by Parks, Alan
We sat down and made as much conversation as possible, and the family were asking questions about the alpacas. We have become quite used to visitors turning up at the gate asking about them, so my Spanish can generally cope with questions about the fleece, and whether or not you can eat them. After explaining about the price of the wool and that you can’t eat the babies, the family seemed to lose interest in purchasing an alpaca.
Maria wanted to give us a tour of the house, so we followed quietly. We were ushered into what turned out to be the room they used for preparing food - not a kitchen, you understand. There were large hooks hanging from the ceiling and a wooden area with holes cut out of the floor. Apparently this was where they processed the pigs when they were killed, with the holes being used for drainage for easy cleaning. This would only be overspill, as even the blood would be used to make black pudding. Thankfully there were no pigs due to be killed that day! There were also dozens of eggs in boxes, all different shapes and colours; from little quails’ eggs all the way up to the large goose variety.
Outside was another large courtyard with a variety of trees growing different kinds of fruit - lemons, oranges, figs and almonds being just a few. One of the young girls showed us a small plant that looked as though it had miniature lemons growing on it. Both the girls took one and ate them, and invited Lorna to try. She popped it in her mouth. Within five seconds, she said “Urghh”, causing great hilarity. Apparently it had an extremely bitter lemon taste.
Some of their dogs were following us round, probably hoping for some sort of treat, and one of the big mastins took a shine to me. I stroked him but Paqui gestured to be careful as he might bite. As she was talking he had his mouth around my arm. I must have looked scared but she started laughing, and the dog didn’t clamp down as I had feared, just gently ‘led’ me for a while. Never had a dog do that before!
Next on the tour was the aviary. Hanging from trees were cages made from chicken-wire housing all sorts of birds from quails to chickens. The larger the bird the more room they had, although none of them were what we would call free range! There were lots of nests full of eggs: obviously it was breeding season and I guess at least this way the chicks would have a fighting chance of surviving without being picked off by a local cat or an opportunistic eagle.
Pedro then forcibly directed me towards a large rock overlooking the land below, and told me (in Spanish) that his property extended to the top of the mountain. Being good with numbers I managed to understand that he had around 400,000 square metres of land and thousands of olive trees. Below, in the valley were more animals. The octogenarian Pedro sprinted off down the hill while Lorna and I were bundled in the back of a large pick-up, she in the back with the women and me in the front with José. He was a jolly large guy. After a few hundred metres on the road, we pulled over by a rickety gate (is there anything else in Spain?). As he got out to undo the lock, José leant over to me and whispered, “I speek Eengleesh too you know.” He winked as he left the car.
After opening the gate, José jumped back in again. “Good, yes?” he said.
“Yes, very good.” I replied, slightly at a loss for words.
We drove through a deep stream and parked the pick-up under some trees. We all got out as Pedro appeared with the strangest dog I have ever seen. It was extremely hairy and was rubbing itself against the fence. Pedro, by the way, was not out of breath at all from his hillside sprint.
As they got closer, I said to Lorna, “That’s a right funny-looking dog he’s got there.”
“I’m not sure it’s a dog,” she said. “I don’t know what it is.”
It was, in fact, a hairy pig about the size of a collie like Carlos. Apparently they had found the baby wild boar lying next to its dead mother, and had taken him home where he had become almost a pet. Pedro bent down and scratched him on his side and he lay on his back with his legs in the air. I asked José how big he would grow, and he replied that it would be difficult to tell but maybe as big as a table. When he was older, he would be dangerous.
“What will you do then?” I asked.
“We will eat him, of course,” grinned José.
On the other side of the trees was a clearing, with green grass and a smattering of oak trees. In the centre was what looked like a pile of old pallets but, on closer inspection, proved to be an intricately designed goat house with flaps for them to get in and out, and different areas for them to sleep in.
Just then there was an almighty screeching sound: with a burst, a family of black Iberico pigs shot out of the bushes. There were two adults and about eight babies and they moved like the wind, squealing like banshees while running across the clearing to the hedges on the other side. Everyone laughed.
“When the babies are a little bigger, we will eat them. Maybe you can come for some food,” said Ana.
“That would be lovely,” Lorna replied sweetly (at the same time, giving me a look that said, No way!).
Ana explained to us that the deer she had mentioned in her note had been saved as a baby when they found it abandoned on the land, and although she was sometimes spotted near to the house, she had in fact been released back in to the countryside.
We all piled back in the pick-up and drove to the house. As we got in our car, José said, “If there eez anything I can do to help you, pleeeze ask me.”
“Actually, there is something,” I replied. “We need to get some hay for the alpacas and I don’t know where to get it from.”
“OK,” he replied. “Leeve it weeth me. I will telephone call you.” As we drove away, Lorna had to close her eyes in case any of the various dogs got under the wheels of the car.
A few weeks later the phone rang. I ran to the top of our house and hung over the balcony to get a signal.
“Alan, it is José. Meet me por la mañana at 8am at Algallarin. We collect the heno.” And he was gone.
The following morning I went out with some trepidation. The weather was getting hot already so I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. I met up with José on the road to the small village of Algallarin and we sped off through the narrow streets. We stopped at a bar where all the old guys, as usual, seemed to be drinking brandy. After a few minutes a young man came along and hugged Jose: it was the truck driver who was going to deliver the hay to my house. I was introduced.
“Ah, Cucaracha!” said the truck driver.
He was right, that is the name of our house. I have given up trying to work out how and why everybody knows our house and where we live without us telling them. They must all have heard of the crazy English. The next thing I knew we were off again.
“Can I pay for my drink?” I asked.
“Do not worry, it is my couseen’s bar,” said José. “I have 87 couseens in Algallarin. There is only 500 people in the village. The driver of the lorry, he is called Juan the cabrón!”
I raised my eyebrows as that translates as ‘John the bastard’.
We weaved along streets to the outskirts of the village, then turned off into some fields. I had hundreds of Euros tucked into my socks to pay for the hay but, when we arrived, there was no one there: no tractors or people to load the hay, just a lot of bales. Suddenly I realised we had to load the lorry ourselves. I had imagined it to be like England where one would make a call, and then it would just turn up at your house. But no, this was more your average pick-and-mix hay store.
So we started to load the truck. With shorts on and no gloves, by the time I had lifted three bales onto the lorry I realised my mistake. My arms and legs were scratched to shreds and my fingers were burning from the baling twine. All in all, it took three of us about half an hour to load 60 hay bales - sweltering work. When the truck was loaded we had to get it weighed and José told me to keep the ticket safe as I would need it to pay the owner. The lorry driver was already driving off down the road. José sent me on my way and said he would be in touch about payment.
I got home and the lorry was already backing into our courtyard before unloadi
ng the hay there. That meant moving the 60 bales all over again to get them in the barn in case it rained. This time I wore gloves and put on trousers. I am beginning to realise why the locals laugh at me when I wear shorts all the time!
Chapter 5
Geri, the poor old girl
“Hello Geri, how’s my little girl,” said Mark.
Lorna’s son and his girlfriend were paying us a visit. Geri bounded up the steps to see her unexpected visitor.
The next thing we knew she squealed in pain, holding her back leg in the air and struggling to stand up. We knew immediately that something bad had happened. She slunk off to a corner and carefully sat down in the shade licking her sore leg. Mark, who had just arrived for a visit from Brighton, felt awful. We left Geri to her own devices for a while to see if she got any better.
Later that day, she was still unable to put any weight on the injured leg so we managed to lift her into the car and took her to Montoro to see the vet Manuel. He manipulated the leg, and we could tell he wasn’t happy.
“I think she has torn her cruciate ligament,” he said.
We looked at each other. “That’s what happens to footballers,” I said. “Will she need an operation?”
“We can give her some anti-inflammatories for a couple of weeks, and see if it improves. If it doesn’t, she will need to go to Cordoba, and have an operation.”
So for two weeks we gave Geri the pills and tried to keep her away from the feisty male dogs. Every day we took her for a very short walk in the hope she would be able to put weight down on the leg. She did start to use it, but it was at a funny angle and we knew an operation was inevitable.
Manuel confirmed our fears and made an appointment at a surgery in the centre of Cordoba which arranged to have a student there who could speak fluent English. On our first visit, Geri was treated like royalty. She can be a grumpy old dog sometimes, but when people flash dog treats at her she becomes adorable. The vet’s nurses loved Geri so she got plenty of attention and chews. The vet suggested that we continue the anti-inflammatories for a while as he felt she could do with losing a little weight which, in turn, may help the leg to heal. We made another appointment in two weeks to assess the situation. We continued as before and hoped we could see an improvement but, on our follow-up visit, the vet didn’t agree. It was time to make a decision.
We scheduled the operation for the following week and were told there would be three surgeons on duty, plus the student who would translate. The thought of the bill was scary. On the day, we arrived to find the surgery closed to the public. Lorna was asked to go into the operating room with Geri while they gave her the anaesthetic. Then she went to leave.
“Could you wait, please?” asked the student. “We prefer for the dog to know you are here until she is asleep. Then afterwards we will wake her up when you are here also. It is much better for the dog. You can stay for the operation if you want to?”
“No, no,” said Lorna. “We'll come and collect her later.”
We had about four hours to wait and, with Geri being an old dog, there was always a possibility of complications during the surgery. But promptly on time, we got the call to return. As promised, they brought Geri around from the anaesthetic once Lorna arrived. She was fine and the vet seemed to think it had gone well. She was well bandaged and would need pain-killing injections every night for a week or so.
Then came the bill we had been dreading: 450 Euros for the operation, including the day’s X-rays, medication, plus all the after-care. Say what you want about the Spanish animal care, but the vets are very good value for money.
We arrived home and had decided to keep all the other dogs away from Geri until she was stronger, but once we had her in and settled on the sofa we let them in to see her. I don’t know if they understood, but none of them jumped on her and they all touched her nose with theirs.
The next stage was her recovery. After a couple of weeks of rest, administering the injections, lifting her up and down from the sofa to go to the toilet and having to carry her up and down stairs, we were allowed to start letting her use the leg. We began to take her short distances after making sure there were no cats around to chase, of course.
On a follow-up visit to the vet, he suggested the best treatment for her recovery would be swimming, which would mean me lifting her into the pool and going in with her. It was only April and the water was freezing: Geri did not like it one bit. I would carry her towards the deep end then let her swim to the shallow end, supporting her around the middle like a child learning to swim. All she wanted to do was get out, but the swimming really helped her. After three months of recovery, she was discharged from the vets on one of the hottest days of the summer. As a treat, we stopped at a garage on the way home and she had an ice-lolly.
One day, we noticed she was having difficulty jumping up and down from her sofa. We were both worried and headed back to Manuel. He pressed and manipulated around her leg and back area, and when he pushed down on the base of her spine her legs started to give way.
“I think she has arthritis,” he said.
Lorna and I had thought that may be the diagnosis but were worried it was the beginning of the end for Geri.
“There are some pills you can give her that should help her joints. They are called Hyaloral and are made from shark cartilage. Give her one a day.”
After a few weeks of the pills, Geri started to show a remarkable improvement, so much so that she would be leaping in the air when it was dinner time and jumping up and down from the sofa on her own again. We were really pleased. I decided to cut her pills down to half per day as she had almost too much energy and I was worried she would hurt herself. She was even initiating playtime with the little nightmare that is Miliko.
As we neared the end of the year, however, we were struggling for money, and when it came time to order new pills I decided to look for a cheaper alternative and found something with the same ingredient. Geri seemed fine for a while but, one day, we noticed she was holding her leg in the air and not putting it down. It was the opposite leg to the one that was operated on but the signs were familiar. I felt terrible, as I put it down to the replacement pills.
We had heard about a new vet in a nearby town, who had all the latest equipment and also spoke a bit of English, so we decided to take Geri there. It is always useful for us to have new vet contacts, because of the alpacas. The new vet told us she would definitely need an operation and this time it was going to cost 600 Euros. They prescribed more anti-inflammatory pills, however, and sent us away for a couple of weeks. This time, thankfully, Geri improved well. I re-ordered some of the ‘good’ arthritis pills and she has since made a great recovery. We therefore decided against the operation, as she is now 15 and we felt it was too much to put her through again.
We walk the dogs every day and, although she is slower than the rest, God forbid we should leave her at home. She has her own patch on the dog sofa where we have removed a cushion so she can get up and down unaided (although she does sometimes make a bit of a mess of it by launching herself too early and landing in a heap, half on and half off the sofa). Lately, we've noticed she also seems to be going blind. Sometimes she is sleeping so soundly I go and wake her, just to make sure she is still alive.
For her advanced years, though, she is doing pretty well and hopefully is enjoying her retirement in Spain!
I was so excited the day Mark came to visit; he was my friend from England and I wanted him to play with me. I went running up to see him, and I just felt something go ‘ping’. Then I couldn’t walk properly, and things got a lot harder. I remember going to the new hospital place and the ladies giving me lots of sweets. I also remember coming home and my people putting me to bed, my friends coming to say hello and to see how I was.
It didn’t take long for me to be back in charge of the pack, although I think it was a bit much my man taking me in the swimming pool. It was April, and really cold! I told them I didn’t like it, but they mad
e me do it all the time. Then they started taking me on walks on my own, and then they let me play with the others and everything seemed fine, although we stopped going to see the ladies with the sweeties.
Sometimes now, my legs hurt. I guess I am getting old. But some days I wake up full of energy and I go and have a play with Miliko; Carlos is boring and doesn’t like to get involved.
The world seems to have gone very quiet now, I don’t hear the others when they go out and howl and sometimes the people come and wake me up when I am sleeping, but I don’t know why. All in all, though, life is good.
GERI
Chapter 6
Guests from Hell
We were really starting to struggle financially, so after borrowing some money from my mum we had to come up with a plan to try and get some income. We decided that as we were now living here on our own we didn’t really need so much space. Maybe we could try to rent out an apartment to holiday-makers looking for a peaceful and relaxing environment, not stuck on a beach, shoulder to shoulder with other people.
We used a well-known website and over our first summer picked up a few bookings, odd weeks here and there, which of course helped pay the bills and kept us all fed. We generally had some lovely families come and stay, often with kids who wanted to get involved with the animals, help walk the dogs and feed the alpacas. This meant the parents could relax knowing the kids were not bored and it was certainly good for the kids to get away from the TV and the X-Box for a few days.
Just before the summer holidays we received an email from a chap in the US who was interested in coming to stay for three nights with his sister and his cousin. They were driving down from Alicante and wanted the apartment in the middle of June. In Andalucia, the summer starts in June and lasts until September, although the worst is over by then. Lorna was going to be away for a few days but was due to arrive back the evening they arrived, so that would work out just fine. I would do the cleaning and preparing while she was away. On the Saturday before they were due to arrive on the Tuesday, I received a phone call about midday.