Changes big and small, expected and un

back from our trip, back to our fazenda

So, we went back to the US and then to Norway. We were gone ten days. Some people might frame this as gone *only* ten days - it’s a fairly long way to travel for such a short away time. I have a friend that won’t go anywhere for less than a month if she has to cross an ocean, or even a time zone.

My internal framing was, I admit, a bit panicky. Ten days! Oh no! What will happen with all of our projects?! It felt so long.

We had people here to take care of things….the Alaskans (Tim and Kirsten) took care of Jake for a week, then dropped him at the dog sitter in Cascais before returning to the US from their monthlong stay here in Portugal.

Wonderful Tiago our contractor took care of the chickens including the four pintainhos. Before our departure we did what we could to make it easy, cleaning out the wooden rabbit hutch we found in the Animal Kingdom - the chicken coop also housed rabbits, goats and pigs, and the three room stone building with giant calcada courtyard is really more like a mini-barn than a garden variety coop.

The hutch is an enormous thing, a wooden two story affair of green-painted wood, the front wired with chicken wire. We put Tim’s muscle power to good use, hauling it down four sets of steps to the carport, where we power washed it and let it dry in the sun before filling it with wood chips and the chick warmer and installing it just inside the backdoor, in the mud room. It serves nicely as a safe place for the chicks at night. Two thick towels act as curtains that drape down the front at night, to keep out ambient light.

The babies adapted well, but nevertheless it was a lot of change for them in a short time: the three amigos lost their mother and the same day found themselves installed in a box with Princess Leia and a strange contraption that delivers warmth without softness. After three days of this environment they were moved to the hutch. Then the h and I disappeared, replaced by the Alaskans, who disappeared, replaced by Tiago. Poor babies. Chickens are cautious creatures and this was a lot of adaptation to require of orphans in such a short time.

It was a nice trip, meeting my granddaughter and watching Sophia graduate. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss my animals and my home and the day by day, step by step march of the progress we are creating. I have not been off the property since October when we took a short trip to Barcelona. The h has had a number of trips, and tends to worry less anyway, especially when there is no need to worry. And with Jake at his beloved sitter, Tim and Tiago taking care of the garden and chickens, and Alberto’s wise and knowing eyes on the place from across the street, everything was well in hand.

with Uncle Tim, visiting from Alaska

Tim and Kristen took Jake on many adventures, sending me daily pictures: Jake swimming in the surf, Jake at the cliffs with climbers, Jake walking a high ridgeline.

The sitter also sent me pictures and videos - Jake wading in a creek, sleeping on the couch, resing with his head on the sitter’s knee. My guy was in good hands, I knew that. I haven’t been separated from him much since he was a pup - the longest period away from him was six weeks while we bought the property and got some of our renovations underway. He was safely ensconced with a friend and her dogs on a big property in the sunny climes of Sonoma wine country, happy and fit, but I woke in my far away tent in Portugal crying more than once, missing him terribly.

Still, I did worry and not without reason. A predator recently decimated our flock of chickens, reducing the number of hens from twelve to four. I have plans to get the hens safely into the coop, but it will require a couple more steps. Would they survive while we were gone? And while I knew the pintainhos would be fed and watered, would they survive the lack of light and freedom and daily touch that was their daily life with me and the h?

We arrived back home late Saturday afternoon to the chickens milling around the foot of the driveway, much as they did when we first took possession of the property. Back then, they were a feral lot foraging for what they could, hanging about the trees and walls at the end of the driveway where village ladies, and our neighbor Alberto, would occasionally leave them water in cut plastic jugs, as well as food - stale bread, lettuce, rice. Chickens have long memories - Tiago had fed them that morning, I knew, but with the house empty the flock had decided to hang out at their old stomping grounds in the hopes of getting lucky as in the old days.

As we passed through the gate and rolled our bags up the sidewalk some of the brash young roosters hopped up on the wall. Alphonse! the h called, delighted. He is our favorite rooster, a beautiful mix of blonde and brown feathers and emerald green highlights on his wing and tail feathers. He is a cool cat, something of a loner, often eschewing feeding at the coop and following me inside the house to see what special treat there might be - namely, peanuts or pecans. He allows himself to be picked up and kissed and carried, relaxing in our arms with his little dinosaur feet hanging down. I love the flock but Alphonse is our special guy - a house rooster, a mascot, a symbol of our lives here - feral, beautiful, and most of all tame-able with patience and constant, day by day work/persuasion.

As we entered the carport I saw the gate has been fixed and re-hung, so that it swings easily now. I blinked back tears. When we left the property, it was a project in progress, to hang gates at the points of egress that Jake has previously used to go on walkabouts. One of these lasted hours and ended with us retrieving him from a nice lady a mile away at the grocery store, where Jake’s little adventure came to an end.

Were you picking up more treats? the h asked him. You don’t even have a Continente discount card, silly man. Jake wagged, oblivious to the panic and tears he’d caused with his disappearance. The lady who found Jake and returned him gave him a kiss on the head before running off to catch her bus. Jake is like that, winning everyone over even on short notice. At the dinner table at our friends’ house in Norway, someone asked, who is taking care of Jake? The oldest son immediately piped up, Jake is the best dog in the world! All the children of this family had a tradition of graduating high school and visiting us in San Francisco, where their parents met. From there they’d travel outward across the US and the world - surfing in Thailand, getting a tattoo in Berlin. Jake is a part of their memories, taking them for walks around the city and showing them how to be jake with everything. I love my dog, can you tell?

Word quickly spread among the flock that we were home and by the time the h was opening the back door the roosters and hens came running in that funny way chickens have, heads forward and lowered, wings back, feet pedaling fast. They gabbled and gobbled in excitement. Is it her? It’s her, she’s back! Will she feed us?

I didn’t bother to check with Tiago if he’d stopped by for an afternoon feeding - when twenty-two chickens are chasing you with the same expectation what you do is fulfill that expectation. They flapped and squawked and ran this way and that, trying to predict where I would put the food - would I go to the coop? Or picnic flats? In deference to the hens, who do not like to stray from the protective brush of the Secret Garden on rainy or very hot afternoons, I chose picnic flats. I was overjoyed to see that all of our few remaining hens survived in our absence.

Then it was over to the eastern flock, which, having heard the ruckus among the southern flock, stood in an anxious little group at the intersection of the driveway and the quinta road. When they saw me they turned as one and began running down the quinta road toward their habitual feeding place, the upper quinta garden. The roosters were already bickering when I arrived; the hen, Henny Penny, serenely waited. She is always right smack in the center of her eleven debonairs.

During our absence there were some very sunny, hot days, and our gardens - both flower and vegetable - virtually exploded with growth. The trumpet bushes in the front garden are at least twenty percent taller and bushier. The nasturtiums are coming in nicely. The geraniums are brilliant. The tomatoes have already grown out of their raised bed. There are now three courgettes ready to harvest - when we left they were the size of pumpkin seeds. The potatoes have plodded along. The olive trees are budding (though not fast enough to suit me). The cabbage is monstrous, more than five feet high.

The pintainhos are bigger too. Princess Leia is now unmistakably a teenager, tall and gawky, her feathers and fuzz mixing to make her look scraggly. She is now more miniature hen than chick; the other three orphans follow close on her heels, and make a high pitched panicked chirping when she moves out of their sightline.

5 chicks

The three amigos have also grown a lot; where before they could only eat chicken feed blended up to a powdery consistency, they can now eat bits of apples. I’m sure they could eat blueberries if Princess Leia didn’t snatch them from under and right out of their beaks. She thinks blueberries are flies - peel the blue skin off and she won’t eat it.

The Alaskans were here with Jake and the chicks for a week while we were in the US. They took Jake with them on their day trips. Knowing I’d hate to see the chicks imprisoned for a whole day at a time - the hutch is a big spacious brooder but it’s not freedom, and the windows in the mudroom where we installed the hutch have sheets of protective metal over them - with all the glass panes broken out, a necessary defense against thieves and weather but resulting in a sort of permanent twilight in the room, even at high noon.

shhhh…four sleeping babies inside

They solved the problem by moving the brooder hutch into the only unused room on the lower floor - the eastern side of the double living room. They covered the water damage hole in the floor, then scattered wood chips around the room, and even built a ramp up to the window so the chicks can sit on the ledge in the sun and watch the roosters strut around the courtyard.

The village itself has some changes too - evidence of a fire scars the front of the large apartment complex that borders the town square. The swastikas remain in place on the wall in the main park. The fountain is fountaining in the April 25 memorial park.

Yesterday was Portugal Day, so there were more people out and about than usual for a weekday. Taking Jake for an evening stroll, we passed a small club with loud music, the doors propped open and a large number of young people standing around outside. They weren’t dong much but talking and laughing (and one guy peeing on a wall, looking over his shoulder for what reason I can’t imagine). I wondered how residents of the street felt about all the noise - no one came out onto the street or looked disapprovingly from their windows. It was the kind of gathering that would have many Americans calling the police immediately without waiting to see if the kids would pipe down and disperse of their own accord. Which, in fact they did, at eight on the dot.

We ran a few errands courtesy of the loan of Tiago’s car - a trip to the grocery store, a trip to buy chicken feed - then ate a late dinner. I set aside some roast potatoes for Jake’s meals today, which will be his 13th birthday. I put in a few hours of work and we were in bed by twelve thirty, a long day come to a quiet end. But there was still one more change ahead of us….

Before sunrise this morning I woke to the sound of Jake coming up the steps. Often he chooses to sleep downstairs for the first part of the night then will come upstairs to the tent to finish the night with us. One of us will hear his toenails clicking up the steps and unzip the tent and he’ll step in, turn around a few times and plop in the space between our legs. The h usually rises around six but Jake stays put, happy to snooze until I, Mistress of Breakfast, arise. If I stay in bed past 8, which is rare but happens if I stay up writing past 3, he will continue to nap with his beautiful head on my stomach. Normally I get up between 6:30 and 7, and Jake will sleep til 8 then click down the steps, go out for his morning business and stand sniffing the air for a few minutes. At 8 it’s breakfast time and if I’m slow he’ll arrive wherever I am and if I’m sitting,  press his chin to my knee. If I’m standing he’ll lick me wherever there is skin available, a big wet slow lick, which is Abrish for feed me please.

But this morning the toenail clicks did not keep ascending. They paused, then continued but getting fainter. He was panting so loudly I could hear him one floor up.  Usually this means one thing: he ate something that didn’t agree with him and has the squirrelies i.e. he has to go to the bathroom immediately.

I came down the steps and the flashlight from my iphone revealed Jake in the mudroom at the backdoor, waiting to be let out.

I’m coming buddy, I called, but before I could get down the hall he was staggering down the cellar steps, crashing into the h’s tools and paint cans neatly stacked along the ledges.

Jake! I called his name, alarmed, but he didn’t stop, just kept staggering sideways down the steps into the cellar, a part of the house he has never entered. I ran after him, trying to stop him and turn him around - I thought he was just confused in the dark with it being his first night home after a seven day stay somewhere else - but he continued down, down until he was in the dank dark. I tried to move him back to the steps, my iPhone light strobing like a surreal nightmare as I realized that something was badly wrong with his gait - he could not stand properly but crouched low to the ground, trembling, and when he walked he listed to one side then another, his gait jerky. He panted heavily, as if he’d been chasing the h on his mountain bike downhill. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, huge.

I wrestled him up the steps and outside and he staggered around the courtyard and the garden but did not attempt to go to the bathroom. Not knowing what to do, I ushered him back inside, holding his collar so that he wouldn’t fall down. His staggered left and right. With difficulty I hoisted him up the few steps from the mudroom into the hallway.I screamed for the h.

the cellar

What? he called sleepily from upstairs. It was now 5:00 am.

Come now, something’s really wrong with Jake! The panic in my voice scared me worse and I tried to breathe deeply.

Jake trembled and panted. I held him upright. Did he ingest poison? I looked in his eyes - the pupils were normal. His tongue and gums were pink. He was not drooling or foaming.

In seconds the h came thundering down the steps with his headlamp strapped on. He picked Jake up and lay him on the guest bed. Jake feebly resisted, and we saw why immediately - when the event, whatever it was, started, he’d lost control of himself. Jake has always been super sensitive about such things; when he had diarrhea as a puppy on the landing of our staircase back at the old place in San Francisco he couldn’t walk past the spot for days, requiring us to pick him up and carry him. Only after I’d cleaned it a dozen times, removing all visible traces and scent, would be use the staircase again.

I cleaned up the mess and Jake lay on the bed, panting heavily. I offered him water and he turned his head away, but licked my hand twice - his request for food. The h brought him a few peanuts and Jake gobbled them. I brought him some kibble and he gobbled that, as if he hadn’t eaten in a week. He took some water and his panting became less heavy. Soon he was breathing normally, and lay his head on my knee and rested. We lay like that with him for a half hour, letting him doze. Such a good boy, the h murmured. Our good, good boy.

The h felt gently felt around his hindquarters and back and legs. Jake made no sign he was in pain. We talked in low voices while Jake snoozed. Had there been any sign of anything the day before? We’d picked him up from the dog sitter in Cascais. He’d eaten normally and besides, if something he ate had sickened him, it would have shown up much sooner. There was a moment when he was climbing the cottage staircase to the garden when one of the steps seemed to give him trouble but even as I noticed, Jake was entering the horta and having a nose around. I mentioned it to the h when we took him for a walk through the village, watching him closely but he was his normal, cheerful, social self, trotting here and there, managing any steps with ease.

With Jake’s chin on my knee I stroked his head with my right hand and did an internet search with my left. It didn’t seem to be a heart problem, a stroke, or an infection. We check him regularly for ticks, and never miss his tick and flea prevention meds. It seemed neurological, I whispered to the h. It did, the h said. Hearing the h’s voice - the person Jake loves most in the world beyond all measure and reason - Jake roused and licked his face as if to reassure him. When he asked for more food I brought it; again, he ate hungrily, then drank a half bowlful of water. After another half hour or so of resting he thumped the bed with his paw a few times, his polite indication it was time to get up now - breakfast and a walk please.

We helped him off the bed and his back legs wobbled a bit in the first few steps, and then he walked normally. He followed me over to the quinta, wobbling once but then breaking into a trot, his head high and sniffing the morning air. I instructed him to wait at the top of the quinta steps but he busted down them like they were nothing, and followed me in and watched me closely to see if whatever I was doing involved food. I removed the roast potatoes from last night’s dinner from the fridge, and Jake’s nose quivered with anticipation. He followed me back down the quinta road, then made his preference clear by laying down on the calcadas and staring at the end of the driveway. He wanted a walk, please.

What are you doing, buddy, there’s POTATOES! He rolled on his back and showed me his belly and grinned at me and we stayed like that for a bit, me rubbing his tummy and Jake gazing alternatively at me and the front gate leading to the street, his tail thumping.

I opened the container of potatoes and he sat up, interested.

What do you say we have a nice birthday breakfast, then a walk, I suggested.

Jake stood, shook himself, and we walked to the palaceta. I watched his gait - normal, smooth, no hitches. He eagerly wolfed his breakfast, nosing Princess Leia gently out of the way, which deterred her not at all. BLUEBERRIES, she screamed, darting her fuzzy head into the bowl as soon as Jake lifted his jaws to chomp. The three amigos (I guess they are amigas, being hens) watched Princess Leia and chirruped, wanting to take part but not quite daring.

He’s been fine all morning, asking me relentlessly for a walk. I took him on a nice property walk and checked out the changes while we were gone which were many. It is no longer a wild Back 40, but mowed flat, the whole four acre swatch, dotted with trees, visible from the highest point just behind the cottage. All pruned tree limbs have been removed, and the process of taking down the huge scorched dead tree has begun, with large limbs on the ground, chainsawed into five foot lengths. With all the weeds gone and brush cleared there are walls visible that I did not know were there. Now, the two dozen trees that dot the landscape are much more noticeable. There are two rows of graceful olives, and four or five very large stately trees that I haven’t used Picture This to identify as yet.

Jake liked his walk but made it clear it was no replacement for his usual village route. He is a social guy and wants to say hi to his friends. If he seems okay in the late afternoon I’ll take him as far as the Belas Mercado, just a quarter mile down the street, where the churrasqueria and butcher shops are side by side, the vet across the way. That’s five friends to visit, and I will make an appointment for a check up, which I’m pretty sure will reveal what the h researched and matched Jake’s symptoms exactly: thoracolumbar intervertebral disc disease.

We knew he showed some signs of arthritis in his last x-ray, which was two years ago. At the time the vet said it was nothing to be concerned about - Jake was active, a healthy weight, and not experiencing any difficulty walking or swimming or climbing steps or up and down from furniture. Of course he’s older now - thirteen. And of course the h and I are in denial about his age and what it means (even writing those words brings tears to my eyes). In the past two years the silver on Jake’s face and paws is much advanced, but his eyes are the same clear golden they were as a pup, his ears the same dark silky chocolate communicators they have always been - up when he’s interested in a walk or food, down like ponytails close to his head when he is feeling affectionate or trying to cheer me up if I’ve been crying. Which I try never to do when around him, in deference to his sensitivity.

There are more changes I have yet to see - during our 10 days away Tiago and Paulo focused their energies on the cottage, getting it ready for electrification - but I’ll save those for another post. Today is dedicated to being with my handsome boy, and making it the best birthday ever, as I’m sure you’ll understand.