Italy

Bill is doing a marvellous job of posting about our trip to Italy, using the photos which I took. If you are curious about the places we saw, go have a quick look at

http://williamfrenzullimd.blogspot.com/

Here are the only photos of dogs I got on the whole trip:

This little fellow was at the villa where we stayed in Tuscany. He was a terrier cross but had long straight stringy hair. He wanted nothing to do with visitors.

I saw a few filthy Westies in Firenze (Florence) whose owners wanted nothing to do with anyone sporting a camera. (I really couldn't blame them. There were hundreds of thousands of us.)

I saw a number of dogs which looked like this guy. He was in Bill's grandparents home town of Castel Nuova. Well fed, well groomed, he was a sight for my sore heart!

This litte fellow was devoted to his mom, but petrified of everyone else.

And this gorgeous horse was our next door neighbor at Fonterutoli. He belonged to the vineyard's owner, but I enjoyed breathing and watching him.

hug your hounds

Heart Attack

No where else on Earth could I write the following and not be involuntarily committed to an inpatient Psych unit. Oh how I appreciate you, dear readers!

I can tell you that I spent a two week, most-expenses-paid trip in Italy, Italy for heaven's sake, feeling like my heart was being attacked.

OK, before even you get out the straight jacket for me, let me explain. That two week trip was the longest I had gone without hugging a dog and/or horse for forty-four years. If you count my first ever pets, my parakeet Birdie, and my cats Stripy and Blackie, (does this explain why my dogs now have names like Giacomino?) then it was the longest I had been without animal companionship in fifty years. I am fifty-four years old.

To see photos of the beautiful places we visited, and some beyond delightful plein-air drawings by my talented husband, check out his blog! (He'll enjoy the visitors, too!!!) We stayed a week in Tuscany, the glory of which has been the subject of great art and literature. We saw David in Florence, the Tower in Pisa, the Piazza in Siena, and vista after beautiful vista from our home base of Fonterutoli. (Font-uh-ROO-tuh-lee). There was a road, with its original stones, into this village built by the Romans in 900 A.D. (Bill has photos on his blog.)

We went to Rome and saw the sights. And we went to a wonderful village in the province of Puglia (POOO-lee-uh) where Bill's grandparents were born and raised. Twenty-one Renzullis met there for a family reunion. There were no other tourists (in fact at first the locals thought we were there to evangelize them! HA!) and the beauty of that place will stay with me for my life. Such was the magic in that town, that my heart felt the least attacked there. We could look out of our hotel window, see the 300 mile wide valley where most of the wheat for all of that Italian bread and pasta is grown, and far off in the distance see the Adriatic.

the view from our window

But through it all, I felt like I couldn't quite fill my lungs. As though I had been amputated. Not like I had lost a limb; rather, I was the limb, lying useless and severed. Disembodied.

Because of the immense generosity of my neice, Molly, I didn't have to worry about the health and safety of the dogs. They know her well, and adore her, and I trust her as I would no one else. I did worry that I had placed a terrible responsibility on her, and I overemphasized that I was leaving her with very fragile old dogs, whose every day was, at best, iffy, whether I was home or not. In my defense, it didn't help that we had very little Internet access during the whole stay. I went to a pay-and-show-your-passport place in the nearest town, and learned that Maria, who will be 14 in February, had been vomiting and had stayed at my vet's for the afternoon getting IV's.

There's not enough air in this country. Why can't I breathe?

Luciano had given Molly a black eye. His special self was jumping up to kiss her while she was bending down. Whippet heads are hard. Oh boy. Hang in there, Molly. Bill's daughter let me send some messages from her blackberry, but nothing came back.

No news is always good news. Molly was visiting with friends after the dogs went to bed. The computer wasn't cooperating with her and kept 'poofing' her messages. Had Maria died and no one would tell me? What good would it do to ruin my vacation? What, Bill? Oh yes, that is a gorgeous view. What the heck is wrong with the air? No matter what I do, my lungs feel empty. I'm drowning here.

I sent a blackberry message to my dear friends and neighbors, Lee and Dee. Is Molly all right? Were the dogs all right? Please! Were Molly and the dogs all right? Yes, they replied. Molly and the dogs were just fine. Maria was back to barking and begging, and she was eating well.

OK. I should be able to breathe now. Why do my arms feel leaden? So empty and useless.

In Rome for two days, if I sat on the bottom of the marble steps in the hallway, the WiFi worked. Molly was doing fine, the routine was less scary, and Maria continued to eat and be merry. They were all enjoying Molly's head-counting "biscuit meetings" immensely, and Giacomino was sleeping all the time.

There is something wrong with my heart. It squeezes too tight when it pumps. Or it doesn't fit in my chest anymore. Maybe some of it is missing, and it's rattling around in a too-big pocket.

Bill's grandparents' home town

No Internet in the whole town of Castelnuova. But such was the power of seeing Bill walk the streets where his grandparents had played as children, of seeing the town with his own eyes, which he had heard about all his life, my heart seemed to fit better again.

And I would be home soon.

The dizzying hour and a half bus ride rocking and zigzagging down the mountain into Foggia sped by. And the packed train, sardines for three and a half hours to Rome, was fast and pleasant. I felt a little giddy.

Tomorrow!

We got up at 5 AM to get to the airport. Rome to Milano, then Milano to Chicago, then O'Hare to Amy's house, then the seven hour drive home. Just over 25 hours of traveling. Molly wanted to get the dogs up and witness the whippet joy, but I just wanted their lives to return to normal. It was nearly midnight, and they were in bed. I went upstairs.

Giacomino was waiting at the baby gate at the top of the stairs. He was wagging, and his ears were standing straight up, but his eyes were confused. No so with Bill's Delia, whose soft-crate zipper has been broken for years. Her Bill was home! She danced and sparkled. Her Bill was home! I went into our bedroom and put all of me that would fit into each crate and kissed each dear occupant.

"I'm home," I whispered.

I know, from doing whippet rescue, that a whippet starts to bond to a new human after about a week to ten days, and by three to four weeks they are part of that human's heart forever. I had been gone for fifteen days. And I saw the confusion in their eyes.

I'm home.

For the first two days, Giacomino stayed asleep, and when he was awake, he had a blank stare, like he had gone someplace inside himself and couldn't see out. Maria had another episode of vomiting and we went back to the vet. Her blood work and belly xrays were great! I went on an errand, and returned to the chaos of Excessive Greeting Disorder. Molly, ever astute, said, "That must be music to your ears." Oh, yes. We said a sad, grateful goodbye to Molly and she went back to her own dogs, whom she missed as much as I did mine.

And now that I've been home for six days, Giacomino's eyes are no longer blank. Maria is barking more, though she's not back to her mouth of the south status, and Delia is Bill's extra appendage.

I am a foolish old woman. I have no problem with that. As I type, I am surrounded by eight somnolent dogs. My heart fits in my chest and I can breathe. I am who I am.

I'm home.

Hug your hounds

Mr. Picasso Head was here!

The dogs are at a virtual Supper Bowl Party in Arizona, hosted jointly by their blog buddies Gussie and Teka, and Joe Stains and Tanner. I'm hearing that Lindy Loo was W.I.L.D. on the dance floor, and that the Very Old Dogs are soaking up the virtual sunshine and spa treatments.

With no poop to pick up and no walks to go on I had to find some way to fill my day. As you know, my husband is an artist, so I thought "How hard can that be?" I went to http://www.mrpicassohead.com/index.html and voila! Move over Bill, here I come!

Whippicasso

Whippet picasso head

(unsigned, but the provenence is conclusive)

Patience Picasso head

(Evidence that when I am separated from my dogs even in make believe land, I suffer mightily!)

Thanks to Aynex for the fun.

Even though you have a C-A-T.

Lost

[If you came looking for the poem, scroll down to the next post, after you read this important message.]

For over a year I have been working on a novel about a stolen dog, whose owner won't give up searching. Imagine my sadness in discovering that this scenario is playing out in real life in Australia. I cannot fathom the living nightmare this woman is enduring.
Someone, somewhere knows where her dog is.




Please direct everyone to this website:
www.findingbeau.com

Hug your hounds extra tight.
And count your blessings. Twice.

A Day Off

If you are new to this blog, please scroll down to some of the other stories first. This is not my best writing; it's been a long day.

My husband had some outpatient surgery in Nashville today. Nothing serious, but he did have general anesthesia and that's always a little worry. Fifteen years ago I was an RN working in the Operating Room and Recovery Room, so I do know that complications in minor surgeries are rare, but my head could not get through to my heart.

There wasn't time to walk all of the dogs before we left, and Bill understandably didn't feel like walking, so I had a great plan. After their breakfast, I put them all out in the yard, while I mowed the strip outside the fence, between the sidewalk and the street. It was a great plan! It took me a half and hour, and the dogs ran back and forth, took care of all their morning potty issues, and it rained while we were gone (finally) so it would have been too wet to mow tomorrow.

It's a good two and a half hour drive to Nashville, so of course we had to allow three hours. The dogs are used to being crated when we go out to dinner, or if I have to run errands, but not from eight thirty in the morning until six or later at night.

That's when you know how lucky you are to have friends who happily and without hesitation volunteer to let your dogs out for you. Not your dog or your two dogs but your nine dogs. And you thank your lucky stars when you get home with your sleepy husband who had no trouble at all. He so enjoyed modern anesthesia that he proposed to three nurses and Bob the anesthetist.

And thanks to your wonderful friends, the dogs are just fine.

I settled Bill in, and enjoyed the Excessive Greeting Disorder of nine wild dogs. They were wildly happy that we found our way home. They ate while I made Bill some soup for dinner, and then they collapsed.
I would expect them to be full of energy and play, after being cooped up way more than they're used to being. But looking back and forth between my post-anesthetized husband and my comatose dogs, it was hard to tell which of them was the one enjoying the benefits of Versed and Propofol with an IV Demerol chaser for the ride home.

I think they spent the day thinking we were lost. I think they worried that with our pathetic senses we could not find our way home. I bet they tried as hard as they could to tell our friends who let them out that their Servants might need help. That their Humans were out there somewhere without them. I think they listened for our car all day.

We will all sleep well tonight. Bill's surgery is over and he did just fine: I'll sleep well. The Humans managed to find their way home, despite having no sense of direction or smell. The dogs are sleeping like, well, dogs. Bill is still enjoying the effects of all that anesthesia. He's sleeping like a baby.

Thanks to good friends, good doctors, good nurses, and good dogs -

Life is sweet.