Pipe Dreams & Reality Checks

The Artistic One does not live on the same planet as the rest of us. He inhabits a place (in his mind) where rules and plans are for sissies; where bank coffers automatically stretch and replenish to meet the demands of checks written and where traffic citations can be ignored with impunity, especially if you have lost the paperwork, so considerately supplied by the kind police officer, and not updated the address on your drivers' license that, "Oops!" you can't find anyway. (That will be a post for another day; mandatory "one-on-one" time with a traffic court Judge and French translator, July 17th).
A declaration, made as a New Year's Resolution, that "This year, we will close up our business for a month and spend the whole month of July in Europe" seemed far-fetched at the time; Clients were not knocking down our doors to place orders; the phone was ringing with reminder calls from those nice folks at the finance, credit card and utility companies and an over-abundance of rainfall was paralyzing the construction projects of our industry, already mired in the general economic morass. 
Not seeing any value in being the Killer of Dreams at that time, I embraced the idea with a few "If everything goes our way" and "I hope we can afford that" disclaimers. I even spoke to the dog-sitter and had her pencil in the time slot, just in case of a miracle.
Well... Here we are...June already. How time flies when you are having fun! On the plus side, we are still standing. There's even some positively hopeful energy in the air as far as work is concerned. (We have three Venture Capitalists in our client portfolio; one High Tech and two Medical and Green Energy crossovers). The big boys are getting their confidence back.
In addition, some of Hubby's paintings have been selling through the gallery on the East Coast. Checks are slow in trickling in from that source and there is much whining and attempts to get the gallery percentage to increase above the negotiated 50%. "Paint it yourself!" is the answer to that one.
Hubby has been invited to show some canvases in Paris again in September; in the exhibition space under the pyramid in front of The Louvre. The exhibit is called "Grand Masters of Tomorrow" and there will be no living with the Ego now, but it did give me a reasonable and non-confrontational excuse to broach the possibility that it might be better to postpone our (Imaginary) trip until September and take care of everything at once.
This time, I actually believe that it might happen, although maybe three weeks rather than a month is more likely. The dog-sitter is booked up for other canines on the new dates so I have to find a solution for my girl Diva who is too old and fragile to go to the kennels. Tickets will cost a chunk less then and a large number of those nice tourists and their children will have their noses in their school books or back to the grindstone.
We are not yet surfing the waves but we have progressed from drowning in a stormy sea to doggy paddling towards a distant, but visible shoreline.

Herd/Heard

You would expect, after a decade and a half of life with a herding dog, that Hubby might remember that such creatures are hard-wired to herd. This instinct manifests itself most noticeably when something passes by at a speed above a walk. If the "must be herded right now" target is accompanied by rumbling wheels, engine decibels and, "What could beat that?", brushes swirling around, then the weekly street sweeper surpasses even the irresistibility of UPS or the Garbage Truck.
Diva, our good citizen, now-geriatric, collie continued to attempt a take down of the wheely beast for many years after her physical abilities waned. The occasional triumphant guided-missile run far outweighed the subsequent need for anti-inflammatories to calm the crippling aches and pains of adrenaline-induced action. Now that her hearing is completely gone she is serenely oblivious to the passing temptation.
Foster-Dog Boomer took up the gauntlet this morning. We know he's fast. He can catch cats. We know he's a herding fool. Although he obeys me now on-leash rather than lunging after cyclists, joggers, skateboards, and trucks, I am always conscious of his hyper-awareness, bouncing gait and a look that asks "Can I? Please, Please! Can I?" I have worked hard with positive reinforcement training. I never leave home with him without treats to reward his good manners but I have no illusion that off-leash he'd be willing to answer the call of hundreds of years of breeding.
Monday is street sweeper day. I was happy to conclude our walk without encountering our nemesis. Back home, as I got changed and ready for work, Boomer was half-climbing on the living room furniture to get at the window and barking fiercely as the sanitation equipment slowly went by.
Hubby was gathering his wallet, phone, shoes etc. in the entry when I reminded him "Mind the dog. Don't open the door. Today is street sweeper day."

Back in our bedroom, a few minutes later, as I bundled the laundry that I was planning to wash into my arms to take downstairs, I heard "Aghh Merde!". As I stepped toward the entry I could tell from the quality of the light that the front door was open. No dog in sight but the sound of excited barking receding into the distance gave me a pretty good clue as to what had happened. Boomer was off on a quest to herd that which was out of sight but not forgotten.
I have never before felt the need to jump into my car for dog chasing purposes, but this was obviously going to be one of those far and wide searches. I grabbed a handful of treats and my cell phone, covering the full spectrum of situations I might encounter and zoomed off in pursuit, turning off the radio and lowering the windows so that I could follow the sounds of the unseen drama.
The street sweeper leaves wet brush marks as it passes. Ear to the wind and eye to the giant tracks, I was about to turn up a cul de sac nearby when the mechanical behemoth appeared over the horizon in front of me, trundling back in my direction to clean the other side of the road.
By this time several neighbors were out to see what all the noise was about. Concerned, half-dressed and uncombed the citizenry made no impact on the driver of the vehicle. It is entirely understandable that driving something the size of a Cross Channel Ferry Boat would make one impervious to worrying about possible dangers. Insouciant in the face of a crazy canine; leaving a rudely awoken throng unwashed and untucked behind him; the driver of doom held to his mission. Boomer, meanwhile, was barking his battle cry, hair lifting in the slip-stream like a Scottish warrior's kilt as he beat the invaders back to Hadrian's Wall. Flying in circles, which any herding dog will tell you is proper herding etiquette, he was here, there and everywhere in a flash. I was pretty surprised that my voice yelling his name was heard over the motor and the barking. (More so as I apparently was unheard in the quiet of my own home a short time before). I was even more surprised that Boomer responded by running straight to me. I leaned across the seat to throw open the back door of the car. He missed that cue as he was circling my car to come back to my side. The sweeper driver finally understood that he was part of our morning scene and he slowed down to await the outcome. Boomer bounced back to me so very proud of what he had accomplished and bounded joyously into the back seat, panting wildly.
Hubby was in his car just leaving our driveway as we returned. He sheepishly handed me a leash as a peace offering as our cars passed one another. "Quelle C...!" he said, referring to the naughty, happy dog. "I counted two of them" was my reply as I went back indoors to gather my wits and the laundry I had thrown down all over the floor.