George swallows a fishing hook

On a fishing expedition

It was warm and sunny; a perfect Tel Aviv spring day last Saturday. George and I went to the beach where he was unleashed and allowed to run free for two hours

As we walked on our 12 kilometer walk, I listened to Radio Swiss Classic and George played with other dogs, took an unauthorized dip in the cold Mediterranean and feasted on pitta, kebab, steak bones and what have you left behind by the night crowd before the cleaning squads had arrived.

After two hours, George and I headed home. At the first stop light, I noticed a fishing line hanging from his mouth. I thought it was just stuck in his teeth so I opened his mouth and saw it was not attached to his teeth. I gave a pull and nothing happened. George felt no pain at all; he was wagging his tail and licking my hand.

I was worried sick however. I drove to  the vet, Dr Yuval, whose clinic is open  and fully staffed on Saturdays. Dr Yael, the duty veterinarian, made several efforts to extract the line and when that failed, she took an X-ray. “It’s not good. He needs urgent surgery. I will call Dr Yuval to come in to operate. It will take time. He is up north”.

Dr Yuval was tending to his vineyard in Zichron, which is an hours drive from the clinic. Within 40 minutes, Yuval ran in, and George was put under the knife to extract the fishing hook from the muscle where his esophagus meets his intestine. The surgery took a long time. And I watched it on a monitor, feeling that I just cannot let him go though this without me being as close as I can.

Under the knife-George’s stomach

I was terribly  upset before during and after this incident. I also felt guilty for unleashing George and trying to pull out the fishing line.I told myself  that I wish that  this was happening to me and not to George.

“Go home and come back at 9 pm (in 7 hours)”, I was told.

Take me home

As directed I returned to the clinic, shaking like a leaf. George pulled himself to his feet, although he was certainly not wagging his tail. That’s for sure.

After a course of antibiotics, tender loving care, half a chicken a day and a few pain killers, George has fully recovered, playing Frisbee, having great sex with his favourite  pillow and begging me to replace his dog food with yet another roasted chicken.

Thanks to Dr Yuval and Dr Yael.

אין כמוכם

Back to normal

 

 

 

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About Harry

harry

When Harry died, I was six years old. How can I ever be expected to forget a grandfather who taught me the love of words?

In his bedroom (he slept alone and was totally estranged from my grandmother) Harry had a huge Webster’s’ dictionary in a glass case. I would come into his room, sit on his lap and he would read the dictionary to me for hours on end in his British accent.

Harry was deaf, so when I repeated the words he read to me, he did not hear what I was saying.

My Dad claimed that Harry was not deaf, merely that he had “checked out” of listening to everyone talk. Harry claimed to have lost his hearing in the British army, yet there is no record of Harry ever having been in the army. As a matter of fact, there is no record of Harry’s birth, and he was born in England, where good records are kept. Some rumors are that he and his two brothers were plucked out of an orphanage and given the name Foreman, or Frohman, or Fireman.

Harry owned a gym on the fourth floor of the Medical Arts Building in Montreal on the corner of Sherbrooke, where  Cote des Neiges becomes Rue Guy. I used to go there Saturday mornings and watch him train boxers. Strangely, I remember the phone number of the gym-Fitzroy 4022.

Uncle Al, Harry’s brother

Harry’s  brother and my Uncle,  Al Foreman, was a boxing champion both in England and Canada. I remember my Dad telling me. “you don’t wanna fuck around with Uncle Al, or even Papa Harry, to be on the safe side”.

Outside of Papa Harry’s apartment on Decarie corner of Queen Mary there was a Lowney’s (chocolate) billboard, in red. The letters would light up one by one- L O W N E Y S- and then one word- Lowneys.

Papa Harry “never had a pot to piss in”, said my Dad. Yet the less money he had, the more clothes he bought. And he used to parade up and down Sherbrook street with many, many many of his girlfriends. There was one special girlfriend I never met, but I do know that it was a major love affair that lasted many years.

Papa Harry spent many years in Egypt, and told me many stories of the desert, especially about a nomad named Sookie. Harry was to teach me a bit of Arabic. He also read me a story about a gun battle between Sir Sholton Knot and Sir Knoltan Shot. Papa Harry explained to me that the shot Snot shot shot Knot, so “Knot was shot and Shot was not, notwithstanding”

He died when I was five or six. (Aujourd’hui, maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas.) A heart attack got him “in one fell swoop”.

“He was a most peculiar man”.  And I do believe he was not deaf.

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From wikipedia Édifice Medical Arts

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C’est moi

I am 66 year old OD Canadian-Israeli consultant, specializing in acute global diversity, post merger integration, interfaces between HQ’s and their “remote offices” and working with senior managers/teams to acquire global competency.

I work with Fortune 500 companies, family businesses, start ups, individuals and Boards in India, the Mid East, Europe, China South East Asia and North America.

I am obsessed and appalled by  the western bias of OD and hope that before I die, I can make a difference to rework OD’s value to global organizing.

I am an atheist, very left wing, disgusted and politically isolated. I am a stranger in my homeland.

I am multi lingual, educated at McGill (Montreal) and Hebrew University (Jerusalem).

I was a runner for many years. Now I walk 12 km a day.

In my spare time, I read voraciously, walk stray dogs, take care of Georgie-boy (my dog), study history, and avoid television. The latest books I have read are the Automobile Club of Egypt and John Irving’s new book, Avenue of Mysteries.

I am a great fan of Radio Swiss Classic, and never miss the daily  Haaretz and the weekly Economist. 

I author the Gloria blog, which saves me mental health charges. I am a nonconformist, an acquired taste and in some ways, a “most peculiar” man.

I have 4 grandchildren, and I had a British grandmother.

gb

.                                                              George(s)

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Gloria Ramsbottom-Lemieux

gloria

I created a fictional HR manager named Gloria Ramsbottom-Lemieux two years ago.

Gloria is a woman. This may shock PC readers. I try to be correct, but not politically correct. We know that most HR managers are men and CEO’s are women, don’t we?

Why did I create Gloria?

There is a new generation of HR managers that “upset” me. They suffer from an overdose of slogans and screw the masses,  dressed up as “HR business partners”.

Low in the intellect department, they overdose technology, serving as running dogs of the status quo, refusing to confront the powers that be,  just to preserve their seat at the table.

They prefer motivational speakers to tackle issues of the immensely complex human condition at work. Everything needs to be wow, or wow wow. Or nice.

Gloria is my own grotesque version of such an HR manager, created “in line with my core value of anger management”. Laughter beats tears.

On Dec 5th, 2014, Google agreed to allow me to monetize the Gloria site, based on traffic and content.

Those who were with me on the OD list serve (where Gloria began her career) may understand how happy I am.

Gloria’s blog can be found at ramsbottom-lemieux.blogspot.co.il

Here is a link to her biography.

Let there be no doubt. Gloria and all characters in the blog are inspired by real situations. Gloria as a person, however, is a fictional character. Many people believe she is real and she gets fan mail.

 

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