In a large country house in southern France there are these people,
from oldest to youngest: a grey-haired always-on-edge grand-pere who
is obsessed with the maintenance of his pool; a kindly grandmother who
spends all morning cooking lunch and all evening cooking dinner; a
daughter who does not get along with her parents; one nineteen-year-old
American girl; two grandsons who belong to the aforementioned daughter,
one seven and rambunctious, one five and in a wheelchair; then two more
grandchildren, my charges, a quiet three-year-old boy and a spunky
two-year-old girl. There is also Akira the dog.
Akira is staying with the grandparents while a grandson goes through
minor surgery to fix something that is wrong with his legs. He'll walk again,
but for now he is in a wheelchair and Akira the big dog could get in the way,
so they are at the grandparents' house in the country with more open space.
Akira is my friend. He is big and loving and doesn't mind the kids at all when
they poke and prod and pull his tail, or try to ride him like a horse.
He speaks French, but knows words I know too like "sit" and "come here boy."
When I leave the countryside two weeks later I miss Akira the most of all.