Waiting for Labrousse

I sit here, eating leftover strawberry tart and drinking tea. The Tomlin's came for dinner last night with their 15-year-old grandson from Marin County, California. Ross was suffering from jet-lag, but Pamela and Norman were lively and regaled us with their interesting stories of their two decades in the neighborhood. I think they must have been the first British to arrive in our hills south of Prayssac. I think of them as French though.

(A truck just pulled in the driveway. I jumped up. Excited that perhaps it could be Monsieur Labrousse, the beast removal man. But it was the carpenter and his wife, arriving to finish the sheep gate.)

Yesterday, I left a message on Monsieur Labrousse's answering machine. Granted it was Sunday, and no one in France works on Sunday, but I thought it was possible that someone who removes dead animals might respond to calm my concerns. He didn't. I tried calling this morning, and his answering machine is too full to even leave a message. I'm sure that means another day or two of Olympia inflating in the sheep house. I don't know what I'll do if she blows up. Originally, I was saying that she might blow up as a joke to the neighbors who have been coming by to express their condolences, but reading their reactions, I realized that it might not be a joke. She might really blow up because each of them nodded their heads in agreement at my joke, and they weren't laughing. An abnormal buildup of gas killed her, and when I glimpsed her body from the clothesline yesterday, it seemed to be getting much larger.

So I sit here eating strawberry tart, waiting for Monsieur Labrousse to grace me with a visit, an expanding dead sheep rotting into day-three close to my house. But my problems are few and I couldn't really complain in front of the Tomlins.

The Tomlins' dog, Sybil, died last week from eating poison . . . I have to find out what brand of effective poison that was to try it on the cats. Sybil was their second dog in three years to die from eating either poison from the dumpster or a dead poisoned animal. The Tomlins' were very sympathetic about my sheep, which I thought was magnanimous of them because they were mourning the very recent loss of their young dog. I really wasn't able to be as solicitous because I hated their dog. She always chased the sheep when I walked by. Now if only the two Rottweilers at the end of the Tomlin's lane would find some good, hearty poison, my walks would be free of harassing dogs.

Back in March, the Tomlins, who never take vacations together because someone has to stay behind and care for the horses, chickens, dog and bees, flew to San Francisco to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary. A British couple stayed in their house to watch over the house and the menagerie. One night, while the caretakers were sleeping, the smoldering fire in the fireplace downstairs set the house ablaze. The caretakers were saved by the urgent barking of the now-departed Sybil as the house was completely devoured in flames. Sybil will always be remembered as a brave heroine and so I will attempt to revise my negative opinion of her.

The four stone walls are still standing and a hearty red rose bush blooms profusely on the south wall. When you drive up to the house, your first impression is that all is well. But then you move closer, and see that the bushes and trees are hiding the caved-in roof and a lifetime of possessions and keepsakes that lie heaped in the front yard reduced to charcoal.

Pamela said she isn't falling into crying fits anymore, and soon the insurance company will have matters settled so the builders can start working. I commented that the insurance company seemed to be taking a long time, three months, to process their claim. Pamela said that, to the contrary, they were progressing faster than normal. Considering the Tomlin's trials and tribulations, I didn't feel I could spend the evening lamenting my sheep.

The Tomlins left at ten thirty. They had to put their chickens in for the night so the foxes didn't get them. Two weeks ago they went out to dinner, and came home and many of their chickens had been killed. Their necks neatly slit by the methodical foxes. When they were leaving for chez moi at 7:30 they remembered they should put the chickens in but didn't do so because that would make them late. I hope they didn't return home to find a yard full of dead chickens.

(Break because Monsieur Besse has just pulled in the driveway.)

Monsieur Besse was the bearer of good news. He called Labrousse this morning, on his own initiative, and Labrousse told him he doesn't work on Mondays. No one but farmers and my Dutch carpenter works on Mondays here. Labrousse said he will be here tomorrow morning. Fantastique that means I'll have had a rotting sheep corpse here for only three and a half days . . . thank goodness Labrousse works faster than the French insurance companies.

Roger also said that Labrousse will call him tomorrow morning so that Roger can come over and oversee the "funeral." Roger told him that I'm Americaine and it will be easier for Labrousse if Roger comes to "translate" for me. Roger doesn't speak English, but since he's used to my pas mal French, he feels he can make things smoother for Labrousse if he's here to help. I also think that Roger wants to see this sad episode to its conclusion since he's been involved from the initial diagnosis. And for that, I am grateful.

Two weeks ago, I had many of the neighbors over for an aperitif. Craig had packed a fancy "rabbit" corkscrew in my luggage that he had purchased at Costco. My guests were amazed at the ease with which the device extracted the corks, especially Roger. I told him I would have Craig bring him one. But Craig said, via the telephone, that there weren't any more at Costco. The "rabbit" corkscrews here in France are a new concept and are very expensive. The ones I had seen started at 125 Euros, four times the cost of the Costco corkscrew which is of good quality.

Friday in Toulouse, I wanted to get a present for Roger for taking the time to meet with the veterinarian. For gifts, I considered a box of chocolates, tins of foie gras, or jars of cassoulet (the famed Toulusian casserole of white beans, tomatoes, pork, and duck) but kept thinking I wanted something more enduring than food as a gift. I perused a few gift stores, and voila! I found the exact same corkscrew, albeit at twice the price Craig paid. I had it wrapped and I put it on Roger's doorstep when I returned from Toulouse and didn't find him at his home.

He came over that evening to tell me about the vet's prognosis for Olympia. When he was about to leave, I asked him if he had found the cadeau, and he said, oui. That was it, no merci. I found this odd because the French, and Roger, are very polite and Roger will drive over just to thank me for leaving him a bit of leftover tart. Today, he was in a cheerful mood, perhaps because he had solved the corpse removal problem for me, and when he was finished with the details regarding the pending funeral, he told me he had tried the corkscrew and that it was mervielleux. I said, "well now you have to have a big party with lots of . . . ." and he finished the sentence for me, "bouteilles," (bottles) and we both started laughing. He's not a big entertainer. He's a shy, life-long bachelor in his late seventies who lived with his widowed mother until she died a few years ago. He purchases all his lunches and dinners from the local restaurant. It's a big deal when he invites you over for a drink and serves some dried sausage with "chips." But now, I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't have a big party with a lot of wine bottles. I think I'm bringing him out of his shell.