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.
Monday, February 16, 2009
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.
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What the nose knows
Root Beer's first bath
