trauma. Any dog would be more defensive, more likely to attack in the wake of an experience like that and a pit bull more than any other. I didn’t want Homer to suffer the consequences of Pit’s problems. I tugged at my dog and began to move away, saying, "I am sorry. But . . . a pit bull is dangerous. You always have to be careful {even if you have a pit bull yourself}. They all ought to be muzzled." And thinking to myself, "Right. You wouldn’t have thought to muzzle your own. Not even now. Viva la liberté!"

But I felt bad somehow for that wounded animal, the victim of his own kind . . . and the ignorance of people who gravitate to that kind of dog.

Gimme sheltered

"No, not tonight," the man said vaguely. As he spoke, he was loosening the leash on his dog, who was coming closer to Homer, who was still not paying the slightest attention. I pulled Homer back and motioned to the man to do the same with his. The pit bull wasn’t growling at Homer, wasn’t crouching, didn’t seem poised for attack, but then, how could I tell? I thought of that other pit bull I had seen on the Viale a month or so ago, fortunately muzzled, who had darted out from his master’s control and lunged against a passing dog with no warning.

I thought of Homer as an ingenuous sheltered child out with his suburban mom, coming smack up against a street-smart thug from the urban jungle. We wouldn’t have a chance.

Dog eat dog

"What happened?" I asked the man, who was watching his dog who was watching Homer -- who was too busy sniffing around to be on his guard. "My dog was attacked by a pit bull. By two pit bulls, a male and a female. He is a pit bull too but he couldn’t fight both of them off."

"But did this just happen?" I was staring at all the blood marks. Surely a vet would have cleaned up the victim better than this unless it had just happened.

Doggy face

That got us on the subject of facelifts. Jane didn't think most of the facelifts she'd seen were especially well done, but a few of them were, in her view. Some women admitted to pain, others didn't. What she had seen hadn't convinced her that the operation was worth it. I figured she was right and told her so: her face wasn't especially lined and her wrinkles were few. Her figure is petite and her demeanor bouncy and youthful. "But why do YOU want a facelift, Claudia? You look great."

"Yeah, yeah," I thought. "It's easy to look okay at night in a trattoria with rustic lighting. You should see me in the unflattering light of day. Mine is a face only a doggie could love."

It costs to be beautiful

I have never given a moment’s thought to my lack of resemblance to Monica Bellucci. In spite of having lived in Europe since 1986 (most of that time in Italy but eight years in Southern France) I don’t think Italian standards of beauty, or even bella figura, have a lot to do with me. Okay, I carry an Italian passport. Okay, Italy has more UNESCO-certified treasures than any other country in the world, meaning that the culture here knows a thing or two about beauty. Okay, Italian women spend more per capita on clothes, gold jewelry, watches, and furs than anyone else, so they have every reason to look better than the unfortunate mortals who were not born Italian. Bella figura permeates society, male and female alike. That’s why fashion designers wield such power here. That’s why women (and men!) generally take great pains with their appearance, even when going to the supermarket or walking their dog.