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.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
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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