As Olympia Lays Dying

I went out yesterday morning to give Olympia her medicine, and she looked worse than ever so I again drove into the vet's to ask him to make a house call. I stood in line with the worried sheepherders, perplexed rabbit lovers, indulging dog and cat owners until I could speak to the busy vet. He finally met with me, thankfully he was sans his rectal exam glove, when I asked him if he could come to visit her today. He screwed up his face in a wince that the natives use to express difficulty. Perhaps he could come out the next day, he offered. I said that was okay, I understood he was busy, but the sheep might not be living in another twenty-four hours. He glanced at his schedule and said he'd come in the afternoon or evening, but he didn't know when. I told him I had to go to Toulouse in the afternoon to pick up my son. Did he need me to have a neighbor at my farm so he could give the neighbor instructions to relay to me? Yes, he would like someone to meet him there.

Returning to the farm, I went over to Monsieur Besse's house. He was riding his tractor in from his back vineyard where he had been mowing. He agreed to call and talk with the vet and arrange to meet with the man when he came out. I thanked him and headed off to Toulouse, leaving the Blanche bleating at the top of her lungs hoping to be reunited with the ailing Olympia. I had put the Blanche out in the pasture thinking that perhaps the other sheep had something contagious.

In Toulouse, Preston met me sitting at an outdoor cafe, the Bibent, drinking tea and watching all the people at the busy Place du Capitole. He told me that he had a wonderful time in Toulouse, eating out in restaurants most every night, going to an outdoor concert, hanging out in downtown Toulouse. Toulouse is a very lively city, even by European standards. It is crowded with young people since it is a university town, and as a result, it has a very diverse, dynamic population. I prefer the elegance and orderliness of Bordeaux but both my husband and son prefer the earthy vibrancy of Toulouse . . . probably their choice is influenced by the thousands of scantily clad girls and women who promenade around that city in the summer heat.

Travel tip: Should you be driving a car in Toulouse, know that the pedestrian ALWAYS has the right of way in the old part of the city. That means that should they jump out in front of your vehicle, as they are wont to do, you are negligent for hitting them. There isn't an inordinate lot of vehicle traffic downtown, but driving in Toulouse is more stressful to me than driving around the Arc de Triumph in Paris, because you have to inch your way through mazes of human bodies who are darting in front of you. Monsieur Besse says he doesn't go to Toulouse because of the pedestrian situation. He also prefers the calme of Bordeaux.

When Preston and I returned to the farm, Roger was not at home. Later in the evening, while I was watering my roses, he came chugging into the driveway in his Deux Cheveaux, his border collie, Miss, sitting beside him in the passenger seat. She was barking wildly, driven crazy by the sight of the poison-eating cat. I was hoping that Miss would overpower Roger's attempts to keep her in the truck, come bounding out and devour the cat; but Roger is in great shape for a 77 year-old man and Miss was easily contained in the truck. She was barking so loudly, I suggested we go into my messy kitchen and talk.

"C'est grave," he said. He had two different medicines I was to administer, via syringe again, morning and night for the next two days. But, despite the vet leaving the medicine, he informed me that there really wasn't much hope. "C'est grave," he repeated. "Grave" is pronounced in French like "mauve." It isn't pronounced like the English place where you bury the dead body even though I realize now that both words are intrinsicly related.

The optimistic American that I am assumed that all would be well. The doctor had come. He had left medicine. Something could be done. Modern science would win out over the grim reaper. But Roger shook his head at my star-spangled optimism. This is France. Death exists here and it's something they pragmatically accept. The French are surrounded by death with the monuments to the dead soldiers, who "died for France," the cemeteries that surround every church, the very personal funerals where the funeral goers walk by and peer into the open tomb to pay their individual respects to the dead. Roger handed me the phone number of the man who "hauls away the dead beasts." To set my mind straight, he let me know that the doctor had listened with his stethescope to Olympia, and had determined that her digestive system had shut down. Slowly, I started to realize that the medicine the doctor left was for me, so I could feel as if I'm doing something while Olympia rots away.

"How did it happen," I asked? Roger said that the sheep is too fat, too much grain this winter, and when she was put out on the fresh grass and weeds, she ate some trefle, or clover, and that's very bad for ruminant animals. So she was saved from the orphan pen and the slaughter house only to be killed with kindness. I don't blame Monsieur Reste, even though I'm mad at him about other things. He didn't know what he was doing when he was watching the sheep this winter. One of the neighbors told me over a week ago that Reste was feeding the sheep too much grain. I probably would have overfed them as well. Although I had put them on a diet and exercise regiment when I arrived.

Roger left, grim, solemn. I went and sat in the stable with the sheep, petting Olympia as her shallow breaths rattled on. She is still living this afternoon. Sometimes she stands up and I get excited that she is making a recovery. Then she lays back down and keeps on rattling.

My husband said I should give her to our friend Norman the Brit who told me he likes mutton. But I don't want to imagine anyone eating her, and besides, you aren't supposed to eat animal meat that has been dosed with these medications. You need to wait two weeks after the last dosage. I'm in a quandry as to if we should put her out of her misery. But I keep thinking she'll pull out of it.

I'm a failure as a sheep farmer. Losing 50% of your flock is a catastrophic failure.