Guest Blog by Elizabeth Mppre - Lucy

This is the beautifully written account of Lucy, a young feral cat, who came to share Elizabeth Mppre's life. I hope you'll enjoy reading this extraordinary story as much as I did.

I was aware of Lucy before we actually met. Our vet had rescued two litters of kittens and they were all playing in a large enclosure when I went to collect food for Toby – our tuxedo cat. 

There was a beautiful champagne tabby cavorting with her siblings. When I returned in two weeks she and several other kittens had been claimed. The remaining fur balls rolled, played and stalked on.

It was several weeks before I returned. There had been a juvenile whale found in a waterway in Sydney’s north and it was not expected to survive. As I parked the car the newscaster revealed that the decision had been made to euthanase Colin the whale.

I pushed the surgery door open feeling sad and even a little teary. Without even thinking I checked the enclosure and made eye contact with the last kitten. A loud trill came from this tiny, tortie creature. I was being summoned.

The vet was managing the front desk as it was quite early. I looked at him and made some comment about the poor whale and he nodded. The decision by the marine vets was for the best.

I sighed and looked back at the little lady who was demanding my attention - talking and trilling. We had quite a conversation and I felt wretched that she was the last of the two litters. “That’s Lucy.” I was informed. “Staff members always name the kittens when they are caring for them.”

I was late for work but the germ of an idea was hovering. I mentioned Lucy to my husband and for once he said “Let’s talk about it when we get home.” He always countered any kitten request from me in a kind but firm negative. Not this time.

As soon as I finished work I drove straight back to the vets. Lucy was not in the enclosure. Relief – she was behind the scenes with one of the nurses. I asked if I could meet her as I was interested in adoption.

I was ushered into one of the examination rooms and the nurse arrived with Miss Lucy. Lucy made all the right moves for an adoption interview. She snuggled and purred and rubbed her head on my wrist.

To the practice’s credit, the nurse was conducting a covert interview. She pointed out that Lucy was not really a tiny kitten anymore – she was a lanky 5 month old and growing fast. I told the nurse I didn’t really want a kitten – I wanted a cat. Right answer apparently.

“Besides” I added remembering our exchange earlier in the day, “She is an amazing talker.” The nurse looked askance at me. “Lucy never talks.” Now that really was incredible. I quickly asked about all the necessary adoption details and hurried home to convince my husband.

He was curiously amenable and so next day Lucy and I became an official item. She had spent all her time in a vet’s enclosure so I decided to start her off gently and gave her own little room with all the basics – a bed, food, litter, water and toys. I would head in every half hour or so and sit on the floor with her while she sniffed, played and explored.

That night my husband and I could hear what can only be described as cat Olympics as she bounced and jumped and skittered in her new, very own space.

Our next task was to introduce her to Toby. He was interested but she put on her best firebrand impression and made much noise. Within minutes they were firm friends and remain inseparable.

I had been warned when I collected Lucy that she was possible very close to her first oestrus. Her sister Annabelle had been de-sexed the week I met Lucy and staff described the signs I needed to watch for.

Naturally she began calling, trilling and shimmying on our first weekend together. All night and constantly. I called the surgery and she was booked in for the following Tuesday.

I took her in for her surgery and felt dreadful. This dear little girl had spent  three full days with us and I was carting her through the door and back to all the familiar sights smells and voices she knew so well.

I fretted. Would she think she was being abandoned? Did she imagine she had not been the best cat she could have been and we had decided we didn’t want her anymore? It was awful standing in the waiting room with all these thoughts chasing around in my head.

Thankfully she was soon home with a shaved tummy, stitches and instructions about keeping her quiet and rested while she recuperated. The nightly Olympics resumed immediately. She did not miss a beat.

Lucy slipped seamlessly into our lives. She adored Toby, loved my husband but was obviously my kitten. Each morning she would jump onto the bed accompanied by her lovely trilling calls. We would snuggle and then I was gently encouraged to start her day with food and litter duties.

One morning, her snuggles varied a little. She leaned across me and pushed my left breast with her head. I moved her away as I was about to get up and attend to her breakfast.

She repeated the behaviour the next morning but this time she was much more insistent – annoying even. I reached across to stop her and as I moved her head I felt a lump. A lump that was not going away. A lump I should have found myself had I not been so haphazard in my own self breast examinations.

Everything changed in seconds. My doctor saw me without an appointment, I spent a day at the Sydney Breast Clinic confirming my fears and by the end of the week I was in surgery.

There are numberless accounts of surgeries, chemo and radiotherapie. I won’t go into detail. I spent months dutifully following every instruction I received, attending every appointment and downing every medication. Eight months later I was pronounced fit for work. Five years later the powers that be were tentatively pleased with my progress.

So – was it sheer happenstance? Dogs sniff cancer – but cats? I honestly don’t know but Lucy found my cancer. I really don’t care how she did it – she essentially saved my life – at the very least she hastened my diagnosis and treatment.

She has tortitude by the bucket load. She loves my husband and me unconditionally and occasionally my daughter. I have friends who do not believe Lucy lives in my house.  All strangers are to be hidden from, but supervision of the tradesman working on our renovations is deemed necessary, albeit from a safe distance.

I knew very little about torties before I met Lucy. I know a lot more now and have become one of an elite group, enchanted tortie lovers. It’s an exclusive club – by invitation only and I and so glad I was asked to join.

Brutus - Our Feral Cat

It seems like a lifetime ago, but actually it wasn’t. This blog tells the tale of how Jack, my husband, and I came to share our lives with a feral cat.

One evening during the renovation process of our tumbledown hunting estate in France, we were sitting outside on an old section of broken-down wall. Chatting away exhaustedly about the latest disasters that had befallen us that day, we were interrupted by a strange sound coming from the bushes. We both stared at the leaves, but couldn’t see a thing. Then suddenly we heard what we thought was a meow. We peered again, but nothing. Although it had definitely sounded like a cat, with no neighbours for miles around, we just assumed we were imagining things. But we couldn’t be sure.

As a precaution, and much to our dogs’ disgust, we left some of their food out in a dish in case our hunch was correct. I rushed out the next day and was excited to find that there wasn’t a scrap left. Jack quite sensibly told me it had very likely been eaten by a fox, or other wild animal, and not to fuss. He was probably right, but I still had a hunch that we had a cat somewhere. Each evening we banished the dogs to a safe distance and began a very pleasant nightly beer-drinking-on-a-boulder vigil. Our patience eventually paid off.

About a week had passed before we spotted her, a small face peeking timidly through the undergrowth. No wonder we hadn’t seen her before, her tortoiseshell markings blended perfectly with the foliage. Sitting absolutely still, we watched and talked to her, hoping that she’d have the confidence to venture out. This took a while, but when she finally emerged we were treated to the sight of a lovely, petite cat who was obviously stuffed full of kittens.

Over the following days her confidence grew and we were eventually allowed to stroke her whiskers and the sides of her face and body, but never her ears – these were her radars, always pricked and alert for the sounds of danger. Amazingly though, she was incredibly mild-mannered and trusting, and even let me brush her. This was evidently a blissful new experience which caused her to purr like an outboard motor. With no collar, or other explanation for her appearance, we concluded that she must be a feral cat who lived in our woods. If she was going to stay around I decided that she needed a name. So, severely lacking in inspiration, we ended up calling the poor animal Pusskins.

A couple of weeks later her evening routine changed and she became even more furtive than usual. Showing a massively distended belly, she began roaming restlessly around the barns, mewing gently. We assumed that she was ready to give birth and needed somewhere safe and dry to have her kittens. Then quite suddenly she disappeared completely. I was distraught and hunted high and low, fearful that she might be in distress, but there was no sign of her anywhere.

At this stage I had all but given up hope but as I passed the tractor shed one day I was distracted by a scuffling sound coming from behind one of the old crates. I stared into the gloom and gazing dreamily back at me was our little feral cat surrounded by several balls of fur. Pusskins had given birth! At that stage I had no idea how many there were, but I could certainly see tabbies, a ginger, and a cream coloured kitten. I couldn’t believe my eyes, they were absolutely gorgeous. I rushed excitedly back to the house to break the news to Jack, who hunted around and confirmed that we had six new arrivals to our home.

Now we had a difficult decision to make. One of the projects we started was to raise pheasants and partridges to repopulate our woods. At the time we had around 300 chicks in brooder sheds next door. Our worry was that with many hungry mouths to feed, our new mum would be very likely to use these fledglings to teach her youngsters some early hunting skills. This would be perfectly natural behaviour, an easy meal, but definitely unwelcome. Unsure of what we should do we asked our vet for advice. He explained that there was a serious feral cat problem in the area. Interbreeding and disease were rife amongst the feline colonies, and we should do everything we could to prevent them contributing to the already burgeoning population. The writing was on the wall – have the litter put down, or take them in. Our conclusion was an easy one; we took mum and her kittens in.

It was a great idea in theory but not so simple in practice. First things first we had to catch the kittens. This was very tricky because they were extremely adept at skittering around and under machinery and squishing themselves into the tiniest spaces imaginable. After much clambering and falling over boxes and oily bits of machine, and much cussing from Jack, we finally we managed it. We took them to the house and made a new nest out of an old puppy bed in a dog cage. 

Our next worry was how we would feed them. Luckily this was where Pusskins came into her own. Her terror of entering a human building was overcome by the instinctive need to feed her young, so mealtimes quickly became a team activity. Much to the disgust of our dogs once again, she would pluck up courage, creep stealthily into the house, and pop into the cage to nurse her hungry mob. We’d close the cage door to give her complete privacy, and she’d lie there until the job was done. She would then become restive until we re-opened the door which allowed her to speed back to the freedom of her outdoor domain. She repeated this twice a day, but it wasn’t enough.

As we all know kittens need several feeds a day so, under instruction from our vet, we supplemented her efforts by bottle feeding. This, by the way, is not an easy task because kittens are very wriggly little suckers!

Four weeks later we trapped our little Pusskins after a feeding session, and took her to the vet to be sterilised. Knowing that she would be ready to mate again it was the least we could do to help maintain her health. It must have been a terrifying ordeal for her, but she coped fantastically well and never growled or fought once. Meanwhile we continued to bottle feed the kittens and gradually introduced them to solid food.

Pusskins made a perfect recovery from her surgery and, once again, instinctively seemed to know that her job was done. She took very little interest in her kittens after six weeks and only rarely came into the house again. So there we were – six fluffy beauties who ate, played and generally caused havoc. Well nearly. There was one which was different from the others. Although it was very big, it was always much more reserved and very nervous of us humans. I was instantly drawn to this fragile creature.

Much as I would have loved to, there was no doubt about it, we couldn’t keep all the kittens. But having been brought up with lots of cats I was desperate to keep at least one. Jack had become unusually besotted by them and agreed, so we decided to invite animal-loving friends of ours to come round to give homes to the others. This was a great arrangement, although I would later realise how hard it was to see our kits being examined by prospective new families. I was under strict instructions to let them choose whichever kitten they wanted, which was agony because I always knew which one I wanted to keep.

Prior to the first visit the main challenge we had was to establish what sex they were. Most of our friends had said that they wanted to have females, so we unceremoniously turned each kitten bottom-up to try and work out their gender. Fairly sure of our findings, we then named them because it was easier for identification purposes when we were picking each out for feeding sessions. Unfortunately for the little critters, I’d been reading a Roman history thriller at the time so they mostly got saddled with names as awful as Pusskins.

We wanted to do everything properly for the kittens, so arranged for them to be picked up by their new families after their first vaccination. Our trip to the vet to have this done also involved a confirmation of each animal’s gender. As it turned out we weren’t world-class experts in the cat-sexing department, so some rapid re-naming had to be done. Caesar became Cleo, Maximus became Maxine, but Ginger remained Ginger in spite of the fact that she was a girl. Then there were three boys. Hercule, so named because he was incredibly nosy, Tigger who was on springs and completely hyperactive, and finally the huge, but terribly timid, Brutus.

Our first groups of friends came to examine and coo at the kittens. After much playing and cuddling the girls were selected, but the boys were left. I was terrified that Brutus would be next, but I needn’t have worried. Hercule was big and bold and Tigger was the litter comic so whilst they stole the show, Brutus hung back, resisting all attempts at being handled. Everyone decided that he was the true feral, and would never make a house pet so left him to hide in a corner. How wrong they were.

By the time they were 10 weeks old all the kittens had gone apart from Brutus. Pusskins had reverted to her ghost-like appearances and now refused to eat our continued offerings. But I was happy because we still had Brutus.

A richly-coloured tabby, to my eyes he was an extraordinarily beautiful boy, filled with feline grace and poise. As the months passed he gained more confidence in himself and us and purred like mad when stroked and cuddled.

However, whilst he was loving and tactile with my husband and I, his expression would turn to one of pure terror if someone else came into the house. He was the same with machines, the very sound of which would cause him to run for cover underneath our bed.

Today, five years later, Brutus is exactly the same. He has grown into a fine, big cat who is the most gentle animal we have ever had the privilege to share our lives with. His exquisite face and gentle, sensitive, temperament closely resemble that of his mum, as does his natural nervousness. But with us he plays and wrestles and snuggles, and does all those things his siblings did – but only with us.

We absolutely adore our big wild cat. He works with me at my computer, watches me while I cook and stalks leaves in the garden pretending that he’s a big brave boy. He’s the boss of our dogs, our home and he has my heart. We’ll always be thankful for the day that his mum came into our lives and allowed us to take care of her family.

My Day at the Doctor's

I’ve been having some problems with an old injury that was stirred up by a recent fall. This meant that I was going to have to see our doctor, a thought that filled me with dread. This is not because Dr. Sattern isn’t a nice chap. On the contrary, he is very pleasant. The difficulties lie elsewhere.

We live in a rural part of France and either our doctor is very popular, or there aren’t very many of them about. I’m not sure which is correct, but it takes an awfully long time to get to see him. The appointment process itself is extremely quick and, if necessary, almost immediate, but the subsequent time spent in the surgery waiting room can often cause one to lose the will to live. An emotion that is quite ironic in the circumstances.

For some unknown reason it’s not uncommon to hang around for two hours or more after the original appointment time. This has, on more than one occasion, caused my husband Jack to comment that there’s really no point in having a schedule at all. He may be quite right there.

Jack has a characteristic aversion to doctors. I remember the time when we were living in Britain and our surgery closed down. We had to transfer to a new doctor and, in order to register, every patient was required to go in for a quick medical check. The paperwork could then be completed. For Jack this was anathema. His time was at a premium anyway, but that wasn’t all. As a healthy person he couldn’t see the point of sitting in a roomful of people, many of whom were likely to be carriers of various diseases. He’s never particularly enjoyed human company anyway, and this presented a perfect logic to absent himself from a procedure that he considered to be flawed.  

After many letters and phone calls from the surgery Jack eventually spoke with our new doctor. To his credit he agreed with everything Jack said, and arranged to see him out of hours. Jack duly went along at 8pm one evening when the surgery was empty. Apparently he had a thoroughly pleasant chat with the doctor about golf, and the trials of having to team up with one’s wife. He may even have had his pulse taken – that I couldn’t be sure about, but at least he was now registered.

Therefore, as far as my husband is concerned, he has to be half-dead before he’s prepared to contemplate a move in our French doctor’s direction. I, on the other hand, needed to go. I made the call to his receptionist and asked for an appointment. My natural optimism fleetingly got the better of me when I foolishly asked for a period which was the calmest. “Hah!” came the harsh cry from the fatigued assistant. She told me that there were never any calm periods, but I could take my pick from a number of slots that had not been taken. Unfortunately I couldn’t make any of these, so asked what his diary was like for the next morning. “But madame there are no scheduled appointments tomorrow morning. The surgery opens at 8.30am and you must arrive and wait your turn.”

“Parfait,” I replied. This was the obvious way to deal with the problems of hanging around for hours. I would simply arrive very early and get to see him first. Perhaps I should have taken more notice of her “bon chance” after I shared my strategy with the lady but, in my enthusiasm, I failed to register its subtle significance.

The next morning I got up bright and early and began my journey to our surgery. And it’s just as well I did because I very quickly caught up with a farmer driving his car between 25 and 30kph (yes, that’s kilometres). Sadly, this is not unusual. We haven’t quite worked out why some of them drive so slowly. It could be because their battered old cars are past the sell-by date and simply have a top speed of around 30kph. It may be because they’re conserving fuel. Then there are those who indulge in the peculiarly European tradition of driving a ‘Voiture sans Permis’.

Literally translated as ‘Car without Licence’ these vehicles are legally defined as a four-wheel vehicle with an unladen weight not exceeding 350kg, a maximum speed not more than 45kph, and maximum power less than or equal to 4kW (5.6hp ). They are treated as mopeds and can be driven with or without a licence. Even if exercised to the full, their theoretical top speed is exactly half the normal single carriageway speed limit. But driving at full speed seems to be a rare event.

I couldn’t be sure why we were travelling so slowly but, in the absence of a passing lane, there was no possibility of overtaking the sedate old gentleman in front of me. This turned my 15 minute drive into 30, but it shouldn’t have mattered. Fortunately time was on my side and I was still very early.

It was market day in the town and quite busy already, it was also very hot. I squashed my car into one of the few remaining spaces, breezed confidently into the surgery, and stopped in my tracks. The place was already seething with people and it wasn’t even 8.15am – I couldn’t believe it. What a dirty trick! It must have been the cleaner who’d let them all in. I looked at the assembled company and said my obligatory “bonjour messieurs dames” which was greeted by a series of croaks and one extremely loud sneeze. I then looked towards the receptionist’s desk and saw the pile of health-service cards which were already stacked high. These would determine the order of play. I had half a mind to slot mine gently in the lower part of the tower, but one look from the rheumy-eyed patient on card-duty put me off straight away. Instead I dutifully popped it on top and sat down on the remaining horizontal surface, the children’s toy box. Incidentally this is another of Jack’s pet hates. He views the lids of these boxes with great suspicion, convinced that they are dangerously contagious objects having been fiddled with by small ill children.

8.30am came and went and every time the door opened, as a group, we all looked up expectantly, hoping that it would be our doctor. Sadly not. I remonstrated with myself for my naivety at forgetting that he is never on time, ever. Dr. Sattern is something of a local celebrity around our parts owing to his willingness to volunteer for just about everything. Fire brigade, neighbourhood police, relief hospital medic, you name it, he’s stuck his hand up. I think his public-spirited behaviour is quite laudable, but Jack thinks he’s just a public-spirited egomaniac. Whatever the truth, his numerous extra-mural activities often cause him to be very late.

Happily Madame Colcutt, the receptionist did arrive on time, barked a “bonjour” at us all and glowered at the mass of cards. She then reconnected the phone from night answer machine mode which caused the receiver to explode with noise, and become alive with flashing lights. This lasted most of the morning for the over-worked lady.

Finally at 9.34am Dr. Sattern strolled in looking perfectly relaxed and not at all as though he had just left the emergency helicopter outside. Those of us who had watches stared at them, others glanced at the wall clock, which was clearly missing a battery. A groundswell of grumpy mutters was followed by a few hacking coughs. There was a moment of innate solidarity – none of us was happy that he was so late, but relieved that the proceedings could at last begin. A further period of tension ensued while we waited for our doctor to strap on his stethoscope and call the first patient. Furtive glances flickered around the room, each of us trying to guess who would be the first to go in.

“Madame Sarget,” boomed Dr. Sattern, his stethoscope swinging dangerously from side to side, threatening to whack an old chap on the beret. We all stared fixedly at this lady, willing her to get a move on, but this was unlikely to happen. Poor old Madame Sarget was desperately elderly and, by the look of things, on her last legs. In retrospect, it was probably just as well that she did go first. Anyway, we were up and running and the strain in the room visibly eased. People began to chat among themselves, read waiting room magazines which, as Jack would point out, had all previously been soiled by other patients, or play with their mobile phones. However, after about half an hour our collective spirits were dampening. Madame Sarget was still in there, and there were still over 20 of us left in the waiting room. It didn’t take a mathematician to work out that if we all took that long it would be tomorrow before the end of the list was reached. Things were not going at all well.

Finally, after about 35 minutes, she hobbled out. Well, at least she was still alive. The next three or four patients only took around 15 minutes each so it was safe to believe that we might now be on a roll. We relaxed and later on looked with a mixture of pity and smugness at a new group who arrived and had to line up against the wall (standing room only now). Dr. Sattern duly reappeared having dispensed with another ‘done’ patient, but to our utter dismay, called three of the newcomers in. This caused collective outrage. Two of the patients immediately strode up to the receptionist to complain. In part this was an unwise move because it enabled one of the standers to slide into a now-vacant seat.

The initial thrust of the complaints committee was somewhat thwarted because their attentions were waved aside by Madame Colcutt, who’s phone was still welded to her ear and threatening to catch fire with overuse. She finally barked a “ne quittez pas s'il vous plait” (hold please) at the receiver, stabbed a button and stared defiantly at the angry mob. I couldn’t hear what was said, but it seemed that our deputation wasn’t entirely successful. There was much head wagging, pointing of fingers and a slam of the desk diary by madame. Our contingent returned to wedge themselves onto the now full couch, and explained the situation. It seems that these people (who didn’t seem to speak French), had arrived very early, started off the card pile, and then gone off to have a relaxed mooch around the market. Genius! Their return timing was nothing short of impeccable. They were, in fact, blameless.

Time wore on and I was beginning to wish that I had brought a cushion. As each new patient was called in we started to eye one another with suspicion. Was there any possibility of queue-fixing? It was difficult to say. The other problem was the heat. The air conditioning unit was in a similar state to the wall clock. It didn’t work. With temperatures rising steadily it would have been around 32 degrees centigrade outside by now, and not much less inside. I’m afraid this took its toll on the assembled company, some of whom began to perspire and smell rather ripe. Those with coughs and colds became noisier. I was certain that the air was thick with a colourful mix of infections, which were now being wafted around by several ladies using rank looking dog-eared magazines for fans. Blood pressures were collectively rising. This was a thoroughly bad combination, but at least we were in the right place in the event of an impromptu health disaster. Then, as if matters could get any worse, in came a screaming child with its mother.

It wasn’t immediately clear which of the two was the patient. The mother looked absolutely exhausted and the child yelled in a most energetic fashion. Sadly they made a bee-line for me, but it wasn’t my company they sought, the child wanted to get at the toys. I got up stiffly and waited my turn for the musical chairs moment when one might become vacant. I must say that, at times like these when there’s the possibility of a seat to be won, it’s amazing how agile the otherwise infirm can be. Unfortunately it was breathing room only, so I stood next to the mother and the child, who was now busy shredding toys.

This part of my morning was probably the lowest. The unfortunate little boy, who was around four years old, had a streaming cold but hadn’t yet acquired the skills needed to manage the stuff that was running out of his various orifices. His mother avoided any attempt to help him with his general hygiene, and completely ignored the bawling snivels and rivulets of liquid running down his face into his mouth. Instead, she busied herself by sending text messages. I watched, grotesquely fascinated, as he carefully excavated each nostril and smeared the contents of his gunky nasal passages onto his shorts and the toy box lid. Evidently of the opinion that something was not quite right, he then took out a bag of tiny sweets and proceeded to stuff one or two up the empty passages. Oddly enough these got stuck and caused immediate irritation. He then let out a gusty sneeze, causing all sorts of unsavoury fluids to fly across the room, and one of the sweets to fire out of his nostril like a pellet. This sent it skimming across the floor. Where would it end up? I was gripped. It eventually skipped over a small clod of mud and came to rest on an old lady’s stocking. Luckily, and despite it being bright orange, she didn’t notice.

I was so transfixed, wondering what was going to happen next, that I didn’t notice the activity going on around me. Dr. Sattern, stethoscope swinging pendulously, had reappeared and was calling my name! Faces stared accusingly as I wasted precious time by scrambling about trying to re-pack the contents of my bag, which I’d managed to drop on the floor in all the excitement. I gathered them up as quickly as possible, minced around the knobbly knees, the walking sticks and the suspicious splats on the floor, and I was in.

At this stage all I wanted to do was get my minor problem sorted and out of the way, but it’s never really that easy with Dr. Sattern. Aside from the fact that he is quite a chatter, he also loves to test out his linguistic skills. He was still extremely relaxed, apparently oblivious to the worsening health conditions he was causing his patients in the next room. He spoke in pidgin English and started regaling me with amusing anecdotes which had occurred during an over-the-garden-fence conversation he’d with his English neighbour. During this I made the fatal mistake of correcting one of his mis-used words.

Me: “I think you mean duG, rather than duGGED Dr. Sattern.”

Dr. S: “As yes, it is the dug, I see thank you.”

Me: “That’s a pleasure, your English is excellent.”

Dr. S: “Ah you flattering me too much.”

Me: “Certainly not, it’s the truth. And that’s a very good word to use.”

Dr. S: “Yes, an old French word.”

Me: “Ah, I think you’ll find that it is an English word.”

Mistake! Dr. Sattern sprang into action. He swept aside heaps of patient records and medical tomes and started ferreting around with the mountain of books on the floor. No luck there. He then went to his computer, pressed the delete button and hit Google.fr. After a moment or two of frantic keying he clicked on a website and let out a whoop of triumph.

Dr. S: “Here it is – the definition. It is for sure the word very French.”

With that he swung the screen towards me with such ferocity that it knocked the plastic spine and rib cage clean off the shelf, sending them clattering across the floor. There were vertebrae everywhere.

Me: “Ah yes, I do apologise, it’s seems that I might be wrong.”

Dr. S: “You are! All the best words, they are the ones French.”

Now that he’d sorted out yet another linguistic challenge to his personal satisfaction he abandoned the rest of his story, his bones, and stared fixedly at me.

Dr. S: “So, what is wrong?”

By this stage it was nearly 1pm and quite honestly I could barely remember why I’d gone in the first place. I blundered through an explanation of my minor medical problem which, to his credit, he took very seriously. After a thorough examination and prescription to sort it out, we said our goodbyes and he steered me back to the lions’ den.

I knew I had been in there for almost half an hour, but there hadn’t been much I could do about it. However, no excuse would have been acceptable to the remaining occupants of the waiting room who stared belligerently and sniffed intermittently as I scurried by. As I made for the door I passed the receptionist’s desk. She had escaped to lunch leaving her phone flashing like a manic 1970’s disco ball. Who could blame her?

My journey back was very short, leaving me just enough time to fret about my appointment and those poor patients still waiting to be seen. Today had been a new record, one that had beaten the socks of our usual two hours. I had started off at 8am and didn’t reach home until 1.30pm.

As I walked into the house my ever-loving Jack greeted me with, “Poor darling! You must be fed up.” I reached forward to give him a kiss, but he raised his hand in warning. “BUT,” he continued, “please don’t touch me or give us any food until you’ve washed your hands. You’ve been in that virus incubation chamber for a complete morning. In fact, better still, you go shower and I’ll make lunch. Safer all round really.”

So, there we have it – a morning that was nothing short of ridiculous. But, here in our little corner of France, where life often moves very slowly, it’s something that is generally accepted. In my case, not always with good grace, in Jack’s case – never. But the truth is I’d never want to trade it, any of it.

And at least I got out of the cooking!

A visit from America

I am part of a Facebook group called We Love Memoirs (WLM). It comprises more than 2,000 authors and readers who share a common love of memoirs. One of the US members recently planned a trip to Europe to meet several other WLM friends, her last port of call being our corner of France. One of the reasons for this was because of Brutus, our ex-feral and moderately portly cat. She had followed his feline activities on my timeline, and specifically wanted 'bonding' time with him. Given his timidity I was doubtful that he would allow this to happen, but went along with it anyway.

We live in the middle of nowhere so she also assured me that she saw this as a period for "unwinding". However, for various reasons, it didn't quite turn out that way. Nancy McBride, artist and memoir-lover was with us for nearly a week, and it’s not one that any of us are likely to forget for a long while.

It all began at Toulouse airport. Max, one of our Australian Shepherd dogs, and I met Nancy and rushed home to see if I could persuade our shy moggy to say hello. Not a bit of it I'm afraid, but his sharp exit was amply compensated for by Aby (the other Aussie) who was so ecstatically happy at seeing such a lovely lady that she promptly had a wee on her toes. Not everyone's idea of a welcome, but Nancy took it in wonderfully good spirits, describing our mutts as being "wound up like lovely furry springs".  

The first full day involved a walk along the banks of the Garonne River with our French friends. It wasn’t quite as tranquil as it might have been because most of my time was spent bellowing at the dogs to “leave those swans alone,” and Nancy filled the rest of the available sound waves loudly learning several new French words. In spite of the apparent language barrier she managed brilliantly well, and where the French word could not be found, she compensated with dramatic hand movements and use of available props. This mostly worked. However, judging by the quizzical expressions on our friends' faces, I’m still not convinced they fully understood that the energetic grabbing and flapping of Max’s ear was meant to be a sail. Come to think of it, I’m not sure that Max appreciated the significance of it either – but they nodded enthusiastically anyway.

By the end of our two hour circuit Nancy declared that she was now practically fluent in the language, and starving hungry. The latter at least I could agree with. We decided to have lunch at our favourite restaurant, which turned out to be super quality as usual. Each dish was decorated with flowers, and served with a smile. Our new American friend was in heaven and so were we. All very pleasant and tame at this stage, but that would very soon change.

With lunch over it was time to give Hunter a bath. He is an ancient dog we found a year ago lying abandoned in the middle of the road. He may have more maladies than are contained in the average veterinary manual, but he still potters around happily enough. His current illnesses include a disease called Cushings. This is the overproduction of the hormone cortisol by the adrenal glands that are located in the belly, near the kidneys. Some of the common signs include fur loss and excessive drinking. He displays classic symptoms of both. The poor lad drinks more than the French national rugby team, and has large bare patches on his body where his hair has dropped out. The vet has given us several eye-wateringly expensive products to combat this awful illness, some of which need to be applied during his bi-weekly bath. Nancy kindly humoured me when I explained that he needed to have his treatment. She watched on, cooing happily at the old boy as I cleaned out his ears with antiseptic lotion and then bathed him with a special shampoo for damaged skin. He usually ends up smelling a little like a chemist’s store, but it’s an effective way of keeping his problems at bay. After that we prepared for our next planned event, the tour of our domaine. However, what happened next was decidedly unplanned.

The recent spate of thunderstorms had taken their toll on our forest tracks so Jack drove us all, taking things very easy. We trundled up tracks and down trails stopping every now and again to take photos of storm damaged bridges, fallen trees, and to admire the greenest of meadows. It was a fun afternoon. Finally we turned for home and Jack took us along a stony track that leads back to our house. As we were pottering along, without any warning at all, the track suddenly subsided under the weight of the vehicle and collapsed into the field three feet below. Now I know that Nancy is game for an adventure, but being front seat passenger of a rolling vehicle probably doesn't quite fit her definition. When the car finally came to rest there was dead silence. Not a word or whine uttered from any of us.

I was in the back, the dogs in the boot, and Jack and Nancy were in the front. Realising that I was pretty much fine, I turned my head to find the dogs' faces about ten centimetres from my nose, peering at me owlishly. They too were unscathed. Then, thank heavens, Jack and Nancy spoke. With no obvious injuries to report, everyone except for Nancy was able to exit the vehicle. Her legs were stuck fast behind the steering wheel causing her to be curled up in a foetal position. It took both Jack and I to remove the offending item, but we finally managed it and Nancy was able to clamber out of the vehicle. That definitely deserved a hug!

We were just working out how we were going to get home when our attentions were drawn to the sound of a tractor. A couple of farmers had seen the accident from the road and had come to rescue us. After a bit of a struggle, the men collectively righted the car, and it was towed back. I was bunged in the back of a hunter’s van with the dogs, and Nancy was ceremoniously led to the front seat, whereupon she began to practise her new-found vocabulary on her latest French friend. What a trooper!

In spite of their obvious shyness, we persuaded our rescuers to have a 'merci beaucoup' drink with us and we later sat around the garden table sipping an impromptu aperitif. Thank goodness for the reviving properties of beer, Pimm's and medication. With our eventful day drawing to a close, as a team we decided that this was enough of the unplanned stuff – which, looking back on it now, we nearly achieved. Oh, and did Brutus come out to check on us and say 'Hi' to Nancy? Hah! Of course not!  

The next day was another scorcher which would have been perfect for the drinks party I had organised in honour of Nancy’s visit. However, after the previous day's misadventure, I wasn't at all sure that she'd want to go ahead. How wrong I was. She was determined to meet as many of our friends as she could, so we spent the morning creaking stiffly around a supermarket buying provisions which we later used to build our canapés.

With our soirée in mind, as a damage-limitation exercise, I decided to take our over-zealous dogs for a pre-party afternoon swim to tire them out. Re-fuelled with ibuprofen, once again Nancy rose to the challenge, and we staggered off to the lake. I'm relieved to report that on this occasion she chose not to indulge her professed love of aquaerobics. A dip in the water might not have been a sure winner for her on that day. Instead she took photos of our hyperactive dogs providing their own canine versions.

Our soirée went very well and it gave Nancy the perfect opportunity to teach our French neighbours how to speak American. This was achieved with great flair and enthusiasm, and generated yet more invitations for her to return to France soon. But there was notable absence to the proceedings. Where on earth was Brutus?

We may have been out of the woods, but the potential for danger wasn't over yet. The weekend brought the 'Feux de St. Jean' celebration which was held in our local village. This is the feast of St. John the Baptist. It was traditionally accompanied by bonfires, and broadly coincides with the summer solstice – originally celebrated with pagan festivals. Therefore, as you might imagine, my husband was a little reticent about going just in case we inadvertently exposed Nancy to a known danger such as being scorched by a flying ember, or accidentally set alight by an over-excited reveller. However the potential danger came from another quarter altogether.

Most attendees are given a job to do and ours was to collect meadow flowers for the trestle tables. I knew the exact spot to find some specimens and was driving us down some windy country lanes when a very important-looking motorcycle came around the corner with lights flashing and driver waving angrily at us. We were forced to stop. The gentleman told me that we were on the racetrack for a cycle race and that within MOMENTS the riders would be whizzing around the corner at 60kph using all of the road. He told us that we should have been stopped way back down the road. We weren't, but we had remarked at the young man we’d passed earlier who was holding a small red 'stop' hand-signal the size of a lollipop. He had been chatting to a pretty young girl – his mind clearly on other things. We were now facing a blind corner.

Nancy and I pondered our predicament and waited for a little while. Sure enough about six cyclists whirred past us, then nothing. Taking our hearts into our hands we crept forward and could see our destination ahead. Phew! We were safe. We gathered our foliage to the sound of bicycle tyres and French swear words and we followed the peloton, at a safe distance, back to the village hall. Our mission complete, and mercifully unharmed by flailing cyclists we rushed home to shower and change, and join the party. 

The whole evening went superbly well and Nancy, becoming more Americo-French by the minute, made even more friends. After enjoying a sumptuous feast the bonfires were lit and us bon vivants held hands to begin a pagan dance around the sorcerer which was ablaze on the main beacon. This was a period of great tension for Jack and I, but fortunately we managed to keep Nancy a sensible distance from the flames.

Eventually our flamboyant evening came to an end, and as we were leaving Nancy spotted an elderly couple, ancient of days, painfully making their ways back home to their cottage. She was so inspired by the romance of these people that she produced a beautiful piece of artwork the next day – and here it is along with several other photos that she took during her stay in France.

The next day was another gorgeous one and it was time to show Nancy another traditional activity in our area. Keen as mustard, we got up bright and early and did battle with the other panier-users at the Sunday market. Abandoning the car on a kerbside, we mooched amongst the stalls which were heaving with fruit and veg, meats and fish, textiles and yet more paniers. We returned home, laden with goodies, to enjoy lunch and a peaceful afternoon. At this stage the less said about our disgracefully rude absent cat, the better. But I hadn't quite given up hope...

Nancy’s final day had come. And although it was her last, she decided to join me in taking Hunter to the vet. She wanted to experience routine life as we lead it here, and regular visits to the vet are certainly an integral part. 

We know that our poor old dog is reaching the end of his life now, so we are doing everything we can to make sure that his twilight months are as happy as possible. This means lots of vet visits and tests, and changes of medicines. As any animal lover understands, it's a difficult time. The tests would take all morning, so I took Nancy on a short local sight-seeing tour. Jack knew about my plan and, for obvious reasons, gave me a stern lecture about keeping her well away from the cliff edge, and nowhere near the edge of the canal. Fortunately there were no mishaps.

 We returned to collect Hunter and while we waited for the test results I was happy to observe that Nancy had found a new friend. It was at this point that I feared her encounter might end up as being the closest she would get to cuddling a cat in France. As it turns out, I was right.

In spite of the heat Nancy was keen to make the most of her last afternoon. We spent it strolling around a favourite local mini-towns of ours, one that is noted for its ‘belle’ plants and architecture. Dating back to Roman times, it is a joy to explore and very beautiful. We returned via a country route which, centuries ago, had been used by King Henry IV of France. The tree that shaded him and his entourage while they enjoyed a royal picnic on 10 July, 1579 still exits, and it clearly appealed to Nancy’s imagination. I always suspected she might be a bit of a tree-hugger and it somehow formed a fitting finale to her visit!

Nancy’s stay was over. I took her back to Toulouse airport and bade farewell to a new and fast friend. She is a person with common interests, a passion for memoirs and a brilliant zest for life. She embraced everything our little corner of France had to offer, and I think became just a little intoxicated by the uneventful, yet eventual way of life here. Thank you WLM for enabling this to happen.

Postscript

Brutus, of course, had materialised and was waiting for me when I returned home from the airport. That’s cats for you!