Speaking of Hard Things . . .

Montana Republican Senator Conrad Burns, "called President Bush stubborn, saying the president's skull is “solid granite.”

The British Have a Hard-On for Everything French

The British may bitch constantly about the French, but they are green with envy for everything French.

One of my British neighbors who has lived here for over twenty years bitches about French food.

Check out this London Times "Special" on how to be romantic, the French way!

Can't blame the Times for this special, no one would waste their time reading "How to be Romantic, the British Way!"

. . . 

German Shepherds

I really like German Shepherds because I grew up with a wonderful one on the farm in Ohio.
She was the runt of the litter, and like Sgt-Marks-a-Lot's, Queenie, was small for the breed.

Her name was Freida. She followed my brother and me around everywhere. Was a great baby sitter. She was very gentle with women and children, but she HATED men!

We lived back a long lane, with no neighbors in sight. The nearest one was at the end of our lane, six-tenths of a mile away. Many times, salesmen, or maybe they were serial murders, who could tell, would drive back to our house, get out of their car, and Frieda, without touching them, would scare them to death with her aggressive barking and growling. I remember seeing many strange men clambering onto the roofs of their cars!

I wanted to buy a German Shepherd for the farm in France, but the Husband has an aversion to les bergers allemands . . .too many World War II movies. So that's why we ended up with Australian Shepherds, they remind me of German Shepherds, but they don't remind the Husband of German Shepherds . . . a brilliant compromise.

When I was a kid, on summer Sundays, my parents would have picnics for several families that attended Sacred Heart Catholic Church. One picnic, my father was out in the sheep shed showing the visitors the new lambs. One of the men started joking with his wife and pushing her around. My father could tell that Frieda was getting upset so he told the husband he better stop fooling around.

The husband ignored my father's advice. Frieda without barking, took a giant leap and knocked the man to the ground and stood on him. Everyone, except the jokester, had a big laugh. The floor of a sheep shed is pretty messy!

Sgt-Marks-A-Lot makes my day again with another great animal tale . . .this one made me cry!


My folks were off in their pickup/camper up in the Canadian Rockies for a couple weeks one summer. Brother and I were holding down the family fort (near Portland, OR) we were both working summer jobs (I was in college & brother was in HS). A friend bicycled over to our house and while passing through town he stopped and petted a dog that had no collar and seemed to be abandoned. This dog trotted behind him 4 miles as he rode to our house. This dog was a spayed female German Shorthair and looked to be maybe 1-1/2 years old, a purebred dog but on the small side for this breed, maybe 35 lb. She was perfectly proportioned and was very sweet dog but had clearly been abused and would slink and tremble whenever anyone talked in a loud voice.

My friend asked if we would care for the dog while he convinced his mother to take the dog in. His mother was pretty cold blooded and after a week he let us know that it wasn't going to happen.By this time we had named her Queenie and she was getting along well with our old Brittany Spaniel and fit in at the house like she had always been there. Queenie had no objectionable traits at all, no messes, didn't get car sick, loved to go on walks but almost always stayed within sight and was very good about coming when called.

She was timid around other dogs and actually seemed to prefer human company. Later I discovered that she was horribly gun shy which may have been why she had been beaten by her prior owner. If you just brought a gun into the room she would cower and tremble uncontrollably.

The folks came home from vacation and my mother came unglued. "What are you thinking of, we don't need another dog. Someone wants this dog back, we'll call the humane society and put an ad in the paper. Don't get attached to it, this dog is going back to her owners!"Within a few days she fell in love with Queenie and after two weeks announced that no one had phoned about the ad and there were no reports of similar lost dogs at the humane society so she could stay. Queenie became my parents favorite.

After a couple of years my father was transferred to Omaha, Nebraska and they reluctantly moved to the midwest. I stayed in the NW to continue college.So far this is just a stray dog tale but now comes real story.

My folks moved to a suburb on the outskirts of Omaha. Each evening they would load Queenie into the Olds and drive her a short distance to a new subdivision where there were no houses with the lots bordered by corn fields. The streets were in, but the lots were overgrown with tall grass and weeds. They would walk along the paved street in a pattern to get a one mile walk in and Queenie would run in the grass and brush following scents, chasing rabbits and occasionally flushing quail or pheasants.

They had been going there for 6 months when one night, near dusk in the early spring Queenie just disappeared into thin air. They searched and called for her for 45 minutes until it got dark but she had simply vanished. They were really upset about this and for the next 9 days they came every evening and walked the normal circuit calling and whistling for her, but no Queenie.

On day 10 a workman was mowing along the road with a tractor and deck mower. They had seen him before and flagged him down to ask if he had seen Queenie. He told them no but then he mentioned that earlier that evening he had heard a dog barking far off, real quiet. Dad went to a storm drain, got down on his knees and called for Queenie. In about a minute she trotted up about 10 feet beneath the grate and began barking frantically.After carefully searching the area where Queenie had disappeared they found a manhole with no cover in a patch of thick brush. She had evidently been running and fell into the opening, falling 10' to the bottom of the concrete storm drain pipe and was trapped there.

The mower guy got some rope and Dad climbed down and fashioned a crude sling that they were able to hoist her out with. She had lost 7 lbs. and her nails were worn completely down to the pulp probably from desperate attempts to leap to freedom. My folks figured that water must have been trapped in low spot somewhere in the system or she wouldn't have survived. A real close shave.

Queenie recovered with no adverse effects and went on to live for 9 more years and moved with them back to the NW when my Dad retired. Queenie accompanied me on many memorable backpacking trips over the years and was always a perfect companion. She was a real sweetie. --Posted by Sgt Marks-a-lot

. . . 

Not enough to be elected Dog Catcher!

(CBS) The latest CBS News poll finds President Bush's approval rating has fallen to an all-time low of 34 percent, while pessimism about the Iraq war has risen to a new high.

The 34%, what are they smoking? That's the polling question I would like answered.

The Herman Munster family lives next door. 

Dog Days

Every morning, Attila sneaks across the road to Roger's to visit Roger's dog Miss.
And most days, Attila steals something from Roger's.

Little innocent Antoinette remains at our house, sitting on the terrace. If I see her outside alone when Attila has abandoned her, I always let her in the house to reward her.

This morning, Attila left and I let Antoinette inside. A few moments later, I looked out the kitchen window and saw Attila running down the lane, towards our house with something big in his mouth. I could see that Roger had left his garage door open, and I was a bit annoyed at Attila that I was going to have to alter my schedule to return whatever had been stolen.

As Attila approached the house, I could see that he was carrying a large LOG in his mouth. How he got it in there and was able to run with it, I have no idea. He placed the log near the door to the livingroom, where I stack the wood for the wood stove.

I thanked Attila profusely, telling him that was the best thing he'd ever stolen from Roger's . . .I have no use for Roger's underwear, or a single boot, or Miss' food bowl . . .but cut logs, those I can use. I encouraged him to visit the other neighbors' woodpiles.

And to think that the Husband accuses me of not having adequately trained these dogs. Wait until Attila demonstrates that he's capable of collecting, and stacking all the wood we need for our wood furnace! The Husband will be thrilled that he can cross that chore off his "honey do" list.

Antoinette and I drove to a village 17km away this morning. I was worried that she might puke on the curvy road; and she soon proved that my fears were justified. She puked, but just a little bit and being the polite dog that she is, she quickly ate it. So the experience wasn't too traumatic for me or the car.

I found my destination. The home of a British woman who is editing my novel for me. She gave me a tour of her lovely home on the edge of the medival village.

She told me she was thinking of moving to a different village.

"Why?" I asked. "It seems so perfect here."
"There are too many British!" she replied.
I was happy to learn that even the British are Anglo-phobes. Makes my xenophobia seem justified.

On the way back, Antoinette puked again. This time a much larger portion than she was able to completely clean up.

Ah, my glamorous French life!

The Raccoon, The Turkey, and the Coyote

My buddy Sgt-Marks-A-Lot sent me the most hysterical, well-written parable about why God does not condone cross-species marriages:

Libby/Blanche,Please forgive me. Delete this if necessary. This is a true story, I swear to God. I worked for a biology teacher during my high school years in the Midwest. He maintained a "live room" at the school which included skunks, possums, raccoons, a coyote, a beautiful red fox, a disturbed (justifiably) macaque monkey, rats, mice and two turkeys.

After caring for many of these animals for a year he put me on salary and suggested that I report for duty during the summer as a camp counselor at a city park where the animals were housed while he was not teaching.Transport of the animals from the high school to the summer camp required cages, assistance from a city employee, and use of a city vehicle.

The vehicle was a defective, forest green, Ford Econoline van with a 3 speed transmission.I reported to the city on a blisteringly hot June morning and was introduced to my assistant, Bob. We were issued keys and with little effort located the van. I asked Bob if he wanted to drive but he declined. The van was difficult to start but after much fooling around we got it going.

We drove to my high school but on the way it became clear that the heater controls in the van were defective and that the heat was full on and there was little we could do about it. Even with the windows open and the fan turned off, it was 95 deg F in the van and we were miserably hot.

Back at the High School live room, I coaxed the reluctant animals into the transport cages without too much difficulty and then asked Bob to help me load them into the van. He confessed that he was terrified of animals and even with gloves on assisted only when necessary.

The first trip went pretty well. I had selected animals that were easy to handle and took care to place them in the van next to benign neighbors. At the summer camp I transferred them to their vacation runs/cages without difficulty.

What followed is all my fault. Due to the number of animals it was necessary to make a second trip from the high school to the city day camp. On this trip I faced very serious problems. I had left a significant group of "hard cases" for the second trip. The monkey, for obvious reasons was transferred to the best cage available and he drew serious blood when transferred. My assistant, Bob, shut down completely at this point.I had another serious problem on my hands. Not enough cages.

The turkeys, 40 lbs each, although difficult, were unwieldy birds and when confined in the back of the van, barricaded by cages could cause little problem.

My instructor had a tame, full grown boar raccoon named Ricky. He was like a dog, but resourceful. I loaded him into a cage judged sufficient but within 10 minutes of leaving the high school he had joined me in the front seat of the van by squeezing through an impossibly narrow gap in the cage.The heater was working well. We were making good time at 60 miles an hour on paved road west of the Missouri. It was about 100 deg F outside and close to 105 deg F inside with the windows open.

My assistant Bob was terrified of Ricky. Rick made several attempts to bond with Bob but Bob was glued against the passengers side door rigid with fear.Ricky was damn hot, that coonskin coat was doing him no good so he climbed onto my lap. He hung his head out the window of the van and gradually eased out into cooler air, too far. I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him back in, rolling up the window and leaving the vent window open. Ricky moved his snout to the vent window.

All was tranquil for several minutes and I was lulled into a momentary feeling of well being. Suddenly, Ricky lunged forward, slithering out of that wing window and I grabbed one of his legs holding on for dear life.The van left the highway at an angle and dropped down a 5 foot embankment without rolling. Cottonwood trees flashed by on each side and a shower of water shot over the windshield as we moved through a swampy patch. With one hand locked onto Ricky's leg and the other on the wheel by some miracle we climbed the embankment and lurched back on to the pavement where we pulled over and stopped to evaluate our options.

There was nothing to be done about Ricky. Bob might as well have been dead, rigor mortis had set in. With all windows now closed and the temperature approaching 110 deg F we started off again. The trusty heater was doing it's job and the air in the van was filled with motes, feathers and hairs from the miserable panting cargo.

As we turned onto the spur road leading to the Day Camp a tremendous ruckus set in at the back of the van. The white broad breasted turkey, strutting in territorial glory, had thrust his head into an opening in the coyotes cage attempting to peck his neighbor. A furious beating of wings ensued with an outcome that I can only leave to the reader's imagination.Some of the other Day Camp counselors assisted with unloading the animals. It took several months of hard work to regain their confidence.

Trust me, Libby, you don't need no stinking turkeys!

Cute little bugger! 

The Husband arrives Wednesday and we're all excited.

Attila, because the husband pays more attention to him than I do.

Antoinette, because she'll have me all to herself.

The sheep because they can remain outside as soon as the Husband repairs their fence.

Me, because I'll have someone to take me out to dinner! I'm really tired of my buttered popcorn diet.

This morning, when I went out to feed the sheep, there was frost on the ground.
I like it when it's frosty out . . .the dog poops are much easier to scoop up.
Then, when I went to take a hike this afternoon, it was uncomfortably warm for a bit, if not downright hot. The chickens are laying on all three cylinders . . .spring must be here.

The progeny brought up an interesting theory about Blanche and Beau. He feels that Blanche will not let Beau copulate with her because Blanche doesn't feel that Beau is superior to her. He's a young buck, shorter, and weighs less than she does. Blanche is looking for someone to look up to. She looks down on little Beau.

Based on my daily, blow-by-blow description of what's going on in the bergerie, my son believes that Beau is now OBSESSED with laying Blanche and is ignoring the other ewes.

Blanche seems to successfully thwart Beau's every move. She pees. He sniffs and gets excited. Blanche turns around and butts him in the head. He retreats to a quiet corner of the bergerie to contemplate his next move.

This morning I showed up with the grain bucket, and was greeted at the gate by seven of the sheep . . . Blanche and Beau were missing. I thought that perhaps they were doing the deed. But when I looked through the gate, I saw them off to the side of the bergerie. . . ramming each other in the head.

So there may not be any little lambs this spring . . .I'll have to think of some other project to keep the Husband out of mischief.

Surveillance photo of Chirac with a bull. 

Man Weds Goat!

. . .And they lived happily ever after.

And to think that the Husband laughed at my idea about opening up a sheep whore house!

A Sudanese man has been forced to take a goat as his "wife", after he was caught having sex with the animal.
The goat's owner, Mr Alifi, said he surprised the man with his goat and took him to a council of elders.
They ordered the man, Mr Tombe, to pay a dowry of 15,000 Sudanese dinars ($50) to Mr Alifi.
"We have given him the goat, and as far as we know they are still
together," Mr Alifi said.

I didn't know France had turkey farms!

The only turkeys I've ever found here in France are in the supermarche and they were just miniscule strips of breast meat. I've never encountered dinde on a restaurant menu. But alas, the grippe aviare has found its way to what I suspect is THE ONLY French turkey farm.

Sheep, you know you want one! 

Sheep Abduction!

Sheepophile apprehended in Little Rock, Arkansas!

Thank god the sheep was saved from this fiend.

A homeless man who police say tried to take a sheep from the Little Rock Zoo has been arrested on numerous charges. A security guard at the zoo called police Tuesday evening after spotting a man carrying a trash can with a sheep in it, a police report said.

When officers arrived Grady Allen Carnahan, 32, told them he was a doctor and the sheep was sick. He said he was taking the animal to a veterinary clinic, the report said.

The Best Exercise . . . .

Recently, I've been taking my walks wearing a backpack filled with weights. Today I walked six miles with seventeen pounds . . .up two major hills.

I wish I would have discovered this mode of exercise earlier in my life . . .it has to be the most EFFICIENT way of exercizing and toning your heart and body . . .the weight just falls off. I much prefer it to running, and the toning results are much better than with running.

This man would fit right in with the South Dakota Legislators.

A man who raped his unconscious teenage stepdaughter as she lay dying from a head injury has been jailed for nine years at the High Court in Glasgow.

He obviously doesn't respect the rights of women either.

To clarify, when breeding animals you often get superior offspring when you mate the father with the daughter. However, the failure rate is far greater than the good "nick."

I know a man who's grandfather was also his father.

His mother was also his sister.

When I met him, he lived with his uncle who was also his brother.

He was a genius . . .a farmer who had figured out the stock market. He was wealthy by our local standards, but lived like a pauper. His life was very isolated. He spent his entire life in the same homesteader shack in which he was born. I always had the sense that he was afraid of the world, afraid that everyone knew the family secret . . . that's why he never left the farm.

And everyone did know the family secret. No one ever spoke his name to me without mentioning his sordid beginnings. It was very sad that he could never escape the crime perpetrated by his grandfather/father . . .who was never prosecuted. In the 30's they just ignored that stuff.

Incest happens. 

American Taliban Strikes Again!

Good Lord! You'd think with all those cattle and sheep ranchers in South Dakota they would know about the evils of inbreeding.

The South Dakota legislature just passed a bill that bans all abortions . . .even in the case of rape or incest . . .and there's absolutely no provision that takes into account the health of the mother. It goes to the anti-abortion governor next for his signature.

So if you get knocked up in South Dakota by your father, brother or grand-father, you've got to give birth to that wall-eyed baby.

A sheepherder taking his flock to the barn, his trusty dog following. 

Must be some sort of holiday. Drove into the village and it was filled with British people.

Or maybe, the realtors have done their job so thoroughly that there are now more British living here full-time than French.

I really hate leaving the farm. Everytime I venture out, there's something new waiting to slap me in the face to remind me that I can't run away from the modern world.

At the end of my driveway this morning, there was Roger and his nephew pulling out his vineyard.

Thank you globalization.

A little farther down the road, I saw an old house someone was gutting and remodeling. I suspect it is a foreign owner, as the French don't seem prone to gutting a house before they move in. The roofers didn't put the traditional tiled roof on the house. They used some sort of faux tile sheets instead. I suppose that's the harbinger of the beginning of the end of quaint tiled roofs in southwestern France.

Thank you mass-excreted corporate uniformity.

Drove to another village and passed the new intersection on the main two-lane highway . . .the authorities kicked the gypsy village out in order to construct the new, improved, wider intersection. The modern, curbed intersection is perfectly suited for the placement of a McDonald's.

Thank you evil asphalt spreaders and SUV drivers who are demanding wider roads. (I really had to pull over my little compact to let a giant British-plated, right-side steering wheeled, Land Rover pass by me on the road this morning.)

I liked the gypsies . . .any group that can continue to free-range western society, thumbing their tribal noses at authority has my encouragement. One needs to have gypsies in the vicinity in order to blame for all the lost things. Otherwise that misplaced wrench becomes a painful reminder that you're getting old and forgetful.

Nothing too exciting coming out of the bergerie. This morning I fed the sheep their grain, then went and fed the dogs, cat and chickens. When I returned to give the sheep their hay, I saw Blanche standing up on her hind legs, her front legs on the gate, and I started laughing. She was such a large, bear-like apparition, staring intently at me.

It was a weird sensation. I had the strong feeling that she was trying to communicate something to me.

She never comes to the gate . . .she just waits near her feed bin for me to come fill it up. Biberon, on the other hand is the one who stands at the gate, hitting it with her front hoof, yelling at me.

Maybe Blanche was trying to tell me that I was late getting her hay to her. But I've been much later than I was today, and I have always found her waiting patiently.

I thought that maybe she was telling me that it was spring and it was about time I let the sheep out of the barn; but she didn't push me out of the way in an attempt to escape, so I don't think that was what she was getting at.

Animals communicate on a deep intuitive level that humans can't fathom; because we're so out of touch with the true core of our existence. I always feel that Blanche shows me the way . . . to just be . . .without thinking, without trying, without expectations. My large zen sheep who every now and then makes herself a looming presence in front of me in order to ground me.

Maybe that's what she was trying to tell me: don't drive into the village, it will upset you!

. . . 

Obese Americans in Baja

Mark Morford, of the San Francisco Chronicle, writes a frightened column about his vacation in Cabo.

"It was, in a word, disquieting. And horribly depressing.

Here's the thing: Massive girth and rolling flab, for most of this country, is a way of life. It is what's expected, what everyone else looks like, the norm. Americans are, generally speaking, huge, unhealthy, more detached from their bodies than a George Bush from a dictionary. And what's more, no one seems to notice or care. It's the great American shrug."

Cool door to the local Cathedral . . . 

"WhattheH said...
You might run into a problem with separating Blanche from Beau. While your other half may be correct, and Beau will follow his male instincts, it may also backfire. Beau may be so involved with Blanche, that no other can satisfy his desires. What to do, what to do? Keep us informed. I'm rooting for Blanche - okay, I'll admit it, as an old lady, Blanche is my favourite. "

WhattheH, You have a valid point . . .and far be it from me to try and deny an old woman her boy-toy. I'm in quite the spot. Last week, I read an advertisement for a 10-month-old buck for sale. I called the owner, but it was during the big snow storm so I couldn't drive out to see the buck for two days.

The delay made me decide not to buy the other buck now, because I need to know who the father of each lamb is so that I don't mate the daughters to the father the following year; and there's no need to feed an extra mouth until I require his services.

The IDEAL situation would be for Beau to not be attached solely to Blanche, and follow the path of traditional male randiness and mate with the other girls . . .within a short time frame. The Husband will not be happy to have lambs coming at different intervals throughout the summer . . . especially when I tell him that he's the one who's in charge of birthing!

I should go out and purchase a chalk bag to attach to Beau's stomach so that he marks the girls when he mounts them. Or better yet, install a web cam in the bergerie to watch what's actually going on . . .I bet I'd have a lot of traffic at my blog then!

Admittedly, this affair is more interesting than the one I'm involved in with Blanche and Beau:

A prominent Albany banker dirty-danced, kissed and fondled his married mistress at a dinner party while his estranged wife sat in jail on charges of having sex with an underage student, the woman's aggrieved husband charged yesterday.

"He's got four children and his own wife was having a traumatic experience," David Bean said of Thomas Geisel, president of Key Bank Community Bank's northeast region.

"Why did he have to go after my wife?" the alternately distraught and angry jilted husband added.

Blanche is on your left, with Soixante-Douze directly behind her. Notice how svelte the other ewes are.  

My Love Triangle . . .

I hate to admit this, but I've become entagled in a love triangle. It's me, Blanche and Beau.

This morning, while I was squatting down hugging Beau, and trying my sheep-whispering technique on him, Blanche came over and knocked me over onto the floor.

She's just jealous because she's so fat and I'm so fit! And I have two arms with which I can hug Beau.

When I quietly sneak up on the troupeau to see what they're up to, Blanche and Beau are either nuzzling each other, or Beau is following Blanche and sniffing. For those of you who know Blanche, are painfully aware that you could be a kilometer away and you could still smell Blanche . . . I didn't cut her tail off, thinking it was cruel, and after all God gave sheep a tail for a reason . . .but now that tail is a urine-soaked, continually dripping, mass of feces-clumped dreadlocks.

I haven't figured out why God bothered to give sheep tails.

But despite this, Beau seems to have his heart set on Blanche . . .and ignores the young ewes with the cutely bobbed tails and clean derrieres.

As always, I hate to point out how wrong the Husband was . . . but I will. The Husband said Blanche was too old and fat to attract anyone and that she'd die a virgin. But au contraire, Blanche is Beau's favorite.

. . .or perhaps it's just that Blanche is the dominatrix and won't let Beau ogle anyone else.

When I left the flock this morning, poor Beau was left eating alone, while the other sheep were munching hay in groups of four. Blanche made it known that Beau must suffer for accepting my attentions. The worst punishment for a sheep is to be left alone.

. . . 

The Next Big Thing . . .

This "phenomenon" couldn't happen soon enough in America. People making a vow not to buy anything new for a year except food, medical needs, and underwear. I hope it sweeps France before they build another foundation for another box store.

You can blame this on E-Bay:

"People seem very threatened by it," she said. "But people all over the world live this way all the time. It's not like it's some revolutionary, or even consistent, thing we're doing. But I have been furiously questioned by some people about it -- one person said, 'I bet you still buy gas.' "
That sort of response is exactly why the Compact is needed, Perry said.
"If it's national news when a small group of professionals decide not to buy anything new, and it bothers people so much, it really speaks to how deep we are into consumerism in this country," he said.

The problem is, that once people reprogram themselves into this mode of buying used, they won't quit. For the past year I've only been buying things for the house at auctions . . .even my dish towels. You really see how much STUFF is worth when you see it up for auction . . . and it's not worth much!

Blanche, being seductive. 

My long-time friend Kathy sent me this joke:

Tom walks into his bedroom with a sheep under his arm and says: "Darling, this is the pig I have sex with when you have a headache."

His girlfriend is lying in bed and replies: "I think you'll find that's a sheep, you idiot."

The man says: "I think you'll find I wasn't talking to you."

"The Cotton Exchange" by Degas 

It never fails . . .

Whenever the thought pops into my head that I'm getting really good with my French, someone comes along and, politely, pops my bubble.

I've been reading 500 page novels in French, at the rate of 25 pages a day . . .with narry a look at the dictionary. And the other evening, when I gave Therese a brand new sweater to replace the one that Attila ripped off her line and tore up, I sat around chatting for an hour without having to ask Therese's son for a translation (he works for AirBus and speaks English). That evening was a milestone for me, for if I know that someone speaks English, I'll get lazy and start speaking English.

Then wouldn't you know it, just after I get off the phone with the Husband, bragging about how fluent my French was getting, someone has the gaul (get it? GAUL, now I know where they got that word) to hint that my French isn't that good.

I read an ad in the paper that someone had hay for sale, in small bales which are difficult to find . . .and what's more, they would deliver. I called at noon, and the woman who answered told me that I had to call back later to talk with her husband.

When I called back, the farmer only let me get out a few sentences then he said, in English, "Maybe this would be easier if we spoke English."

The bastard!

I've never met a French farmer who speaks English . . . this must be a young one.

I was giving him directions to the farm, and told him that if he got lost, to just ask where the crazy American lady with the sheep lives. He said, "Oh, I thought you were British. And you have sheep? I thought it was probably for horses."

So while the British are known for living their elegant country lives with their thoroughbreds, I'm cavorting around with sheep . . .it always shocks the French I meet that I have sheep, I don't quite fit the foreigner mold around here . . .but I guess I don't blend in so easily either . . .with my fractured French.