Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Black noses

Scombre was found shivering in a snowy embankment in Shasta County. Her black nose stood out against the white snow, and we stopped. Thrilled with her newly adoptive family, she became my father’s fast friend, barking at the lawn mower as he pushed it every Saturday. She died of old age, long after my brother and I had left home.

Molly was a castoff from a single mom who couldn’t give the gentle dog enough attention and didn’t want to deal in impending puppies. She died on the vet’s table during the spaying procedure, her unknown hemophilia becoming apparent too late.

Peggy started life as the last of Molly’s seven puppies, just barely weaned when she was orphaned. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, she was very affectionate, my father’s faithful companion as he mapped out pioneer graves. She too died peacefully, of old age.

Nellie was featured in the local paper as the Humane Society’s pet of the week, shortly after Peggy’s death. A small, quiet Australian Shepherd (like all her predecessors), she was the perfect dog for my father’s declining years. Her favorite place was by his side, quietly waiting—even under his pew at church.

From overseas, I hear news of tainted pet food: wheat gluten, and now rice protein concentrate, contaminated with the chemical melamine, linked to the death of 16 animals. The list of brand names is 54 long, each one representing several types: literally hundreds of kinds are affected, with rebranding making the web more difficult to untangle. Our industrialized model harms not only us, but also those we love and protect. Yes, they are “only” pets, but the mounting numbers, each with a story behind them, must serve as (yet another) wakeup call. Had this been baby formula or Ensure, our grief would not go so quietly.

Nellie became ill suddenly and inexplicably. She died at the vet’s, quite unexpectedly and many years before her time. My mother’s grief at the loss of husband and elderly cat is compounded. No, Nellie is not counted in the official number, but she counted to us.

Monday, April 16, 2007

The best things in life are really cheap

I am awake far too early, listening to the birds greet the day. My belly is grumbling, expecting dinner some nine time zones away. Not wanting to disturb my hopefully sleeping family, I am lying here, scheming breakfast. In Dublin, it was a full Irish, with thick back rashers and a fried egg, in Germany, a Bretzel, fresh from the bakery, filled with thick slabs of cold sweet butter. If I had broken my fast in France, it would have been with a pain au chocolat dunked in a bowl of hot chocolate. But I am home, and my body is begging for a respite from the onslaught of delicious and tempting allergens.

During my Dublin shopping expeditions, I cringed at the prices every time I took another item off the shelf, as they all seemed to have a price tag of at least €2.99. My first bag of not-so-special groceries set me back over 40 Euro. I’m not a great mathematician, but the knowledge that the Euro is hovering around $1.30 made me realize that most of what I was putting in my cart was exorbitantly expensive. Everything, that is, until I found a lone bag of “plain oats” at Tesco. An unassuming white paper bag, no fancy features or brand name, it promised me many breakfasts for a mere 49 Euro cents. I brought it back to our Dublin digs, and at every packing juncture, I found myself resistant to chuck it, instead tucking its dwindling self into the luggage. By the time we made our last stop, I had making it down pat and the boys would beg for some too: bubbling and thick, with a handful of raisins, a sprinkling of Demerara sugar, and a river of thick soy milk. There are probably only one or two servings left in the little white bag, but I am certain that at least one of them will disappear this morning.

It’s not that I’m cheap (indeed, next to the legendary tightfistedness of my Darling Husband, I could be seen as living quite high on the hog), but sometimes the inexpensive everyday makes a bigger difference than the big splurges.

On our last trip to Germany, Little One discovered the joy of dipping lovely sausages from the Vaterland into sweet deli mustard. He begged for one of the jars at the supermarket, and since it was only 25 Euro cents, I bought it. He has shown incredible reserve, using just enough to not waste a smidgen (though also not willing to share with anyone else, thank you very much). With only a few servings to go, a trip to Plus was on his agenda. His brother also wanted a jar, and since I know he’s going to hit a growth spurt any day now, I splurged and bought three—at 29 Euro cents each (and I get a free glass when I’m done!). When our luggage was overweight, I pulled two jars and put them in the carryons, which led to a dodgy moment at security: it turns out they’re considered a gel. To his credit, the security agent who escorted Darling Husband back to baggage check did see the humor in the situation: the mustard was only Mittelscharf, sharf being the German word for both spicy and sharp—and we all know there are no sharp objects allowed in aircraft.