Alright, so maybe that whole "I can fly" thing was overrated.

I have to give fair warning before I tell this story: my mother feels terrible about what happened. In fact, I can honestly state that aside from 2 other specific instances, I have never - not ever - seen my mother cry like she did last night. There are some of you who will want to say "I told you so." I'd encourage you not to. To say my mom is overcome with guilt is an understatement. She's still shaky - as am I - and didn't sleep well. Nonetheless, now that the worst is behind us, we thought maybe we should share with the Humans Who Love Me that last night I learned that I lied when I told y'all I could fly.

[sorry for the poor quality blackberry pictures, but that's all we got, folks]

Yesterday Mom got very, very ill on the way into the village to do some shopping for friends' gifts. When she finally made it back to the house, I - clearly - launched into my doctor duties and sent Papa on his way back out. I hovered over mom for hours. Every now and again I'd take a walk along the ledge of the house's balcony. As you've seen from photos, I do this a lot. For whatever reason, mom was jumpier than usual (call it premonition if you want) and kept asking me to come down off the ledge. I was enjoying the wind in my fur and was trying my darndest to find the dogs I could hear below (I mean, c'mon! I was lookin' for my French lover for pete's sake).

I finally looked at mom and sighed loudly - like any good teenager would - and popped down off the ledge and trotted over to her. She laid back down and when I could tell she was no longer watching me, I hopped back up on the ledge. Only, she was watching me. Just in time to see my front legs go over the side...and....

I tumbled down nearly two full stories onto the rocky terraces below the house. Two stories. Four pounds. You do the math.

It was not a good situation. And instead of spending the evening fulfulling a lifelong dream of my mother's at Le Moulins de Mougins, we spent it here:
It was was happened before we made it to the vet that was the hardest. For mom and me both. Mom couldn't get to where I'd fallen. It was so steep and so far that she had a hard time reaching me. Meanwhile, I was in a ball, whimpering, and when I finally stood, I was really confused and all I wanted was mama. But I couldn't get to her, either.

Mom was very calm when she got me - as all good mothers are. I was covered in thorns, burrs and sticks. It was really hard to breathe and the wheezing and whining really concerned mom. She sat down on the couch, me in her arms, and started going through the calls she needed to make. First she called our vet back in DC just to see if she could discuss signs of trauma over the phone. You see, it was 630 in France and things over here don't stay open very late. Mama was almost certain we'd never find a vet last night - and she was also almost certain I was badly injured. I mean, who wouldn't be certain of that? I FELL OFF A BALCONY OF A HOUSE.

When mom started to tell the story -- the tears finally came. And the vet couldn't help, so mom had to go to plan B: find a vet in Grasse, the nearest large city to our house. She had to stop crying. No one was going to understand her American accent speaking French when she's crying...she pulled it together and...

God is so good.

Not only did she find a vet, she found one who opened back up for us. Mama called Papa, started crying again, and told him to come home. Immediately. The ride to the vet was a rough one. Any touch around my chest made me whimper, yet I didn't want to NOT be touched. I was confused, Mama was scared, and Papa just wanted to get us where we needed to go pronto. Mom was crying the entire way down to Grasse and it was awful to see. She kept saying all of these things to me, to herself, to the window, to the sky...just completely bizarre mumbles. Maybe I should have had the vet examine her, too.

I learned something last night. Just like the way I can sense emotionally unhinged adoration towards me in ANY language, the same goes for vet offices. Oh, yes. One step inside and I didn't care what language anyone was speaking: I knew where we were. My whimpers and wheezing turned into full-scale-tremors. But the doctor was so nice. And let's be honest: the office itself was about 25 times nicer than ANY vet office I'd ever been in.

Because there were no nurses, Mama had to help hold me down for the scans. This, my friends, was the worst part. Stretching out my injured body over a table? No, thank you. Non, merci.

But we had to do the scans. And I'm glad we did.

Ladies and Gentlemen. To further prove to you that I am some kind of Wonder Dog: I fell off of a house. And I walked away with no broken bones. And no internal bleeding.

Plus, I got to get wickedly shot up with pain killers and now I'm walking around like I've just spent the last 8 hours dancing with Georgetown graduates at Smith Point! (Seriously, the guys there are pretty cute, but can someone tell them the popped collar thing is really overdone? Thanks.)

Anyway.

It was by far the scariest thing I've ever experienced - not that I'm ever really scared mind you. But, the thought did cross my mind that if I died in France, mom would never be able to return here. And that broke my puppy heart. So I am working on bouncing back as quickly as possible so she won't hate this place. Or herself. It was nobody's fault but my own. Well, mine and my French lover who I swear to you was wooing me to the ledge like a modern day Romeo...

I'm starting to feel the pain pill mama just gave me so I better go before I start waxing political. Nobody wants to hear those thoughts this early in the morning.

Love, Licks and a Heavily Drugged Plane Ride Home Tomorrow,
The Mae
xoxo