When I was younger, I used to ask my boyfriend to go to the bathroom if he had to fart. It is not that I was delicate or olfactory-abused, it was just a custom I was used to. In my family, if we had to fart, it was done elsewhere.
Years later, with three sons, and a husband who still laughs when he reflects about the time spent apart because he had to fart, I have grown used to various gasses erupting around me, but I can't get used to the stealth farts that waft up from rug level when Root Beer is having a nap beside my feet.
If I look down, I'm sure I'll see a decades-old rotting corpse, it smells that bad. Instead, I see an innocent, asleep on the floor, twitching with doggy dreams and the rancid smell of yesterday's meatloaf and other delights from the neighbour's Hefty bag.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Sex Ed at MapleGrove
My headache got worse. Luke and I were walking in the most fabulous dog park in Winnipeg on Saturday. Named after a rugby player, I can only assume, or perhaps its scenic vistas, Maplegrove dog park fits the specifications needed for all dogs and dog lovers. Wide open fields, plenty of roadways with woodchip paths to follow, and lots and lots of dogs. Big dogs. Small ones. And those little things that are in between and can't quite make up their minds if they're meant to romp with the big boys or crouch with the little ones.
My dog Root Beer is one of the big girls. With her flouncy tail riding high, she looks like a queen. Her long, black fur picks up every burr for miles but her laughing eyes belittle any twinge of pain felt when these alien hitchhikers are given the tug off.
We had not been to the park in quite the while. Luke possibly has H1N1 and I have its sister cold 0NoNotMe2. On Saturday, however, we tried.
Root Beer went first. Before we could get the leash on her to walk the 25 feet to the park's open area, she was off. The park was crowded. Every mother, son, daughter and father were there walking every type of mutt imaginable. Root Beer was a lady. After sniffing the butt of the nearest and her dearest, she went foraging for wood ticks and burrs. Five dogs followed her. They romped through tall grasses and slipped through mud puddles that still had the sheen of a day's snow.
Whistling, I carried on. My normal social behaviour hiding behind my Foster Grants and the most massive headache I had ever experienced while upright. Gingerly we headed out through the forest, hitting the river trail and the day's sunshine.
"Oh boy, that's enough for me," I said. Calling the boy and the dog away from the water's edge.
On our way back to our car, Luke, Root Beer and I saw what can only be called a "Mother Nature" event. A pack of about 20 dogs circling two dogs humping. Humans yelling. Mothers calling their children. One lady, who I can only assume doesn't understand the difference between human and cannine, yelling at her dog "Mike" to get "off" and that she was "watching him."
You can only say "Huh" to such a statement and keep walking.
As we opened the door for our young female, Luke looked at me and asked why everybody was yelling at their dogs.
I rubbed my temples, wished for migraine Advil, and like all good mothers before me said, "Ask your father."
My dog Root Beer is one of the big girls. With her flouncy tail riding high, she looks like a queen. Her long, black fur picks up every burr for miles but her laughing eyes belittle any twinge of pain felt when these alien hitchhikers are given the tug off.
We had not been to the park in quite the while. Luke possibly has H1N1 and I have its sister cold 0NoNotMe2. On Saturday, however, we tried.
Root Beer went first. Before we could get the leash on her to walk the 25 feet to the park's open area, she was off. The park was crowded. Every mother, son, daughter and father were there walking every type of mutt imaginable. Root Beer was a lady. After sniffing the butt of the nearest and her dearest, she went foraging for wood ticks and burrs. Five dogs followed her. They romped through tall grasses and slipped through mud puddles that still had the sheen of a day's snow.
Whistling, I carried on. My normal social behaviour hiding behind my Foster Grants and the most massive headache I had ever experienced while upright. Gingerly we headed out through the forest, hitting the river trail and the day's sunshine.
"Oh boy, that's enough for me," I said. Calling the boy and the dog away from the water's edge.
On our way back to our car, Luke, Root Beer and I saw what can only be called a "Mother Nature" event. A pack of about 20 dogs circling two dogs humping. Humans yelling. Mothers calling their children. One lady, who I can only assume doesn't understand the difference between human and cannine, yelling at her dog "Mike" to get "off" and that she was "watching him."
You can only say "Huh" to such a statement and keep walking.
As we opened the door for our young female, Luke looked at me and asked why everybody was yelling at their dogs.
I rubbed my temples, wished for migraine Advil, and like all good mothers before me said, "Ask your father."
Friday, June 12, 2009
Whispering sweet nothings
If you read the dog training books, you may learn that when you send your pooch to the vet at about six months, she'll settle down. The books tell you that the surgery that forgives your puppy any late night romance, will also calm her down.
The books lie.
Root Beer went for her female surgery last Saturday. Her visit began at 9 a.m. and I did have a moment of hesitation when I left her at the animal hospital. Did I really want her to never experience the joy of birth, the camaraderie of a same-species family, did I want to limit her experience?
It was only a momentary hesitation.
I thought of the mess and perhaps fright of dogs mating before Luke. I suspect the St.Bernard that lives around the corner of having amorous intentions. The huge chocolate labradoodle that lives across the street also has the potential to make babies. I thought of the whelping box, the puppy piddle and going through January all over again.
I left Root Beer at the hospital.
I picked her up on Sunday. She seemed a little slower and maybe a little sadder. She didn't jump on me and her gait as we walked to the car was careful.
Jump ahead a week and the dog is twisting to the sky as she jumps straight up. Her appetite increased to include shoes and other errant pieces of clothing. Her licks and cuddles returned. Her spirit remains undiminished.
Our puppy is growing up, and we get to keep her all to ourselves.
The books lie.
Root Beer went for her female surgery last Saturday. Her visit began at 9 a.m. and I did have a moment of hesitation when I left her at the animal hospital. Did I really want her to never experience the joy of birth, the camaraderie of a same-species family, did I want to limit her experience?
It was only a momentary hesitation.
I thought of the mess and perhaps fright of dogs mating before Luke. I suspect the St.Bernard that lives around the corner of having amorous intentions. The huge chocolate labradoodle that lives across the street also has the potential to make babies. I thought of the whelping box, the puppy piddle and going through January all over again.
I left Root Beer at the hospital.
I picked her up on Sunday. She seemed a little slower and maybe a little sadder. She didn't jump on me and her gait as we walked to the car was careful.
Jump ahead a week and the dog is twisting to the sky as she jumps straight up. Her appetite increased to include shoes and other errant pieces of clothing. Her licks and cuddles returned. Her spirit remains undiminished.
Our puppy is growing up, and we get to keep her all to ourselves.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Today I learned
Today I learned that Root Beer likes Pepsi; and that sometimes when Root Beer runs she doesn't think;
she picks up the carcasses of dead birds, or fish, and then she chews them.
Sometimes her breath smells.
I learned that even after spending $220 on obedience training the only one learning anything is me, and I haven't really learned anything, because I'm going to sign up again.
I learned that if I run really, really fast, I'm never going to catch Luke's dog, and Root Beer is finally Luke's dog.
I learned that if Luke lays his head on Root Beer's belly, Root Beer will lick Luke's head.
I learned that Luke can smile wide.
I learned that if a boy and his dog play next to a retention pond that is finally receding from a spring flood but is still too full of water, I shouldn't worry - not about the flood, not about the smelly dog and certainly not about Luke. I learned that given a chance, the dog and the boy will look out for each other.
I learned that when you're out for a picnic with your mother, and you eat your bagel and share your chips with your dog, and fill up a bowl with expensive bottled water just for your dog, she'll still want your drink. And when your beverage spills and you're missing your last sip, given a chance, your dog will lick that sip up.
I learned that everyone likes a little Pepsi but Luke loves Root Beer.
she picks up the carcasses of dead birds, or fish, and then she chews them.
Sometimes her breath smells.
I learned that even after spending $220 on obedience training the only one learning anything is me, and I haven't really learned anything, because I'm going to sign up again.
I learned that if I run really, really fast, I'm never going to catch Luke's dog, and Root Beer is finally Luke's dog.
I learned that if Luke lays his head on Root Beer's belly, Root Beer will lick Luke's head.
I learned that Luke can smile wide.
I learned that if a boy and his dog play next to a retention pond that is finally receding from a spring flood but is still too full of water, I shouldn't worry - not about the flood, not about the smelly dog and certainly not about Luke. I learned that given a chance, the dog and the boy will look out for each other.
I learned that when you're out for a picnic with your mother, and you eat your bagel and share your chips with your dog, and fill up a bowl with expensive bottled water just for your dog, she'll still want your drink. And when your beverage spills and you're missing your last sip, given a chance, your dog will lick that sip up.
I learned that everyone likes a little Pepsi but Luke loves Root Beer.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Working dog
It has finally happened. Root Beer knows how to walk on a leash, sit on command, and come when she's called. And she almost always participates when asked to complete those commands.
I wish the children were that easy to train.
We figure she's over five months now. She's looking more like a poodle with her curly black coat. What's funny is the curls are only on the top part - almost like when you're learning how to curl your hair and you only manage to get a few of the curls in. You know, either your curling iron craps out on you, or you're really naive and think that three well-placed curls would look sophisticated - not that I would have ever thought that...
Anyway, I do have pictures of our dear dog and lots of video. Yesterday, Luke and I played for two hours outside our house just throwing the ball and watching Root Beer race for it down the road. Her passion and enthusiasm for the game was something to see. Then we went to the backyard and Luke started cleaning the leaves from the pool. Root Beer - black lab and white poodle mix - was far too interested in the ice/water covering the giant hole. I'm going to have to watch her this spring. I can't imagine cleaning an algae-crusted pet. Would I use a scraper? Ewwww...
Luke's loving his dog. Both of them have really grown accustomed to the other. Dave and Luke are going for round two of the dog obedience, and from all reports, just having a blast. Nice to see father, son and little girl having fun together.
I wish the children were that easy to train.
We figure she's over five months now. She's looking more like a poodle with her curly black coat. What's funny is the curls are only on the top part - almost like when you're learning how to curl your hair and you only manage to get a few of the curls in. You know, either your curling iron craps out on you, or you're really naive and think that three well-placed curls would look sophisticated - not that I would have ever thought that...
Anyway, I do have pictures of our dear dog and lots of video. Yesterday, Luke and I played for two hours outside our house just throwing the ball and watching Root Beer race for it down the road. Her passion and enthusiasm for the game was something to see. Then we went to the backyard and Luke started cleaning the leaves from the pool. Root Beer - black lab and white poodle mix - was far too interested in the ice/water covering the giant hole. I'm going to have to watch her this spring. I can't imagine cleaning an algae-crusted pet. Would I use a scraper? Ewwww...
Luke's loving his dog. Both of them have really grown accustomed to the other. Dave and Luke are going for round two of the dog obedience, and from all reports, just having a blast. Nice to see father, son and little girl having fun together.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Slipping and sliding into spring
Have you slipped in the mud a bit? It's spring and the season is muck.
When the children were small, I tried to keep them out of the puddles. Yet, invariably, a boy or two would come home with a boot full of water and a soggy tale to tell. Root Beer doesn't wear boots but her soggy tail sure tells a story every time she comes inside.
I try to keep her away from the water but it's everywhere. My front yard faces north and the snow melts slowly. It causes us a great deal of grief as we watch our neighbours start their lawnmowers as we continue to shovel.
Root Beer doesn't mind. She enjoys our half-melted landscape. She rolls, jumps and runs through the last echo of winter. She gets wet. She gets muddy, and her paws grow larger.
Her tender tootsies are now lovingly wiped 16 times a day. And still the dirt walks freely. Paw prints the size of a small mac truck dot the beige carpet and the ultra suede sofa cushions. Like a reluctant Sherlock Holmes, I can now track Root Beer's progress through the house just by following the puppy-paw trail.
I have scrubbed and vacummed and prayed for the warming rays of the sun to dry up my front yard, but to no avail.
The paw prints continue to roam.
I'm not fretting too hard, though. I know that one day, just like the days when my children played outside, I'll yearn to yell at the dog to stay out of the water, but I won't have to.
I know that someday when the seasons change, her sleek black coat will remain clean and her paws will remain spotless. She will be older and more mature - and I will miss when it was spring.
When the children were small, I tried to keep them out of the puddles. Yet, invariably, a boy or two would come home with a boot full of water and a soggy tale to tell. Root Beer doesn't wear boots but her soggy tail sure tells a story every time she comes inside.
I try to keep her away from the water but it's everywhere. My front yard faces north and the snow melts slowly. It causes us a great deal of grief as we watch our neighbours start their lawnmowers as we continue to shovel.
Root Beer doesn't mind. She enjoys our half-melted landscape. She rolls, jumps and runs through the last echo of winter. She gets wet. She gets muddy, and her paws grow larger.
Her tender tootsies are now lovingly wiped 16 times a day. And still the dirt walks freely. Paw prints the size of a small mac truck dot the beige carpet and the ultra suede sofa cushions. Like a reluctant Sherlock Holmes, I can now track Root Beer's progress through the house just by following the puppy-paw trail.
I have scrubbed and vacummed and prayed for the warming rays of the sun to dry up my front yard, but to no avail.
The paw prints continue to roam.
I'm not fretting too hard, though. I know that one day, just like the days when my children played outside, I'll yearn to yell at the dog to stay out of the water, but I won't have to.
I know that someday when the seasons change, her sleek black coat will remain clean and her paws will remain spotless. She will be older and more mature - and I will miss when it was spring.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Sorry
It started as a beautiful day. Luke, Root Beer and I went for a long walk down the Trans Canada trail. Our first stop was the gas station along the way. With $20 and the knowledge that we had at least three miles more to go before we would stop, I bought two ice cream sandwiches.
Luke was waiting with Root Beer outside the gas station.
An older man came out of the store.
I was unwrapping the treats.
He pointed to his crotch.
No, it's not that kind of post.
He pointed to his crotch and said: "Your dog. Your dog."
I looked at his pants and repeated what most people would see when they see a paw print on a piece of pant.
"Sorry."
"Sorry," he repeats in disbelief, and walks away.
Not sure what he was expecting - was I supposed to offer a dry cleaning ticket?
It's spring. There is mud outside. Our dog is obviously a puppy - and why was he so close to Luke and the dog that Root Beer could jump up?
I stand beside Luke and the puppy waiting for something to happen. The man starts complaining to his wife.
Gesticulating - and repeating "Sorry."
Luke looks at me with tears in his eyes.
"Don't worry about it," I said.
We continued our long walk. We saw a few squirrels and Root Beer barked at a few strangers.
When we made it home we had successfully survived a spring stroll and a grumpy beige-panted pain in the *ss.
And the day remained sunny and warm.
Luke was waiting with Root Beer outside the gas station.
An older man came out of the store.
I was unwrapping the treats.
He pointed to his crotch.
No, it's not that kind of post.
He pointed to his crotch and said: "Your dog. Your dog."
I looked at his pants and repeated what most people would see when they see a paw print on a piece of pant.
"Sorry."
"Sorry," he repeats in disbelief, and walks away.
Not sure what he was expecting - was I supposed to offer a dry cleaning ticket?
It's spring. There is mud outside. Our dog is obviously a puppy - and why was he so close to Luke and the dog that Root Beer could jump up?
I stand beside Luke and the puppy waiting for something to happen. The man starts complaining to his wife.
Gesticulating - and repeating "Sorry."
Luke looks at me with tears in his eyes.
"Don't worry about it," I said.
We continued our long walk. We saw a few squirrels and Root Beer barked at a few strangers.
When we made it home we had successfully survived a spring stroll and a grumpy beige-panted pain in the *ss.
And the day remained sunny and warm.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Top of the class
Diva, Oliver and Holly - they're Root Beer's new friends. She met them at puppy training. Oliver is a brown pug, and he's all muscle and "he" man attitude. Diva is a golden retriever and Holly is a long-haired something. They're all adorable and they're all under six months old.
Luke is the youngest "trainer" in the class and Root Beer is the wiggliest. She piddled on the floor the first day and cowered behind us when the other dogs came calling. On our second session, Root Beer decided she would chase the other dogs. However, when the pups all turned on her, she scooted back. Our wiggly dog isn't the bravest dog.
Diva pooped and I laughed. I was so worried about Root Beer "letting loose" and then Diva did it. I just had to laugh.
"Come." "Off." "Sit." "Stay." We have learned a lot of commands. Root Beer has mastered sit and she's doing okay with stay but she doesn't like off and because she's so independent, come doesn't work at all.
Her adventures aren't limited to puppy classes. She's torn through listerine packages, chewed luggage tags, consumed something that turned into a lot of fibre - as in a huge ball of string came out of her backside. We're getting used to putting things up or taking things away.
We're getting used to the licks and nibbles, the smell and the innocence. We're getting used to our furry family member and we're loving her.
Luke is the youngest "trainer" in the class and Root Beer is the wiggliest. She piddled on the floor the first day and cowered behind us when the other dogs came calling. On our second session, Root Beer decided she would chase the other dogs. However, when the pups all turned on her, she scooted back. Our wiggly dog isn't the bravest dog.
Diva pooped and I laughed. I was so worried about Root Beer "letting loose" and then Diva did it. I just had to laugh.
"Come." "Off." "Sit." "Stay." We have learned a lot of commands. Root Beer has mastered sit and she's doing okay with stay but she doesn't like off and because she's so independent, come doesn't work at all.
Her adventures aren't limited to puppy classes. She's torn through listerine packages, chewed luggage tags, consumed something that turned into a lot of fibre - as in a huge ball of string came out of her backside. We're getting used to putting things up or taking things away.
We're getting used to the licks and nibbles, the smell and the innocence. We're getting used to our furry family member and we're loving her.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Sunday morning reflections
According to "Waist Management" the book written about/for YOU, every individual should maintain 30 minutes of walking a day. These folks aren't counting the steps I take from the couch to the fridge, to the car, to the door and back again. "They" insist that these 30 minutes should be taken consecutively, if possible.
I'm ashamed to admit it, but for the past year, 30 minutes of consecutive minutes only occurred while I slept, and even then, my dreams didn't take me far enough away. To say I was stressed is to say Yogi Bear likes picnic baskets. Once upon a time, Yogi Bear was funny and I cared about his quest for the picnic basketbut I don't any longer. I'm tired of the routine. I'm tired of his inability to get along with the Ranger and I want to know why Boo Boo hasn't smacked him upside the head.
Since Root Beer joined us, though, 30 minutes and more, a day, have been dedicated to walking.
These five, 10, 30 and 60 minute excursions are giving me the time I need to "walk off" whatever idiocy that can't be sorted out by a cold beer and an episode of Corner Gas.
Yet it isn't just me benefiting from walking the dog. Luke's doctor was pretty direct when he told Luke and me that Luke had to get more exercise.
Now, after Root Beer, and because of some maybe-not-long-enough long distance walking, Luke may not be getting the full 30 minutes - he somehow seems reluctant to wake-up at 6 a.m. to hit the trails. He is still getting 20 minutes, minimum. And these are paying off with a happier kid and a serene and calm mother (okay, that laugh is for you that really know me).
I can't say everything about having a dog has been easy, but I no longer relate my life to a Hanna Barba cartoon. I'm okay with Yogi Bear. He can have his picnic basket, and eat it through, too.
~~~
Stay tuned for the next posting where we will explore the dangers of Listerine, the reasons why dogs like stuffed animals, when not to call the vet and much, much more.
I'm ashamed to admit it, but for the past year, 30 minutes of consecutive minutes only occurred while I slept, and even then, my dreams didn't take me far enough away. To say I was stressed is to say Yogi Bear likes picnic baskets. Once upon a time, Yogi Bear was funny and I cared about his quest for the picnic basket
Since Root Beer joined us, though, 30 minutes and more, a day, have been dedicated to walking.
These five, 10, 30 and 60 minute excursions are giving me the time I need to "walk off" whatever idiocy that can't be sorted out by a cold beer and an episode of Corner Gas.
Yet it isn't just me benefiting from walking the dog. Luke's doctor was pretty direct when he told Luke and me that Luke had to get more exercise.
Now, after Root Beer, and because of some maybe-not-long-enough long distance walking, Luke may not be getting the full 30 minutes - he somehow seems reluctant to wake-up at 6 a.m. to hit the trails. He is still getting 20 minutes, minimum. And these are paying off with a happier kid and a serene and calm mother (okay, that laugh is for you that really know me).
I can't say everything about having a dog has been easy, but I no longer relate my life to a Hanna Barba cartoon. I'm okay with Yogi Bear. He can have his picnic basket, and eat it through, too.
~~~
Stay tuned for the next posting where we will explore the dangers of Listerine, the reasons why dogs like stuffed animals, when not to call the vet and much, much more.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Dog therapy
The whining was almost unbearable, and it was mostly coming from me. I had to take Root Beer for a walk. I had to get away from the noise in the house and try to escape the noise in my head. My internal critic was in overdrive and it was in cahoots with my family. Everybody was after me to do more faster and with efficiency. The tension was building. I was scared of how long I was going to scream.
I clipped on the leash. I grabbed my mitts and a couple of the all-purpose, who-would-have-guessed-the-purpose, Safeway grocery bags, and left the building. I checked out. I said "See-ya!" And I was glad to be gone.
I didn't know where I was going.
I let Root Beer lead. We stopped at a few corners and sniffed some neighbours' drives. We checked out the kids' old elementary school and deposited one of the Safeway bags in the receptacle there. We kept going.
We turned a corner that took us down the road toward the Red River. My nose started to get cold. We walked along the drive that gives a nod to royalty without being specific. We headed to the dog park.
The murmuring messenger started having less to say. We had been walking for about 30 minutes. We made it to King's Park and I let Root Beer off her leash. Her antics in the snow were downright humorous. She stalked pine cones, sticks of strange dimensions and possibly a rabbit or squirrel, not sure which. Her little puppy growl made me laugh especially when the big dogs came barking. It was then that Root Beer weaved her body against my legs and pleaded with her eyes to be picked up. She's getting older but she's not ready for those playmates - yet.
We took the turn home. I listened to the foolish birds who either never left Manitoba's cold climes or returned too soon. They sounded like they were having fun. Many chirps and peeps and other bird-like sounds too hard to describe. I kept walking.
I looked at the houses and once again thought of how success can be defined. Does it mean a big house with two cars and a boat parked in the drive? Maybe one day that was what I believed, not anymore. Now I know that delicious-looking three-storey house with the fancy Beemer and covered boat, takes at least three hours to clean once a day. I know the taxes those home owners pay would be more than the amount one inner-city family has to pay rent, buy groceries and catch a show. I walk away.
I head towards home. I walk the dog. I stop worrying about the next 10 items on my to-do list or whether my kids have enough spending money. I don't worry about lost cell phones or keys or regrets. I just walk.
I clipped on the leash. I grabbed my mitts and a couple of the all-purpose, who-would-have-guessed-the-purpose, Safeway grocery bags, and left the building. I checked out. I said "See-ya!" And I was glad to be gone.
I didn't know where I was going.
I let Root Beer lead. We stopped at a few corners and sniffed some neighbours' drives. We checked out the kids' old elementary school and deposited one of the Safeway bags in the receptacle there. We kept going.
We turned a corner that took us down the road toward the Red River. My nose started to get cold. We walked along the drive that gives a nod to royalty without being specific. We headed to the dog park.
The murmuring messenger started having less to say. We had been walking for about 30 minutes. We made it to King's Park and I let Root Beer off her leash. Her antics in the snow were downright humorous. She stalked pine cones, sticks of strange dimensions and possibly a rabbit or squirrel, not sure which. Her little puppy growl made me laugh especially when the big dogs came barking. It was then that Root Beer weaved her body against my legs and pleaded with her eyes to be picked up. She's getting older but she's not ready for those playmates - yet.
We took the turn home. I listened to the foolish birds who either never left Manitoba's cold climes or returned too soon. They sounded like they were having fun. Many chirps and peeps and other bird-like sounds too hard to describe. I kept walking.
I looked at the houses and once again thought of how success can be defined. Does it mean a big house with two cars and a boat parked in the drive? Maybe one day that was what I believed, not anymore. Now I know that delicious-looking three-storey house with the fancy Beemer and covered boat, takes at least three hours to clean once a day. I know the taxes those home owners pay would be more than the amount one inner-city family has to pay rent, buy groceries and catch a show. I walk away.
I head towards home. I walk the dog. I stop worrying about the next 10 items on my to-do list or whether my kids have enough spending money. I don't worry about lost cell phones or keys or regrets. I just walk.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Almost home
I worked eight hours today. That in itself is not a big deal, I often work eight-hours in a day. Today, though, I didn't go home right away. I wasn't too worried about the delay, I live with four other people.
My boys are all pretty self-sufficient. Even Luke, who does require respite when I'm not around, tends not to rip the toilet paper off the roller, toss the garbage over the floor or poop in a corner. I was sure everything and everyone would be safe.
I called for a ride home. Dave and Luke, after stopping at two stores, shopping, and then stopping for gas, came to get me. It was a 30-minute ride.
I made mindless chatter with my family, never comprehending that Root Beer was home alone.
I smiled brightly at my driver and his worthy assistant. "So, Matthew is with Root Beer?"
"No..." Dave replied.
"Josh went out of town," I stated
"Yep," said Dave.
I paused.
Dave added, "I blocked the kitchen so Root Beer couldn't get out."
"Really?" I tried to raise one eyebrow, but I'm not good at that, instead I looked like a drunk caterpillar trying to morph into a butterfly, all fierce concentration and a squiggly furrow.
The key turned in the door.
The cat, who always waits by the door when a key appears, mewed. The dog, who should have been upstairs in the kitchen, barked ferociously.
"What?" said Dave.
Root Beer nuzzled our feet and jumped to be petted.
She was glad we were home. It was hard work tunneling to freedom. The knocked-over plant and the spilled coffee shared its story. Root Beer had jumped the particle board and knocked over the end table; she had ducked under the coffee table and uprighted the coffee cups. She had risked injury for freedom but she had made it to the door, and now we were home.
Her work was done.
My boys are all pretty self-sufficient. Even Luke, who does require respite when I'm not around, tends not to rip the toilet paper off the roller, toss the garbage over the floor or poop in a corner. I was sure everything and everyone would be safe.
I called for a ride home. Dave and Luke, after stopping at two stores, shopping, and then stopping for gas, came to get me. It was a 30-minute ride.
I made mindless chatter with my family, never comprehending that Root Beer was home alone.
I smiled brightly at my driver and his worthy assistant. "So, Matthew is with Root Beer?"
"No..." Dave replied.
"Josh went out of town," I stated
"Yep," said Dave.
I paused.
Dave added, "I blocked the kitchen so Root Beer couldn't get out."
"Really?" I tried to raise one eyebrow, but I'm not good at that, instead I looked like a drunk caterpillar trying to morph into a butterfly, all fierce concentration and a squiggly furrow.
The key turned in the door.
The cat, who always waits by the door when a key appears, mewed. The dog, who should have been upstairs in the kitchen, barked ferociously.
"What?" said Dave.
Root Beer nuzzled our feet and jumped to be petted.
She was glad we were home. It was hard work tunneling to freedom. The knocked-over plant and the spilled coffee shared its story. Root Beer had jumped the particle board and knocked over the end table; she had ducked under the coffee table and uprighted the coffee cups. She had risked injury for freedom but she had made it to the door, and now we were home.
Her work was done.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Doing time
It started with the toilet paper. Root Beer's particular fondness for a fresh roll of white dangly pieces of chlorinated and compressed hard woods was discovered about two weeks ago. Since then it has been a constant bellow of "shut the door" or "who forgot to shut the bathroom door."
My carpet is now speckled with miniature clippings of white toilet paper fluff.
Next on the hit list was the laundry basket, which is strategically placed next to the bathroom door. At first her quest was innocent. A stray sock here and an old towel there and anything sorta smelly and damp. Now, with the eye of a fashionata, Root Beer stalks the basket waiting for an expensive work blouse or a favoured high-end, my-boys-can't-afford, sweater or shirt to be dropped. With the stealth of a former Mission Impossible star, Root Beer maneuvers the clothing out of the basket and into a corner of the living room. If the boys and I are distracted, Root Beer munches, if we are quick on our game, we may only suffer a few tiny teething indents into our treasured clothing.
Her next adventure begins in the kitchen. With great innocence she waits until her food drops into her dish. She'll lean over and gingerly accept the food into her mouth. Whoever is feeding her gives her a small pat on the head, approving of these good doggie manners. With that pat as her guiding anchor, Root Beer launches into a full assault on her metal dish. If timed, she would break the land speed record for food gobbler. Energized, she searches the kitchen for any missed molecule of nutrition. She's not actually that picky. The food she's searching for does not have to be nutritious, it just has to be available. After she has tipped over the garbage, jumped in the potato bin and sniffed through the antique armoire, her work and dinner, are done. She ambles over to the living room, rests her head on her paws and snoozes.
After all that running around, you would think the dog would be tired and ready to rest easy. Well that isn't always the case. Last night, for instance, Root Beer learned the value of a good rest and we, after a brief frighting moment, enjoyed the poetic justice of a lesson learned.
The dog tore through the house with a whirlwind of fur and cresting energy. She jumped on the couch and was told to get off. She grabbed for the picture frame sitting on the wall unit and reached the crystal vase filled with pocket change. The money spilled and Root Beer was scolded but there wasn't any stopping her. Little miss was on a mission. Even a long walk couldn't chill her rampant ardor for destruction.
When entering my house, you have two choices. You can either proceed straight ahead and that direction will take you to our addition, a cedar sunroom, or you can take the eight steps leading upstairs. The steps are bracketed by a wrought white metal staircase. The spaces between the columns of the staircase vary in width. Some are fairly large and others much more narrow. Bel, our more serene family pet, uses these spaces as a shortcut to the downstairs.
Last night Root Beer decided she would follow the cat. Or, at least I'm assuming that's what her doggie brain told her she was doing. Instead, she yelped. It was a little cry of pain and it made me jump from the couch. I went running to the stairs not knowing what I would find. Lodged in between two of the bars was the puppy. Her small head was firmly wedged and she looked like a forlorn criminal caught on petty crimes awaiting justice from Sheriff Matt Dillon of Dodge City.
I hesitated for a brief second and then I lifted Root Beer up, turned her sideways and slid her through the narrow bars. She licked my fingers and curled up soon after on my feet.
I think she may have learned her lesson. This morning my toilet tissue was exactly where it should be.
My carpet is now speckled with miniature clippings of white toilet paper fluff.
Next on the hit list was the laundry basket, which is strategically placed next to the bathroom door. At first her quest was innocent. A stray sock here and an old towel there and anything sorta smelly and damp. Now, with the eye of a fashionata, Root Beer stalks the basket waiting for an expensive work blouse or a favoured high-end, my-boys-can't-afford, sweater or shirt to be dropped. With the stealth of a former Mission Impossible star, Root Beer maneuvers the clothing out of the basket and into a corner of the living room. If the boys and I are distracted, Root Beer munches, if we are quick on our game, we may only suffer a few tiny teething indents into our treasured clothing.
Her next adventure begins in the kitchen. With great innocence she waits until her food drops into her dish. She'll lean over and gingerly accept the food into her mouth. Whoever is feeding her gives her a small pat on the head, approving of these good doggie manners. With that pat as her guiding anchor, Root Beer launches into a full assault on her metal dish. If timed, she would break the land speed record for food gobbler. Energized, she searches the kitchen for any missed molecule of nutrition. She's not actually that picky. The food she's searching for does not have to be nutritious, it just has to be available. After she has tipped over the garbage, jumped in the potato bin and sniffed through the antique armoire, her work and dinner, are done. She ambles over to the living room, rests her head on her paws and snoozes.
After all that running around, you would think the dog would be tired and ready to rest easy. Well that isn't always the case. Last night, for instance, Root Beer learned the value of a good rest and we, after a brief frighting moment, enjoyed the poetic justice of a lesson learned.
The dog tore through the house with a whirlwind of fur and cresting energy. She jumped on the couch and was told to get off. She grabbed for the picture frame sitting on the wall unit and reached the crystal vase filled with pocket change. The money spilled and Root Beer was scolded but there wasn't any stopping her. Little miss was on a mission. Even a long walk couldn't chill her rampant ardor for destruction.
When entering my house, you have two choices. You can either proceed straight ahead and that direction will take you to our addition, a cedar sunroom, or you can take the eight steps leading upstairs. The steps are bracketed by a wrought white metal staircase. The spaces between the columns of the staircase vary in width. Some are fairly large and others much more narrow. Bel, our more serene family pet, uses these spaces as a shortcut to the downstairs.
Last night Root Beer decided she would follow the cat. Or, at least I'm assuming that's what her doggie brain told her she was doing. Instead, she yelped. It was a little cry of pain and it made me jump from the couch. I went running to the stairs not knowing what I would find. Lodged in between two of the bars was the puppy. Her small head was firmly wedged and she looked like a forlorn criminal caught on petty crimes awaiting justice from Sheriff Matt Dillon of Dodge City.
I hesitated for a brief second and then I lifted Root Beer up, turned her sideways and slid her through the narrow bars. She licked my fingers and curled up soon after on my feet.
I think she may have learned her lesson. This morning my toilet tissue was exactly where it should be.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Spring baptism
You know when you have to go and you just don't want to. Maybe it's because you're camping or maybe you're at some professional sporting event, whichever, whatever the reason, the bathrooms just aren't agreeable. Who can do their business when the environment isn't right?
As an almost-four month old puppy, Root Beer has experienced some forbidding weather. Her first foray into puppy training was in the front of the house on a -50 day (with the windchill). She didn't like peeing in a snow but she did it. After a couple weeks of going outside in less than mild temperatures, Root Beer and I both got used to running out and back in just as fast as we could go.
Today it was a different story. Our routine is always the same. I wake up. Root Beer wakes up. I open the gate to her crate. She sits and thinks about getting up. I find one of my fuzzy, warm bathrobes. I search for a tie to secure the robe and Root Beer stretches. We wander over to the stairs and I pick the dog up. (She doesn't like to exert herself in the morning). Down the stairs we travel and to the front door we go. I open the door. I grab any pair of shoes that linger there and a white kitchen garbage bag and follow Root Beer out.
She runs the Indy 500 around Luke's winter fort. She checks out the pine cones on the ground and wrestles with the ornamental blue spruce tree. She loses yet another round with the 20-year-old behemoth but gives it one final shake to say, "I'll get you next time." Finally, and with great ceremony, Root Beer does her business.
This morning I had to plunk Root Beer in the puddle forming on my front step. She whined. She cried and she refused to move.
I picked her up. I carried her to the fort. She sniffed and lifted her paws delicately off the icy snow. Both of us were being pelted with raindrops. Root Beer shimmied next to my legs. This was a dog that wanted to be outside less than I wanted to. Still, I was stern, the alternative to a quick visit to the tree in the rain was a warm visit to a spot on the carpet. I waited.
Finally she deposited what she needed to by the old spruce. Without a backward glance at her favourite spots she walked to the front door. Her training so far is to wait with a sit and then we go in. She looked at me with reproach as I ambled up the door and then she sat in a puddle a half-inch deep and waited with a look that said, "What kind of cruel woman are you?" I just thought of my carpet and smiled.
As an almost-four month old puppy, Root Beer has experienced some forbidding weather. Her first foray into puppy training was in the front of the house on a -50 day (with the windchill). She didn't like peeing in a snow but she did it. After a couple weeks of going outside in less than mild temperatures, Root Beer and I both got used to running out and back in just as fast as we could go.
Today it was a different story. Our routine is always the same. I wake up. Root Beer wakes up. I open the gate to her crate. She sits and thinks about getting up. I find one of my fuzzy, warm bathrobes. I search for a tie to secure the robe and Root Beer stretches. We wander over to the stairs and I pick the dog up. (She doesn't like to exert herself in the morning). Down the stairs we travel and to the front door we go. I open the door. I grab any pair of shoes that linger there and a white kitchen garbage bag and follow Root Beer out.
She runs the Indy 500 around Luke's winter fort. She checks out the pine cones on the ground and wrestles with the ornamental blue spruce tree. She loses yet another round with the 20-year-old behemoth but gives it one final shake to say, "I'll get you next time." Finally, and with great ceremony, Root Beer does her business.
This morning I had to plunk Root Beer in the puddle forming on my front step. She whined. She cried and she refused to move.
I picked her up. I carried her to the fort. She sniffed and lifted her paws delicately off the icy snow. Both of us were being pelted with raindrops. Root Beer shimmied next to my legs. This was a dog that wanted to be outside less than I wanted to. Still, I was stern, the alternative to a quick visit to the tree in the rain was a warm visit to a spot on the carpet. I waited.
Finally she deposited what she needed to by the old spruce. Without a backward glance at her favourite spots she walked to the front door. Her training so far is to wait with a sit and then we go in. She looked at me with reproach as I ambled up the door and then she sat in a puddle a half-inch deep and waited with a look that said, "What kind of cruel woman are you?" I just thought of my carpet and smiled.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Only the nose knows
When you live with four males you get used to an assortment of scents that most underexposed females (those that live with only one male, for instance) don't encounter. This morning while brewing the morning coffee, I caught whiff of a funky scent. It didn't disturb me greatly. I just grabbed a new Mr.Glad and tossed the over-full garbage bag out the door.
I then inhaled the aroma of Columbia's finest and nearly gagged. Either my coffee was way past its expiration date and I tossed the wrong olfactory offender out, or my coffee making skills weren't worth beans.
I poured the coffee out, just in case.
That was a mistake, the stench still lingered and now I wasn't jazzed on the strong coffee I needed to make the game go fast. I played along, anyway. I put my nose to the scent.
First the laundry hamper. It's impossible that one family could own so many clothes that need washing. I grabbed the kitchen gloves that I keep for these special occasions and pulled them on tight. Stiffening my spine, I sucked in my breath and plunged my hands into the laundry basket. On one of my last excursions into the basket, I found a leftover peanut butter and banana sandwich. Luckily it had still been in its original sandwich bag, but I wasn't taking any chances. I tossed the soiled clothing into the air like an over-zealous skeet shooter on steroids.
I breathed deeply and recoiled slightly. No, I can't say I enjoyed that deep breath but it wasn't the funky smell of yesterday's rotting garbage, mixed with decaying fish and the putrid corpse of a syphilitic womanizer. It wasn't what I smelled earlier.
I readied myself for what was yet to come. The boys' bathroom downstairs.
In the 20 years I've lived in my house none of the smells emanating from their bathroom has made it up the stairs. I paused briefly to think how bad it must be if it was indeed coming from the washroom downstairs.
I took the few steps downstairs as slowly as one walking the gangplank will. I walked the short hall and reached the bathroom door. Tentatively, I turned the knob.
It creaked open slowly. I turned on the light.
The bathroom's fan gently turned the soft scent of Mr.Clean, Windex and a dash of Comet my way.
I remembered. My son's friends had just visited. It was mandatory that the washroom was clean for such events. I am probably the only mother on the block who begs her son to have friends over, and as often as he likes.
Back upstairs to where the mystery still wafted through the air.
Puzzled, I patted Root Beer on her head, and flopped on the couch. What an enigma.
"Kathy," Dave said as he walked in the room. "The dog stinks, do you think you and Luke can give her a bath."
I then inhaled the aroma of Columbia's finest and nearly gagged. Either my coffee was way past its expiration date and I tossed the wrong olfactory offender out, or my coffee making skills weren't worth beans.
I poured the coffee out, just in case.
That was a mistake, the stench still lingered and now I wasn't jazzed on the strong coffee I needed to make the game go fast. I played along, anyway. I put my nose to the scent.
First the laundry hamper. It's impossible that one family could own so many clothes that need washing. I grabbed the kitchen gloves that I keep for these special occasions and pulled them on tight. Stiffening my spine, I sucked in my breath and plunged my hands into the laundry basket. On one of my last excursions into the basket, I found a leftover peanut butter and banana sandwich. Luckily it had still been in its original sandwich bag, but I wasn't taking any chances. I tossed the soiled clothing into the air like an over-zealous skeet shooter on steroids.
I breathed deeply and recoiled slightly. No, I can't say I enjoyed that deep breath but it wasn't the funky smell of yesterday's rotting garbage, mixed with decaying fish and the putrid corpse of a syphilitic womanizer. It wasn't what I smelled earlier.
I readied myself for what was yet to come. The boys' bathroom downstairs.
In the 20 years I've lived in my house none of the smells emanating from their bathroom has made it up the stairs. I paused briefly to think how bad it must be if it was indeed coming from the washroom downstairs.
I took the few steps downstairs as slowly as one walking the gangplank will. I walked the short hall and reached the bathroom door. Tentatively, I turned the knob.
It creaked open slowly. I turned on the light.
The bathroom's fan gently turned the soft scent of Mr.Clean, Windex and a dash of Comet my way.
I remembered. My son's friends had just visited. It was mandatory that the washroom was clean for such events. I am probably the only mother on the block who begs her son to have friends over, and as often as he likes.
Back upstairs to where the mystery still wafted through the air.
Puzzled, I patted Root Beer on her head, and flopped on the couch. What an enigma.
"Kathy," Dave said as he walked in the room. "The dog stinks, do you think you and Luke can give her a bath."
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Game on
Soda pop goes flat but Root Beer never fizzles. Tonight we played catch for 15 minutes and would have gone longer if I had my gloves. It started easily enough. Luke has one of those soft above-the-bedroom-door basketball sets. He hasn't played with it in years.
Sometime during the day, Root Beer found Luke's basketball set. The round soft ball is a perfect chew toy and it caught my attention. I had nothing better to do, I picked it up and the dog and I went outside. Gently, I tossed the ball. Root Beer chased the red bullet and pounced. The game continued with me waiting for the give and Root Beer enjoying the get. Finally, when I couldn't feel my fingers, we returned inside.
I visited Luke's version of Mr. Dress-Up's tickle trunk. I tossed the legos and McDonald's toys but favoured a Frisbee and the boomerang. Remembering the game we played today, I chose the throwing weapon first. Its smooth edges gleamed as only a hard petroleum-based product can, but its aerodynamic design promises good sport for a puppy and and a young boy learning to playing fetch.
Sometime during the day, Root Beer found Luke's basketball set. The round soft ball is a perfect chew toy and it caught my attention. I had nothing better to do, I picked it up and the dog and I went outside. Gently, I tossed the ball. Root Beer chased the red bullet and pounced. The game continued with me waiting for the give and Root Beer enjoying the get. Finally, when I couldn't feel my fingers, we returned inside.
I visited Luke's version of Mr. Dress-Up's tickle trunk. I tossed the legos and McDonald's toys but favoured a Frisbee and the boomerang. Remembering the game we played today, I chose the throwing weapon first. Its smooth edges gleamed as only a hard petroleum-based product can, but its aerodynamic design promises good sport for a puppy and and a young boy learning to playing fetch.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
When you wish upon a star
For years I wanted a black Labrador because I missed Small, my childhood dog. For a short period of time when I was growing up, she gave me all the love she had. She didn't care who I was or what my family did. She only wanted me. I was in her home and in her pack. When I moved away from her, she remained faithful. You never forget that quality of love.
When I was a teenager and going through the nonsense that would make me the adult I've become, I missed Small's constant companionship.
When I delivered my first-born, I was barely older than a frightened adolescent; and, I missed Small's good nature.
When my family grew, I still craved Small's company.
Yet I knew I was growing up when I could finally say that I didn't need Small's company for me, I only wanted my boys to know her love.
Fast forward to a busy lifestyle, too many nights spent in the Children's Hospital emergency ward waiting for that all-important puff of asthma medicine, and a husband partial to cats, and you have the recipe of my canine-free reality.
I let my dream go. I accepted reality. I lived without a dog. I had no regrets. I had a family.
I'm not religious. I'm not New Age, and while I like Buddha, I don't believe I'm coming back as a butterfly.
I don't often believe in miracles. However, after more than two weeks of living with Root Beer, I can say, I believe in my small one.
When I was a teenager and going through the nonsense that would make me the adult I've become, I missed Small's constant companionship.
When I delivered my first-born, I was barely older than a frightened adolescent; and, I missed Small's good nature.
When my family grew, I still craved Small's company.
Yet I knew I was growing up when I could finally say that I didn't need Small's company for me, I only wanted my boys to know her love.
Fast forward to a busy lifestyle, too many nights spent in the Children's Hospital emergency ward waiting for that all-important puff of asthma medicine, and a husband partial to cats, and you have the recipe of my canine-free reality.
I let my dream go. I accepted reality. I lived without a dog. I had no regrets. I had a family.
I'm not religious. I'm not New Age, and while I like Buddha, I don't believe I'm coming back as a butterfly.
I don't often believe in miracles. However, after more than two weeks of living with Root Beer, I can say, I believe in my small one.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Living in a zoo without medication
What do you do when your head hurts and the dog barks? You go outside for a walk.
Usually when I'm hurting, I don't think of going outside. Even when my boys were babies, getting outdoors with a migraine didn't seem like a reasonable choice. Today - there is no choice.
At 6 a.m. it is dark, which is good. My eyes feel as eager to see sunlight as the green growth sprouting from a 10 lb bag of Manitoba Reds. Still, Root Beer and I have a routine. We head out for our morning constitutional. I make it six houses and then return home.
I commence the after-walk routine:
Brew coffee - check
Make lunch - check
Check calendar - check, Tuesday, swimming, shit.
Find swim suit - check
Find towel - check
Wake-up Luke - checkkkkkkkk, teenagers.
It goes fast after that, shower, check, clothes, check, backpack, check -- go, go, go, there's the bus. HOLD ON ---- toast, check, juice box, check.
Relief - check, bed. Yes.
No.
Okay, Root Beer, out we go.
I stand in the doorway, trembling. I should probably go with her, but I feel yucky.
Root Beer comes back inside and we both settle for a nap.
9:15. A short nap.
Away we go. Root Beer chases Bel, she almost catches her, Bel chases Root Beer, and the room spins.
10:30. I grab a pair of sweats lying in a heap at the end of my bed. I pull on my favourite I'm-at-home sweater.
I add:
Ski jacket - check.
Scarf - check.
Mitts- check.
Hat - check.
Sunglasses. Dammit, where are my sunglasses?
Root Beer and I go around the block. She runs. She leaps in the snow. She throws pine cones in the air. She catches them. I laugh. My head hurts but I can't help smiling.
We get home. Another nap. It's a little longer.
I wake up. I think about work, and then about housework. I take a bath.
YOW!
I shake off the lavender bubbles and investigate.
Bel is sitting on a chair swatting Root Beer's nose.
Geezus.
I make lunch for everybody. Apple juice tastes best when it is almost frozen.
I sit down on the couch and finally relax.
The revelry continues.
I take another aspirin.
I grab my jacket.
We go for another walk, and another and... you get the picture.
By the end of the day, Root beer is tired, Bel is traumatised and my headache - it's gone.
Usually when I'm hurting, I don't think of going outside. Even when my boys were babies, getting outdoors with a migraine didn't seem like a reasonable choice. Today - there is no choice.
At 6 a.m. it is dark, which is good. My eyes feel as eager to see sunlight as the green growth sprouting from a 10 lb bag of Manitoba Reds. Still, Root Beer and I have a routine. We head out for our morning constitutional. I make it six houses and then return home.
I commence the after-walk routine:
Brew coffee - check
Make lunch - check
Check calendar - check, Tuesday, swimming, shit.
Find swim suit - check
Find towel - check
Wake-up Luke - checkkkkkkkk, teenagers.
It goes fast after that, shower, check, clothes, check, backpack, check -- go, go, go, there's the bus. HOLD ON ---- toast, check, juice box, check.
Relief - check, bed. Yes.
No.
Okay, Root Beer, out we go.
I stand in the doorway, trembling. I should probably go with her, but I feel yucky.
Root Beer comes back inside and we both settle for a nap.
9:15. A short nap.
Away we go. Root Beer chases Bel, she almost catches her, Bel chases Root Beer, and the room spins.
10:30. I grab a pair of sweats lying in a heap at the end of my bed. I pull on my favourite I'm-at-home sweater.
I add:
Ski jacket - check.
Scarf - check.
Mitts- check.
Hat - check.
Sunglasses. Dammit, where are my sunglasses?
Root Beer and I go around the block. She runs. She leaps in the snow. She throws pine cones in the air. She catches them. I laugh. My head hurts but I can't help smiling.
We get home. Another nap. It's a little longer.
I wake up. I think about work, and then about housework. I take a bath.
YOW!
I shake off the lavender bubbles and investigate.
Bel is sitting on a chair swatting Root Beer's nose.
Geezus.
I make lunch for everybody. Apple juice tastes best when it is almost frozen.
I sit down on the couch and finally relax.
The revelry continues.
I take another aspirin.
I grab my jacket.
We go for another walk, and another and... you get the picture.
By the end of the day, Root beer is tired, Bel is traumatised and my headache - it's gone.
Monday, February 2, 2009
The morning review
It's too early in the morning. I'm not interested in doggie kisses or the unwavering devotion of a young canine. It's 5:30 a.m.
Bleary-eyed I grab the cat food. Have to feed the cat first, Root Beer has to know her place in our little country. Bel is the queen of the early morning and we are just her lowly servants who move far too slowly for the young feline. Bel is always hungry in the morning.
Since Root Beer's arrival, Bel's attitude has worsened. Before, I was always able to make my morning ablutions without penalty. Now, if I don't move fast enough, Bel makes me pay. She'll ignore me far into the afternoon if her bowl of Science Diet chicken entree and Royal Canin dry food aren't placed directly before her the moment I wake up. She's not as fussy about the water. She'll jump on the sink when I finally make it to the bathroom. Her royal-ness will graciously allow me to turn on the tap, where she will gingerly lean forward to sip from the running spring.
Someday I may be responsible for the planet's water shortage. Sometimes I forget to turn off the tap.
Root Beer's gregarious personality is similar to Bel's in one respect. It does not include patience. She rockets through the house when I am feeding Bel. She screeches to a halt beside me as I wander to the kitchen counter where we keep her food. Originally when we brought our all-natural puppy food home, we left it on the counter, open. However, like Odi and Garfield, I think Root Beer has a found a confederate in Bel. "Somehow" Root Beer's dry food was landing on the floor. Root Beer exhibited a certain penchant for hanging about in the kitchen when Bel was cruising the counters. Now the lid screws on and Root Beer hasn't found any more bonus meals.
I feed the puppy. She butts her head against my leg, lunging for her dish. As soon as my back is turned, Root Beer's snout is deep within the dish. She eats. She stops. She pleads with me. So far, I have resisted the temptation to introduce new entrees for her selection. I do not know how much longer I can hold out. After a few seconds of this novel game, Root Beer decides that her dog dish is filled with ambrosia and sweet delight, she gulps the remaining portion in a nano-second.
Her love of eating is equal to her tendency to chew, both are unmistakable. She's a cliche. My slippers, bathrobe ties, old pop bottles, socks, underwear and an $80 blouse, they're all between her paws. They're all gnawed on.
Two days ago, in a moment of weakness, I gave Root Beer a now favoured treat. I gave her a piece of frozen broccoli. I felt so bad. Her teething gums were obviously frustrating her and she needed the numbing effect of the icy-cold vegetables. She's had about 10 spears.
This morning, I regretted the impulse.
When I opened the front door, she raced to her special "section" of the front yard. I followed close behind. She peed. We celebrated. Then she pooped. The green stream racing from her butt too closely resembled the bag of vegetables hidden in the upstairs freezer. I tried to scoop up the colourful waste but couldn't. The frozen tundra of my front yard now has a green patch growing.
I'm worried about the beige carpet inside. If the urge strikes Root Beer and my son isn't quick enough to get her outside today, the spots which appear won't be nearly as colourful as the waterfall of words Dave will release.
Bleary-eyed I grab the cat food. Have to feed the cat first, Root Beer has to know her place in our little country. Bel is the queen of the early morning and we are just her lowly servants who move far too slowly for the young feline. Bel is always hungry in the morning.
Since Root Beer's arrival, Bel's attitude has worsened. Before, I was always able to make my morning ablutions without penalty. Now, if I don't move fast enough, Bel makes me pay. She'll ignore me far into the afternoon if her bowl of Science Diet chicken entree and Royal Canin dry food aren't placed directly before her the moment I wake up. She's not as fussy about the water. She'll jump on the sink when I finally make it to the bathroom. Her royal-ness will graciously allow me to turn on the tap, where she will gingerly lean forward to sip from the running spring.
Someday I may be responsible for the planet's water shortage. Sometimes I forget to turn off the tap.
Root Beer's gregarious personality is similar to Bel's in one respect. It does not include patience. She rockets through the house when I am feeding Bel. She screeches to a halt beside me as I wander to the kitchen counter where we keep her food. Originally when we brought our all-natural puppy food home, we left it on the counter, open. However, like Odi and Garfield, I think Root Beer has a found a confederate in Bel. "Somehow" Root Beer's dry food was landing on the floor. Root Beer exhibited a certain penchant for hanging about in the kitchen when Bel was cruising the counters. Now the lid screws on and Root Beer hasn't found any more bonus meals.
I feed the puppy. She butts her head against my leg, lunging for her dish. As soon as my back is turned, Root Beer's snout is deep within the dish. She eats. She stops. She pleads with me. So far, I have resisted the temptation to introduce new entrees for her selection. I do not know how much longer I can hold out. After a few seconds of this novel game, Root Beer decides that her dog dish is filled with ambrosia and sweet delight, she gulps the remaining portion in a nano-second.
Her love of eating is equal to her tendency to chew, both are unmistakable. She's a cliche. My slippers, bathrobe ties, old pop bottles, socks, underwear and an $80 blouse, they're all between her paws. They're all gnawed on.
Two days ago, in a moment of weakness, I gave Root Beer a now favoured treat. I gave her a piece of frozen broccoli. I felt so bad. Her teething gums were obviously frustrating her and she needed the numbing effect of the icy-cold vegetables. She's had about 10 spears.
This morning, I regretted the impulse.
When I opened the front door, she raced to her special "section" of the front yard. I followed close behind. She peed. We celebrated. Then she pooped. The green stream racing from her butt too closely resembled the bag of vegetables hidden in the upstairs freezer. I tried to scoop up the colourful waste but couldn't. The frozen tundra of my front yard now has a green patch growing.
I'm worried about the beige carpet inside. If the urge strikes Root Beer and my son isn't quick enough to get her outside today, the spots which appear won't be nearly as colourful as the waterfall of words Dave will release.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Lab-oured learning
When I was a young child we vacuumed every Saturday morning. It was chore that even a four-year-old could do. I didn't like vacuuming, I would have preferred to watch Saturday morning cartoons.
My mom didn't believe in child labour so when I returned to live with her, I was relieved of duty. Now, I know why Auntie Alice insisted on vacuuming regularly. Now, because of Root Beer, I understand housework.
My sons haven't had the luxury of living with a regular vacuum routine like I have. Now they're learning.
Socks dropped at the front door are gobbled up just as soon as they hit the floor. Underwear that wanders from the laundry basket can be too easily retrieved by a quick black ball of baby fur. Books, computer paraphernalia and expensive technology are all game for the puppy.
Yesterday I hauled out Big Betty, our carpet-sucking Dirt Devil. Luke and I vacuumed the house from top to bottom and organized the cupboards, counters and flat surfaces. I showed my family how easy it is to keep tidy.
And Spiderman? He didn't even miss us.
My mom didn't believe in child labour so when I returned to live with her, I was relieved of duty. Now, I know why Auntie Alice insisted on vacuuming regularly. Now, because of Root Beer, I understand housework.
My sons haven't had the luxury of living with a regular vacuum routine like I have. Now they're learning.
Socks dropped at the front door are gobbled up just as soon as they hit the floor. Underwear that wanders from the laundry basket can be too easily retrieved by a quick black ball of baby fur. Books, computer paraphernalia and expensive technology are all game for the puppy.
Yesterday I hauled out Big Betty, our carpet-sucking Dirt Devil. Luke and I vacuumed the house from top to bottom and organized the cupboards, counters and flat surfaces. I showed my family how easy it is to keep tidy.
And Spiderman? He didn't even miss us.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
The dog coughs at midday
It was the fourth phone call in a long Friday afternoon of phone calls, e-mails and quick just-for-a-minute cubicle chats. I was tired and tired of problem solving. "Good afternoon...," I began my spiel.
"Mom, something is wrong with Root Beer," my oldest son spewed in one hard-to-understand sentence.
"Slow down and tell me what's happening," I replied.
"She's choking."
Like every typical mother, I have nightmares of being at work when a family emergency occurs. I have tossed and turned through many nights dreaming of children consuming bleach, leaving doors unlocked and forgetting to turn off the stove, yet I have never entertained the thought of a doggie emergency.
My CPR training kicked in and I started to ask if Root Beer could talk --- no, that's not right. Could she speak?
"What's she doing," I asked.
"She's chewing her bone," my son replied.
Like a born-again Kinsey Millhone I investigated.
"What was she doing before?"
"Playing."
"Does she seem like she's in distress?"
"Well, she coughs every five minutes."
The case was too much for me. I sent him to the expert.
"Call the vet and then call me back."
Within five minutes a more subdued child called me back.
"Is she okay?" I said.
"Well, she is still coughing," he said.
"But....," I waited.
"The vet's office said to watch for blue or greying lips but she's probably okay."
"Good," I said.
When I arrived home, I heard the cough.
It comes from deep in her chest. I tried to recall where I had heard it before.
That's right. My brother has a bark just as bad as Root Beer's. He has bronchitis.
Mystery solved.
"Mom, something is wrong with Root Beer," my oldest son spewed in one hard-to-understand sentence.
"Slow down and tell me what's happening," I replied.
"She's choking."
Like every typical mother, I have nightmares of being at work when a family emergency occurs. I have tossed and turned through many nights dreaming of children consuming bleach, leaving doors unlocked and forgetting to turn off the stove, yet I have never entertained the thought of a doggie emergency.
My CPR training kicked in and I started to ask if Root Beer could talk --- no, that's not right. Could she speak?
"What's she doing," I asked.
"She's chewing her bone," my son replied.
Like a born-again Kinsey Millhone I investigated.
"What was she doing before?"
"Playing."
"Does she seem like she's in distress?"
"Well, she coughs every five minutes."
The case was too much for me. I sent him to the expert.
"Call the vet and then call me back."
Within five minutes a more subdued child called me back.
"Is she okay?" I said.
"Well, she is still coughing," he said.
"But....," I waited.
"The vet's office said to watch for blue or greying lips but she's probably okay."
"Good," I said.
When I arrived home, I heard the cough.
It comes from deep in her chest. I tried to recall where I had heard it before.
That's right. My brother has a bark just as bad as Root Beer's. He has bronchitis.
Mystery solved.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Sometimes you get what you're looking for
I own two housecoats. One is white and woolly with an eye-and-hook arrangement at the collar, the other is bright blue, woolly and closes with a belt. Neither fit well under my purple and red Dreimar ski jacket. When paired with my son's size 11 Sorels, balaclava and old ski gloves, the ensemble forces my appearance to change - I become the Eastern European blockade runner of Fort Richmond.
I never used to dress this way. The only time I used to wear my pyjamas outside, was when I was on the way to the hospital to deliver a baby.
Now I'm like the strange lady who rides her bike down my street during the early hours of summer. Every garbage day 4, the lady with the mask, white tunic, trousers and fraying grey overcoat stops at the curb by our house. She digs through old potato peels and unwanted juice boxes searching for something that may not exist.
Now I get up early, too. My robe peeks out from underneath my jacket and I sometimes stumble in my boots as I chase Root Beer down the street.
When I first started my early morning walks, I took the time to haul on pants and zip up sweaters. I planned my morning and did my best to keep to a schedule.
When I introduced those blue and white robes to my early morning scramble, I found what the lady in the mask looks for - the time to see something new.
I never used to dress this way. The only time I used to wear my pyjamas outside, was when I was on the way to the hospital to deliver a baby.
Now I'm like the strange lady who rides her bike down my street during the early hours of summer. Every garbage day 4, the lady with the mask, white tunic, trousers and fraying grey overcoat stops at the curb by our house. She digs through old potato peels and unwanted juice boxes searching for something that may not exist.
Now I get up early, too. My robe peeks out from underneath my jacket and I sometimes stumble in my boots as I chase Root Beer down the street.
When I first started my early morning walks, I took the time to haul on pants and zip up sweaters. I planned my morning and did my best to keep to a schedule.
When I introduced those blue and white robes to my early morning scramble, I found what the lady in the mask looks for - the time to see something new.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Dog's best friend?
This morning's blog is more of an example of how we're not going to be.
Have you ever had a neighbour who refuses to cut his grass or throw his trash out on garbage day? Have you watched as the derelicts parked in your neighbour's drive turned into a Holiday Inn for the refuse of the neighbourhood? Have you always known the dandelions which creep into your yard every spring, belonged to your neighbour? Have you wondered why he kept dogs?
It couldn't be to give an animal a home and complete a family because family members care for each other, and this neighbour of yours, he doesn't care about anybody.
When I was in my 20s, a friend of mine had a neighbour similar to the one described. She, an animal lover, tried to ignore this man's boorish behaviour. She tried to ignore the plight of two large breed crosses.
She worked nights and would often see the animals out in the yard when she was leaving for work around 10:30 p.m. Through the long shifts, she would worry about them, and if the weather turned bad, she almost always cried.
After 12 hours, she would return home and look out her bedroom window. There they were, still outside, still in the same spot. Impossible, she would say, and then, with the ceremony of the exhausted, she would crawl into bed, place her eye shades over her eyes and sink into sleep. Mere minutes later, a cacophony of sound, the dogs wanted in.
Yet it wasn't to be.
After days, weeks and months of the routine, my friend was at her limit. She didn't mind weeds, and she had an appreciation for all sorts of artwork, including driveway art, which was what she assumed her neighbour was intending when he abandoned his cars. The dogs, though, that she couldn't ignore.
One day, after a particulary vocal mid-morning howl, she ripped her eye patch off. Wearing nothing but an old t-shirt and a modest pair of briefs, she marched to her neighbour's. She said she saw nothing on her walk across the drive, she said she felt only rage, and if she could, she would have tied that dog owner to a tree and let him sit on frozen grass and then sizzle under the sun. She would let him howl.
Instead, and with only the barest civility, she uttered the words she had been choking on for too long.
"You aren't fit to look after any living creature. I've called the cops and the city. Your dogs are leaving and with any luck, you're going too."
Within a week, the next door neighbour's yard was clean, the trash was picked up and the howling dogs were a memory.
The best part, though, was the "For Sale" sign that bloomed later on his front yard.
Have you ever had a neighbour who refuses to cut his grass or throw his trash out on garbage day? Have you watched as the derelicts parked in your neighbour's drive turned into a Holiday Inn for the refuse of the neighbourhood? Have you always known the dandelions which creep into your yard every spring, belonged to your neighbour? Have you wondered why he kept dogs?
It couldn't be to give an animal a home and complete a family because family members care for each other, and this neighbour of yours, he doesn't care about anybody.
When I was in my 20s, a friend of mine had a neighbour similar to the one described. She, an animal lover, tried to ignore this man's boorish behaviour. She tried to ignore the plight of two large breed crosses.
She worked nights and would often see the animals out in the yard when she was leaving for work around 10:30 p.m. Through the long shifts, she would worry about them, and if the weather turned bad, she almost always cried.
After 12 hours, she would return home and look out her bedroom window. There they were, still outside, still in the same spot. Impossible, she would say, and then, with the ceremony of the exhausted, she would crawl into bed, place her eye shades over her eyes and sink into sleep. Mere minutes later, a cacophony of sound, the dogs wanted in.
Yet it wasn't to be.
After days, weeks and months of the routine, my friend was at her limit. She didn't mind weeds, and she had an appreciation for all sorts of artwork, including driveway art, which was what she assumed her neighbour was intending when he abandoned his cars. The dogs, though, that she couldn't ignore.
One day, after a particulary vocal mid-morning howl, she ripped her eye patch off. Wearing nothing but an old t-shirt and a modest pair of briefs, she marched to her neighbour's. She said she saw nothing on her walk across the drive, she said she felt only rage, and if she could, she would have tied that dog owner to a tree and let him sit on frozen grass and then sizzle under the sun. She would let him howl.
Instead, and with only the barest civility, she uttered the words she had been choking on for too long.
"You aren't fit to look after any living creature. I've called the cops and the city. Your dogs are leaving and with any luck, you're going too."
Within a week, the next door neighbour's yard was clean, the trash was picked up and the howling dogs were a memory.
The best part, though, was the "For Sale" sign that bloomed later on his front yard.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Weather or not we go outside
If, in dog years, a one-year-old puppy is actually seven years human, than Root Beer is a toddler. I know because Luke and I tried to take Root Beer for a walk.
Our excursion team went to Pet Value before the big event and purchased a collar, leash and $80 worth of toys.
On our way home, Luke kept chattering about our walk. We were going to go for miles.
I said, "No, Root Beer is a baby dog and puppies don't walk for miles."
I figured if we reached the end of the block, we would have achieved something similar to the Mount Everest expediation.
The moment arrived. Luke gently placed Root Beer's collar around her neck, he clipped her leash to the collar and out the door we went.
Root Beer stopped.
Like a stubborn two-year-old refusing to go to bed, Root Beer sat on the step. Luke looked at me.
"She won't come."
I tried gently tugging on the leash and ecouraged Root Beer with treats. Still nothing, and the January wind whistled.
"I want to go inside," Luke said.
Me too, I thought, but then I remembered every battle won and lost with my children.
"Hold on, Luke," I said. "I have an idea."
I bent down, lifted the puppy and placed her in Luke's arms.
She snuggled in, grateful for the warmth and the "win."
I said nothing, I just led our pack down the street. We travelled about 15 houses. I stopped.
"Put her down."
Luke looked at me, puzzled, but placed his puppy on the road.
"Come on Root Beer," I said, running back towards home and warmth and familiar scents, "let's go home."
How that puppy moved. For a few seconds, Luke, in his sturdy winter boots, had trouble keeping up.
We reached the front door.
"Root Beer, sit."
Root Beer sat.
I waited for a count of 10.
"Okay, let's go inside."
When my boys were two, I taught them manners. They, in turn, taught me how to think creatively.
With Root Beer, the lessons begin again.
Our excursion team went to Pet Value before the big event and purchased a collar, leash and $80 worth of toys.
On our way home, Luke kept chattering about our walk. We were going to go for miles.
I said, "No, Root Beer is a baby dog and puppies don't walk for miles."
I figured if we reached the end of the block, we would have achieved something similar to the Mount Everest expediation.
The moment arrived. Luke gently placed Root Beer's collar around her neck, he clipped her leash to the collar and out the door we went.
Root Beer stopped.
Like a stubborn two-year-old refusing to go to bed, Root Beer sat on the step. Luke looked at me.
"She won't come."
I tried gently tugging on the leash and ecouraged Root Beer with treats. Still nothing, and the January wind whistled.
"I want to go inside," Luke said.
Me too, I thought, but then I remembered every battle won and lost with my children.
"Hold on, Luke," I said. "I have an idea."
I bent down, lifted the puppy and placed her in Luke's arms.
She snuggled in, grateful for the warmth and the "win."
I said nothing, I just led our pack down the street. We travelled about 15 houses. I stopped.
"Put her down."
Luke looked at me, puzzled, but placed his puppy on the road.
"Come on Root Beer," I said, running back towards home and warmth and familiar scents, "let's go home."
How that puppy moved. For a few seconds, Luke, in his sturdy winter boots, had trouble keeping up.
We reached the front door.
"Root Beer, sit."
Root Beer sat.
I waited for a count of 10.
"Okay, let's go inside."
When my boys were two, I taught them manners. They, in turn, taught me how to think creatively.
With Root Beer, the lessons begin again.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Dr. Spock and Root Beer
In 1966, the year I was born, the bible for raising children was a practical book titled: Baby and Childcare. My mother is reported to have read it cover to cover.
My bible is a small paperback titled: How to Raise a Well-Behaved Puppy. For more than five days, I have lived by the daily routine set by the author Dominique De Vito.
Puppy, says De Vito, is to rise at 6:00 a.m. and relieve herself.
At 6:15, she is supposed to eat, and at 6:30, I am supposed to play with her. Play time is supposed to last until 6:45 at which time puppy is to relieve herself, again.
Right. Somebody needs to tell the dog.
At 5:30 a.m., Root Beer started to whine in her crate.
Quick as an all-night server dodging the morning rush, I leaped out of bed, wrenched open the crate and lifted the whining puppy over the basket of dirty clothes.
I made it to the stairs. The whining stopped. "NO..." I screamed, hurrying down the 8 steps to the front door.
Root Beer landed with a soft thud in the snowbank. Dazed, she looked at me with reproach. She had been warm and content inside and now I was insulting her dignity by insisting she pee in the snow.
I slipped my cold toes into the slippers sitting at the door and grabbed my ski jacket with grocery bag stuffed pockets. I wore no hat and carried no mitts. According to De Vito, I wasn't going to be out long.
Root Beer and I did our morning dance.
She, with all the grace a three-month-old can muster, sat by the front door waiting to return to warmth, a soft carpet and if I was lucky, a puppy pee pad.
I, with the war wounds of a three-time mother, walked to our special "section" of the front yard.
"Come on Root Beer, it's time to go pee."
I think she laughed.
I paced the front yard in my slippers, flannel nightie, oversized sweats and ski jacket. My jacket did little to brake the cold that whistled through the gaps. I regretted not wearing a hat or mitts, it now seemed foolish to leave the house without them.
And still, Root Beer sat.
I tapped the newspaper Dave had placed in her special place in the snow. As a new dog owner, he didn't know what would enourage her to go pee any better than me. His theory was tap the paper and she'll think she's inside. Yeah, only if we don't pay our heating bill for 10 years. It has to be -45 this morning.
Finally, with great dignity, Root Beer stood up.
She looked around and then squatted. A small tear rolled from the corner of my eye. Was it the cold? I like to think so. After 15 minutes in a January morning, Root Beer went pee.
"Good Root Beer," I said with all the glee I could manage through frozen lips. "Good dog."
We went back inside and I returned to my reading. Root Beer plopped herself on the rug and started staring at the corner of my kitchen where four puppy pee pads and newspaper lay waiting.
My bible is a small paperback titled: How to Raise a Well-Behaved Puppy. For more than five days, I have lived by the daily routine set by the author Dominique De Vito.
Puppy, says De Vito, is to rise at 6:00 a.m. and relieve herself.
At 6:15, she is supposed to eat, and at 6:30, I am supposed to play with her. Play time is supposed to last until 6:45 at which time puppy is to relieve herself, again.
Right. Somebody needs to tell the dog.
At 5:30 a.m., Root Beer started to whine in her crate.
Quick as an all-night server dodging the morning rush, I leaped out of bed, wrenched open the crate and lifted the whining puppy over the basket of dirty clothes.
I made it to the stairs. The whining stopped. "NO..." I screamed, hurrying down the 8 steps to the front door.
Root Beer landed with a soft thud in the snowbank. Dazed, she looked at me with reproach. She had been warm and content inside and now I was insulting her dignity by insisting she pee in the snow.
I slipped my cold toes into the slippers sitting at the door and grabbed my ski jacket with grocery bag stuffed pockets. I wore no hat and carried no mitts. According to De Vito, I wasn't going to be out long.
Root Beer and I did our morning dance.
She, with all the grace a three-month-old can muster, sat by the front door waiting to return to warmth, a soft carpet and if I was lucky, a puppy pee pad.
I, with the war wounds of a three-time mother, walked to our special "section" of the front yard.
"Come on Root Beer, it's time to go pee."
I think she laughed.
I paced the front yard in my slippers, flannel nightie, oversized sweats and ski jacket. My jacket did little to brake the cold that whistled through the gaps. I regretted not wearing a hat or mitts, it now seemed foolish to leave the house without them.
And still, Root Beer sat.
I tapped the newspaper Dave had placed in her special place in the snow. As a new dog owner, he didn't know what would enourage her to go pee any better than me. His theory was tap the paper and she'll think she's inside. Yeah, only if we don't pay our heating bill for 10 years. It has to be -45 this morning.
Finally, with great dignity, Root Beer stood up.
She looked around and then squatted. A small tear rolled from the corner of my eye. Was it the cold? I like to think so. After 15 minutes in a January morning, Root Beer went pee.
"Good Root Beer," I said with all the glee I could manage through frozen lips. "Good dog."
We went back inside and I returned to my reading. Root Beer plopped herself on the rug and started staring at the corner of my kitchen where four puppy pee pads and newspaper lay waiting.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Cats, Dogs, Guinea Pigs and the Kiss
In the shelter her name was Heather and she lived on death row. The Winnipeg Humane Society was moving and all adult cats were priced for quick sale. I was suspicous that those who couldn't find homes wouldn't last long.
After losing our very dear friend, Jet Jackson, I thought of the Humane Society. Jet was our first family pet but I didn't want her to the last. She was a guinea pig. She had one good eye and blonde hair.
From the moment the boys received her, Jet was loved. She was handled with typical boy roughness, yet she rarely bit. Until one fateful day, when, in some excitement, Jet fell from the hands of a small child and injured one of her eyes. After that, she became our one-eyed rather-reluctant-to-be-handled, guinea pig.
Upon her death, Luke and I asked for a cat. Dave laughed. Hadn't our experience with Jet been enough?
I thought about it. Was Jet enough pet ownership for one family? The answer was no.
We went to the Humane Society. Luke was anxious and his anxiety was vocalised in a room full of cages filled with cats and eager wannabe owners. People stared. I tried to ignore his behaviour but finally, without adopting a cat to take home, I hauled him away.
I couldn't help but think a cat was still a good idea and after dropping Luke off for some quiet time with his brothers, I went back. The shelter was closing and the cat we liked was gone. I persisted. Surely they could make an exception.
The pet counsellor looked me over. Well, she said, you could go to one of our satelite offices, they're open until six.
Petcetera was nearly empty. There weren't any screaming children, demanding parents or overworked counsellors. There were just three cats sitting like royalty in a room built just for them. I peeked in the cages. A black one, a white one and a mulit-coloured tabby blinked back at me. Black and white gamboled and entertained but the tabby just stared. With a little huff she walked to the front of her cage. I held out my arms and then, with a jump, Black Eyed Lighting, formerly known as Heather, joined my family.
For two years Bel, as she has become known, has jumped on our laps, slept on our heads and purred like an overworked engine whenever we have done something to please her.
Last Wednesday night she didn't purr. She stared.
And with such disdain too.
For three days she ignored Root Beer unless the dog came too close and then she would puff her tail.
Root Beer would inch backward never taking her eyes off the cat with the humogous tail.
Just last night, though, I saw something that I believed wouldn't happen. I saw Root Beer and Bel kiss each other on the nose.
Bel ran around the house after she tasted dog cooties but Root Beer didn't run. She just plopped down on the rug with a satisfied doggy smile that said: Now we're a family.
After losing our very dear friend, Jet Jackson, I thought of the Humane Society. Jet was our first family pet but I didn't want her to the last. She was a guinea pig. She had one good eye and blonde hair.
From the moment the boys received her, Jet was loved. She was handled with typical boy roughness, yet she rarely bit. Until one fateful day, when, in some excitement, Jet fell from the hands of a small child and injured one of her eyes. After that, she became our one-eyed rather-reluctant-to-be-handled, guinea pig.
Upon her death, Luke and I asked for a cat. Dave laughed. Hadn't our experience with Jet been enough?
I thought about it. Was Jet enough pet ownership for one family? The answer was no.
We went to the Humane Society. Luke was anxious and his anxiety was vocalised in a room full of cages filled with cats and eager wannabe owners. People stared. I tried to ignore his behaviour but finally, without adopting a cat to take home, I hauled him away.
I couldn't help but think a cat was still a good idea and after dropping Luke off for some quiet time with his brothers, I went back. The shelter was closing and the cat we liked was gone. I persisted. Surely they could make an exception.
The pet counsellor looked me over. Well, she said, you could go to one of our satelite offices, they're open until six.
Petcetera was nearly empty. There weren't any screaming children, demanding parents or overworked counsellors. There were just three cats sitting like royalty in a room built just for them. I peeked in the cages. A black one, a white one and a mulit-coloured tabby blinked back at me. Black and white gamboled and entertained but the tabby just stared. With a little huff she walked to the front of her cage. I held out my arms and then, with a jump, Black Eyed Lighting, formerly known as Heather, joined my family.
For two years Bel, as she has become known, has jumped on our laps, slept on our heads and purred like an overworked engine whenever we have done something to please her.
Last Wednesday night she didn't purr. She stared.
And with such disdain too.
For three days she ignored Root Beer unless the dog came too close and then she would puff her tail.
Root Beer would inch backward never taking her eyes off the cat with the humogous tail.
Just last night, though, I saw something that I believed wouldn't happen. I saw Root Beer and Bel kiss each other on the nose.
Bel ran around the house after she tasted dog cooties but Root Beer didn't run. She just plopped down on the rug with a satisfied doggy smile that said: Now we're a family.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Bringing home baby
When my sons were babies, I mastered the art of the drop and nod. It's a particular talent that many new moms exhibit. No sooner does baby close his or her eyes then the shutters go down. My craft became so learned that I could litterally get a full night sleep in 1o minutes. I had no idea I'd be using this resource when I walked in the door with Root Beer.
Luke's bedroom faces the backyard and the backyard faces the perimeter and the perimeter is noisy all day long. Which is why I am always surprised that Luke can hear a car pull in our driveway.
On Wednesday night, Luke heard me pull into our driveway and raced to the stairs to greet me.
Close on his heels was Bel, our family cat. She eagerly greets everyone who comes to the door. However, once she has taken a look at you, she'll leave. So far, I haven't figured out who she is waiting for.
I dragged in the crate from the car. It had been a tough ride from Poplarfield, a small town about two hours north of Winnipeg. Root Beer had whimpered a lot. In Teulon, a town about 45 minutes away from the city, I had stopped for gas and a look at my newest family member. Poor Root Beer, she was slobbering and puking. Our puppy doesn't like car rides.
When I opened the gate to the crate, Root Beer just sat and then she whimpered. Poor sweetheart. Who was I to think she would enjoy living with us? She had her brother and sister, the run of a farm, and a quiet corner in a basement to play in. Now, she was dragged to a house where a boy in too small pyjamas and a cat with a superior attitude waited expectantly. Root Beer shivered again and that was enough to get Luke running.
With tender hands he cradled her against his chest. The love shining from his eyes made the $4.99 I spent on car deodorizer a bargain. This puppy was home.
I dragged particle board up the stairs and sectioned off a part of the kitchen. I butted Root Beer's kennel against the north wall, and laid a week's worth of newspapers and $10 worth of puppy pee pads on the floor. I created an artificial pen with the board that was thigh-high. If Root Beer stood up on her hind legs she could reach the top, but I doubted she would. After the construction was over, I shooed Luke to bed and cleaned up the dog. Something was still missing, though.
And then I remembered. I ran down to the basement to a closet I hadn't visited in years. I dug though early adolescence and late childhood. When I reached toddler clothes, I knew I was getting close. Yep. In the last box I found them. Two well-worn baby blankets carefully wrapped and lovingly stored for the next baby.
Root Beer's dark fur contrasted nicely with the bright yellow and blue ducks on her blankets and then with a heavy-lidded sigh, she was out- and I closed my eyes, knowing from past experience that for 10 minutes, I would sleep.
Luke's bedroom faces the backyard and the backyard faces the perimeter and the perimeter is noisy all day long. Which is why I am always surprised that Luke can hear a car pull in our driveway.
On Wednesday night, Luke heard me pull into our driveway and raced to the stairs to greet me.
Close on his heels was Bel, our family cat. She eagerly greets everyone who comes to the door. However, once she has taken a look at you, she'll leave. So far, I haven't figured out who she is waiting for.
I dragged in the crate from the car. It had been a tough ride from Poplarfield, a small town about two hours north of Winnipeg. Root Beer had whimpered a lot. In Teulon, a town about 45 minutes away from the city, I had stopped for gas and a look at my newest family member. Poor Root Beer, she was slobbering and puking. Our puppy doesn't like car rides.
When I opened the gate to the crate, Root Beer just sat and then she whimpered. Poor sweetheart. Who was I to think she would enjoy living with us? She had her brother and sister, the run of a farm, and a quiet corner in a basement to play in. Now, she was dragged to a house where a boy in too small pyjamas and a cat with a superior attitude waited expectantly. Root Beer shivered again and that was enough to get Luke running.
With tender hands he cradled her against his chest. The love shining from his eyes made the $4.99 I spent on car deodorizer a bargain. This puppy was home.
I dragged particle board up the stairs and sectioned off a part of the kitchen. I butted Root Beer's kennel against the north wall, and laid a week's worth of newspapers and $10 worth of puppy pee pads on the floor. I created an artificial pen with the board that was thigh-high. If Root Beer stood up on her hind legs she could reach the top, but I doubted she would. After the construction was over, I shooed Luke to bed and cleaned up the dog. Something was still missing, though.
And then I remembered. I ran down to the basement to a closet I hadn't visited in years. I dug though early adolescence and late childhood. When I reached toddler clothes, I knew I was getting close. Yep. In the last box I found them. Two well-worn baby blankets carefully wrapped and lovingly stored for the next baby.
Root Beer's dark fur contrasted nicely with the bright yellow and blue ducks on her blankets and then with a heavy-lidded sigh, she was out- and I closed my eyes, knowing from past experience that for 10 minutes, I would sleep.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Puppy Love
More than 30 years ago I welcomed a black labrador into my life. To be truthful, she welcomed me. I was about five or six and we lived together for only a few years, but even though I had to move she always remembered me when I visited.
Small was the runt of her litter. She was a quiet girl and when my Auntie Alice took ownership from her son, it was more because Auntie Alice wanted a home for a dog that she wasn't sure would get one. Quickly Small became more than a dog to be pitied. She became a quiet hero to me. She protected me from school yard bullies and other childhood dangers. She became my friend.
When I was nine, I moved back home with my mother and left Small with Auntie Alice. I was a kid and excited to be with my mom. However, our apartment in Fort Rouge wasn't a place for a dog. Arguably it wasn't a place for a child, either, but that's a story for another day.
I returned to Auntie Alice's for many visits. In my heart, Auntie Alice was also my mother and Small was always there waiting for me to play with her. We had some good times. When Auntie Alice had her ceramic shop, I'd visit. After sweeping the floor and cleaning some molds, I would take Small out for a walk in the field that skirted the front door. How Small tried. She played fetch, just like always, she ran after balls, just like always, but she didn't move as fast, and in my teenage mind, I knew that she wouldn't be around forever. And then one day, she wasn't. I cried a lot that day and for quite a few after but with time, I let her memory fade.
Fast forward to today. .
I have a home. It's a bi-level. I own it. Well, my husband, the bank, and I, have an agreement, so I sort of own it. Two years ago, because my youngest needed a friend, I asked for a cat. I would have preferred a dog, but after 30 years of non-canine ownership, I had doubts that I was qualified to own one. My life is, and I guess will always be, chaotic. I'm not a housekeeper of any kind. Often, when you visit, you have to step over 18 pairs of shoes and few errant socks. When you get upstairs, it gets worse. I love to read so newspapers are usually stacked in a corner waiting for the recycling bin. Books are piled on flat surfaces and nobody in my family believes in loading or unloading the dishwasher. That task is mine and mine alone. I think I'd pass a health inspector's review but it would be close. The last thing I needed was a dog. Right?
Luke, my youngest son has some difficulties. Some say autism others just say developmental delay. Either way, I have a boy who doesn't get out much and as for companionship, nah, nobody his age, not really.
I started thinking about a dog again when I read an article about companion dogs for individuals with autism. Six days ago, on Sunday, after a particularly trying few days with Luke, I thought seriously about it. Luke, Dave, my husband, and I, went to the Humane Society to see who would join our family. We didn't fall in love with anyone there. The reasons for not getting a dog were still valid - we left without one.
On Monday, I decided to look online. Why? I don't know. After looking at many pages of dog listings with most priced in the $400-$500 range, I began to give up. I really didn't want a dog, did I?
And then there she was, a listing for a labradoodle. This "breed" is very popular. They're often used for companionship for those with special needs. Also, one of the side benefits of a labradoodle is a potential for being hypo-allergenic. With my second oldest son asthmatic and somewhat allergic, a dog that may not shed and might not induce and allergic reaction would be a good choice. But what about the price - I really can't afford a $500 dog. And then came the next omen - the puppy was only $75. I still hesitated. Why so cheap? I emailed, I wanted to see a picture.
I held my breath. I don't like poodles. Sorry, if you have one, I'm sure you love your animal. I just don't like the looks of them. A labradoodle is part poodle, and really I think they're funny looking. At least the ones I viewed online. As long as the labradoodle looked more like a labrador, it would be okay, but what were the chances?
The next day, we received the picture.
Small.
My dog Small. My old friend stared back at me from the webpage I was viewing.
Still, pictures can deceive.
I didn't want to buy from a puppy mill. I had questions - what arrogance. The woman from the farm where the puppy lived, had questions. She wasn't releasing her dog to just anybody.
After a day of calling and emailing, the dog was ours, if we wanted her.
After driving for two hours, I reached the farm. The woman who answered the door asked me to wash my hands before I handled the pups. Good sign. She cared about her animals. She directed me to her washroom.
In the washroom was a kennel with two smallish, rattish, poodlish dogs. My heart sank. This was going to be ugly. I tried to be encouraged. I wasn't getting a dog for me but for my son. He would probably like a rat-dog.
I walked out of the washroom with lowered expectations. No wonder the dog was $75. I was proably being overcharged.
"Do you want to see the puppies?" the woman asked.
We went downstairs.
More rats? I wondered.
I looked over to a small "pen." Inside were three beautiful pups with glossy black coats.
She let out the puppies and they went to play. A curly-haired male and a larger female chased this quiet, small girl who investigated her surroundings carefully. The woman told me I could have either of the females.
I gravitated to the smaller one. Can I hold her? She snuggled in my arms. "Well, I think she found you," the woman said.
"Yes," I replied.
After all of these years, she found me again.
This is the story of Root Beer. - our family dog.
Small was the runt of her litter. She was a quiet girl and when my Auntie Alice took ownership from her son, it was more because Auntie Alice wanted a home for a dog that she wasn't sure would get one. Quickly Small became more than a dog to be pitied. She became a quiet hero to me. She protected me from school yard bullies and other childhood dangers. She became my friend.
When I was nine, I moved back home with my mother and left Small with Auntie Alice. I was a kid and excited to be with my mom. However, our apartment in Fort Rouge wasn't a place for a dog. Arguably it wasn't a place for a child, either, but that's a story for another day.
I returned to Auntie Alice's for many visits. In my heart, Auntie Alice was also my mother and Small was always there waiting for me to play with her. We had some good times. When Auntie Alice had her ceramic shop, I'd visit. After sweeping the floor and cleaning some molds, I would take Small out for a walk in the field that skirted the front door. How Small tried. She played fetch, just like always, she ran after balls, just like always, but she didn't move as fast, and in my teenage mind, I knew that she wouldn't be around forever. And then one day, she wasn't. I cried a lot that day and for quite a few after but with time, I let her memory fade.
Fast forward to today. .
I have a home. It's a bi-level. I own it. Well, my husband, the bank, and I, have an agreement, so I sort of own it. Two years ago, because my youngest needed a friend, I asked for a cat. I would have preferred a dog, but after 30 years of non-canine ownership, I had doubts that I was qualified to own one. My life is, and I guess will always be, chaotic. I'm not a housekeeper of any kind. Often, when you visit, you have to step over 18 pairs of shoes and few errant socks. When you get upstairs, it gets worse. I love to read so newspapers are usually stacked in a corner waiting for the recycling bin. Books are piled on flat surfaces and nobody in my family believes in loading or unloading the dishwasher. That task is mine and mine alone. I think I'd pass a health inspector's review but it would be close. The last thing I needed was a dog. Right?
Luke, my youngest son has some difficulties. Some say autism others just say developmental delay. Either way, I have a boy who doesn't get out much and as for companionship, nah, nobody his age, not really.
I started thinking about a dog again when I read an article about companion dogs for individuals with autism. Six days ago, on Sunday, after a particularly trying few days with Luke, I thought seriously about it. Luke, Dave, my husband, and I, went to the Humane Society to see who would join our family. We didn't fall in love with anyone there. The reasons for not getting a dog were still valid - we left without one.
On Monday, I decided to look online. Why? I don't know. After looking at many pages of dog listings with most priced in the $400-$500 range, I began to give up. I really didn't want a dog, did I?
And then there she was, a listing for a labradoodle. This "breed" is very popular. They're often used for companionship for those with special needs. Also, one of the side benefits of a labradoodle is a potential for being hypo-allergenic. With my second oldest son asthmatic and somewhat allergic, a dog that may not shed and might not induce and allergic reaction would be a good choice. But what about the price - I really can't afford a $500 dog. And then came the next omen - the puppy was only $75. I still hesitated. Why so cheap? I emailed, I wanted to see a picture.
I held my breath. I don't like poodles. Sorry, if you have one, I'm sure you love your animal. I just don't like the looks of them. A labradoodle is part poodle, and really I think they're funny looking. At least the ones I viewed online. As long as the labradoodle looked more like a labrador, it would be okay, but what were the chances?
The next day, we received the picture.
Small.
My dog Small. My old friend stared back at me from the webpage I was viewing.
Still, pictures can deceive.
I didn't want to buy from a puppy mill. I had questions - what arrogance. The woman from the farm where the puppy lived, had questions. She wasn't releasing her dog to just anybody.
After a day of calling and emailing, the dog was ours, if we wanted her.
After driving for two hours, I reached the farm. The woman who answered the door asked me to wash my hands before I handled the pups. Good sign. She cared about her animals. She directed me to her washroom.
In the washroom was a kennel with two smallish, rattish, poodlish dogs. My heart sank. This was going to be ugly. I tried to be encouraged. I wasn't getting a dog for me but for my son. He would probably like a rat-dog.
I walked out of the washroom with lowered expectations. No wonder the dog was $75. I was proably being overcharged.
"Do you want to see the puppies?" the woman asked.
We went downstairs.
More rats? I wondered.
I looked over to a small "pen." Inside were three beautiful pups with glossy black coats.
She let out the puppies and they went to play. A curly-haired male and a larger female chased this quiet, small girl who investigated her surroundings carefully. The woman told me I could have either of the females.
I gravitated to the smaller one. Can I hold her? She snuggled in my arms. "Well, I think she found you," the woman said.
"Yes," I replied.
After all of these years, she found me again.
This is the story of Root Beer. - our family dog.
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What the nose knows
Root Beer's first bath
