Treed

Omit the geese and the kingfisher, and the pond looked something like this.

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Last night was my turn to watch Fergus. I’m not going to go into all the permutations of a two-month-old canine’s skills at eliminating in inappropriate places at the wrong times, like… never mind, I’m not going to go into that.

However, my brains being slightly fried from all the excitement (and a night of sleeping in the papasan), by mid-afternoon today I couldn’t think of anything to write about except An Excremental Journey or A Scat Concert or Bummed Out or Hindsight or… until E.g., answering an e-mail, said Why don’t you write about that time with your first dog… So here it is. Just.

When I was 12, my mother, realizing the shortage of sandwiches developing in my psychic picnic, decided to get me a dog. A woman she knew had some puppies to give away, and one of them came to me. Alfie had some collie in him — Cai reminds me a bit of him.

Alfie and I liked to walk down to the far end of the dirt road and hop the farm fence, braving the possibility of Polled Herefords to get to the pond. It was maybe a foot deep, with cattails and Red-winged Blackbirds and frogs and a cowpath up one side and a little bridge that led, past the cedars, to some summer cabins. I think there must have been another driveway to those cabins, because I never met any other humans at the pond.

There was one meeting, though, that’s etched on my brain. One day, I decided to climb a tree while Alfie was busy snuffling about in and out of the pond. This tree was reached by crossing some marshy, splishy bits. I swung myself up into the crook, and leaned my back against one of the main uprights, closing my eyes to better feel the sun on my face.

I don’t think I was blissed out for long when I heard some emphatic splashing and a hiss, then a scrabble. It was a muskrat. Alfie had scared it, and it was climbing up my tree! I stayed very, very still. So did the muskrat, when it realized I was in its way. Alfie had his forefeet on the tree trunk, quite pleased with himself. What was the poor old ratty to do?

To this day, I’m glad about the choice it made; I’d like to believe that it considered me the lesser of the two evil species. The muskrat continued its climb — right onto my torso, off my right shoulder, and on up the tree.

I climbed down after that, calling my dog, to head home and let the usually non-arboreal creature stop panting and make its way back into the water.

The Cardigan Nestling

E.g. wanted a new baby for Mother’s Day. No problem, I said, it’s the perfect weekend to go dogsnesting. The puppies are just the right age about now, and it’s a lovely day for a drive in the country. Why don’t we take Jack and his mum along, too?

 

So we scouted the trees…

…while E.g. kept her eyes on the road.

Local landowner Doug answers Jack’s enquiry. “We had a West Highland Terrier rookery last year, but so far nothing this Spring.”

Finally, our faithful nestlinghound Cai finds a tree! Jack acts as spotter while Lavenderbay starts up the rescue rope.

E.g. approves of the new nestling.

Safe in the arms of Mama.

Buckled in for the ride home.

Fergus’s new nest…

… complete with foliage-patterned blankie.

E.g. after a full two hours’ sleep! Ain’t motherhood grand!

Good Stress

Ember, Fergus, Reba, Chief, Flicker, and Sparky.

[Happy laundry day! I've developed a habit of posting lists of some sort or other on Tuesdays. Today it's a list of names, those of the puppies in the latest Yasashiikuma litter, seen above outdoors on a recent sunny afternoon. Beats me who all those hominids are, but the human puppy sure has a sweet face.

Below is the post I wrote yesterday. My cold rendered it a bit blasé in tone, and I'm not so sure I can improve it by much today -- isn't it naptime anyway? Also, I'm much less nervous and anxious than the first time around. That reminds me of a humorous, comforting book I read a quarter-century ago, while I was pregnant. It was written by a pediatrician and father of grown children, and had a title like How to Treat Your First Child as Though it Were Your Second. Anyway, here's yesterday's news today.]

My blogfriend Goodbear had a crappy start to her weekend, a whole pile of things beyond her control, most of them handleable if dealt with one by one, but not when they all come flying at her together like Shreddies out of a cereal box. She also said something about being crazy. I worried about that last remark, coming as it did out of left field (Goodbear is an eminently sane creature). I suggested that maybe she was just stressed, not crazy: stressed by good things (plans for a new puppy) as well as bad (large creepy spiders, creepy large spyers…).

Goodbear, by the way, is the first blogfriend (well okay, besides Shelley) to know E.g. and my good-stress secret. I’ve made her wait for further news because until yesterday we didn’t know which furball we’d be getting. Have I let the secret out yet?

Shelley is very careful to match her puppies with the most suitable families. She asks prospective owners lots of questions about their lifestyle and their reasons for getting a dog, observes her puppies carefully, and has temperament testing done when they’re seven weeks old. Last night, Shelley called us with her decision: It’s a boy! We’re getting Fergus.

E.g. and I, who have been tuning in since before they were born, have always thought Fergus the handsomest of this litter. If you go here, you can see his head with its perfect centre line through the brown, looking to me like a great-Gatsby-era gent with oiled hair. The markings look a little different now that he’s bigger, but he still has a neat-and-tidy look about him.

Shelley chose Fergus for us because he seems pretty laid back, and won’t dominate Cai, who is already somewhat submissive. Apparently it was a tough decision, however. Shelley had a hard time deciding whether or not Fergus would be a show dog! She even told E.g. that if we’d like, she could show Fergus to get his puppy points before we have him neutered. I’m undecided about that, since I know nothing about dog shows… but since I’ve always flown the flag of dilletantism, it might be interesting to learn something about it. We’ll see.

Anyway, getting back to the current time, we’ll be going up on Saturday to pick up Fergus. We’ll get to know him for two weeks or so, and then return him to Shelley to be boarded while we’re on vacation in Paris. We know he’ll be in good hands!

E.g. hasn’t yet decided whether we’ll change his puppy name (Cai’s puppy name was Jasper). She had thought of “Robin” if we got a boy, but she likes the name Fergus, so we may keep it. I’m sure the decision will be made by the end of the week.

 

(Wordless Wednesday) Chicken Slushies

 

Dead Heat (Contest Results)

Dog owners have widely varying tastes.
It was a lovely Spring weekend. Dog parents were everywhere. Unlike last time, when I was nearly reduced to paying a street person to check off a ballot sheet, this time I cornered  Coco’s daddy, Buster’s mummy, Flip’s mummy, both mummies of the Thundering Herd, Dover’s daddy… every last judge was a dog parent.

Okay, I’m lying. One of my co-workers has a Maine Coon cat; but she loves playing with all the dogs that visit the store.

Anyway, by 3 pm today I had a nice sheaf of checked-off ballots. Rubbing my hands in demonic glee, I sorted them into teeny little piles, counted them, and who do you think was the winner?

No one. It was a three-way tie. And everyone else came in second. I think from this experiment we can conclude that among dog owners, there are as many opinions on what is funny as there are breeds of dog.

So I marked up a ballot, stuffed it in my jacket pocket, called Cai, and took him outside to play ball. There I found the mummy of Sunny, a golden long-haired chihuahua. I asked her (the mummy, not the dog) to please choose which of the three asterisked entries she found the funniest. She chose.

Congratulations, Dracula, you have a new blog! Jack’s mom, you get 500 words on a topic of your choice! I realize I may not hear from you until Tuesday, but I can wait.

Now, for the limericks… By posting one per week until they’re all up, I would be making some of you wait two months for yours, which I think is kinda cruel. How do you think I should organize it? Should I post three per day, making my entries all-limericks-all-the-time for three days running? I would also continue my pattern of having a different one in my sidebar on each monthday divisible by seven. Duzzat work? You would each get your week-on-the-sunny-log, but would already know your limerick before it goes up to bask.

Chris, you haven’t given me a word for a limerick, and Shelley and Checkers, you each have leftover privileges from the first contest. That’s three more words. And a certain evil genius from the first contest suggested “blogosphere”, which I haven’t completely ruled out…

But today I’m kinda tired and not making much sense. Must be all that fresh air.

 

 

Cardiganese

Those eyes speak volumes.

Ears erect and forward, head swinging on his neck like a tetherball on its pole, Cai is talking to me. He’s saying, “Are you sure? Where? Where is he?” Suddenly his ears flatten back for full aerodynamic capacity as he breaks into a gallop, his whole body shouting, “There he is! There’s Jack! I see him! Oh joy, oh joy, oh joy!”

For all that we humans pride ourselves on our vocalizations (and therefore scold dogs for competing with us), anyone who owns a pet knows how much can be communicated through body language. In fact, so much is conveyed by the height of an eyebrow or the speed of a tail wag, that a human can grasp the message without paying much conscious attention to how the dog has “spoken”. I have to really think, then, in order to describe Cai’s movements. Let’s see…

Here are two scenarios that begin the same way, but Cai asks a different question in each one:

• I’m in the living room watching Cai on the balcony, who in turn is watching the neighbours go by. As he shifts position, he sees me looking at him. He enters the apartment and approaches me, eyes meeting mine, ears tilted slightly backwards, mouth ajar, eyebrows playing volleyball with each other.
  • Interpretation: “Hi Mum, did you want me for anything?”
• Cai sees me watching him and enters the apartment, heaving loud, breathy whines, his vertical ears  twisted outwards. He runs to the balcony door, to me, to the window, to me.
  • Interpretation: “Ple-e-ease can we go out and play with Peanuts and Cindy and Boomer and Tango and Coco, ple-e-ease?”

Cai doesn’t usually care too much for other dogs, though. His main focus in life, even more than treats, is toys. Here are four games that he’s taught us to recognize:

• We’re playing in the back field. Cai is exercising me, having me fetch the ball once he’s run and caught it. This time as I  stoop for the ball, he jogs halfway down the field and crouches stockstill, staring hard at my throwing hand.
  • Interpretation: “I’m a Border Collie! Throw the sheep — I’m ready!”
• We’re playing in the front yard. As I reach for the ball, Cai runs behind the big Silver Maple and peeks out from one side, then the other.
  • Interpretation: “Throw the ball either side of the tree, I’ll get it!”
• I’m playing at the computer. Cai brings the plush candycane squeakytoy that Jack gave him for Christmas and drops it beside my chair. As I reach for it, he mouths it catch-and-release fashion, growling.
  • Interpretation: “Let’s play tug!”
• Cai brings the same toy to my chair. As I reach for it, he runs a dozen feet in front of me, three-sixties and crouches.
  •  Interpretation: “Let’s play throw!”

The final pair of examples of Cardiganese that I’d like to share with you have to do with canine emotions. I believe that Cai has a sense of compassion; I’ve seen him behave towards our kitty Cuca in the same way as described below, when Cuca caught a cold and was sneezing. I also believe — and after reading the final scene, you be the judge — that Cai has a sense of humour.

• I step in from the balcony, put a foot on a rubber squeaky toy, and lose my balance, grabbing the couch arm for support. Cai stands on his hind legs with his front paws on the couch and stretches his muzzle into my face.
  • Interpretation: “Are you okay?”
• Everyone’s in bed with either a good book or a good bone. Cai’s bone falls to the floor. He looks over the edge at it, whimpering softly. E.g. slips out of bed to pick it up for him. The moment she’s out, Cai scuttles up and snuggles into her pillow, his bright eyes looking at her, his mouth open.
  • Interpretation: “Fooled ya!”

 

Doglish

Dogs work hard at establishing communication with their humans.

I love languages. My French is passable, I learned a little Vietnamese at one time, and last summer I ended up being a Spanish interpreter at an international quadrennial meeting here in Toronto.

Please understand, I have never studied Spanish in my life. I picked up a few phrases from some Chilean neighbours about ten years ago. As a quadrennial volunteer, I put every last scrap of my knowledge to use during registration for one nice Cuban delegate, and was punished for it by being called over anytime one of the other hosts was trying to communicate with a hispanoparlante. Luckily my impromptu career lasted only an hour or so until some bilingual delegates arrived.

Apart from that, I can say “Thank you”, “How are you”, and “Fine” in Greek, the same first two things in Japanese, and the first thing in Ojibway. I can count to ten in Hungarian. I can say “I’m a bird watcher” in German. I used to be able to pronounce “I have a little white rabbit” in Cantonese, but I only get funny looks when I try it now. Mind you, this last sentence might be a bit of a conversation stopper in any language.

 Because of my fascination with languages, I started wondering today how many human words my Cardigan Welsh Corgi knows. For that matter, how much dog language has he taught us?

Cai knows all the basics, of course:

• ball
• toy
• pottie
• walkies
• bickie
• shh
• hush
• be quiet
• that’ll do!
• hey!!!

He comes when I call his name in a high-pitched, singsong voice: “Cai-i!”, and he knows that “good boy” is his middle name. Being a herder and not a retriever, he is still learning the linguistic nuances of “Bring it!”, but improving daily.

Cai knows a number of words and phrases that aren’t in the manuals:

• “Let’s go check the mail” means we’re gonna enter the building by the front door, not the side door.
•  ”Let’s take the stairs” means the side door, not the front door.
• “Please stop chewing on your brother’s leg” means to pause a moment before continuing to rough-house with the cat.
• One evening on the way in I remarked conversationally, “Tomorrow we’ll be going out in the car-car” and Cai turned to the back of the elevator, facing its basement-opening back door.
• If we’re playing in the back field when Jack arrives from school and I see the boy first, my whispered “Where’s Jack?” sends Cai into a four-alarm lookabout that stops just short of whiplash.
• Then there’s the phrase, “Oh, da scoodie-boodie-woobie-goobies”, which means, “I see you’d like someone to give you a nice belly rub. Will I do?”

I’m sure there are more words and phrases that Cai knows, but I think this sampling is a good start. Tomorrow I’ll discourse on some of the Cardi language that Cai has taught us.

The Twitcher’s Apprentice

Cai carefully notes all the distinguishing field marks of this vagrant Orange-eyed Squash Goose before rushing to identify it in the guidebook.

Learning to birdwatch with Cai has been a bit of a learning curve. One thing I learned, for example, was the impossibility of simultaneously peering through binoculars and grasping the loop of a puppy-filled leash. I did manage to overcome this problem by slipping the loop around the toe of my boot. This method works best when viewing the more phlegmatic of our feathered friends; it is of no help at all for that large group of avians that I call gone-birds.

Because e.g. and I have compatible but different interests, the two of us can share Cai between us. I’ll do birdless walkies with him while e.g. sets up her tripod for skunk cabbage or bloodroot or trout lily or whatever the fleur du jour is, and then she’ll take him while I go stalk the pond or the meadow or the woods for a while.

One of the reasons e.g. and I decided on a Cardigan Welsh Corgi is that they are sturdy little animals, happy to go hiking or camping. Cai was first put to the tenting test last summer, when he wasn’t yet a year old. It was a bit of a challenge for him. Every evening while it was still light out, he would start scratching at the zipper of either Jack’s or our tent, announcing his intention to turn in. He ended each day exhausted from the sniffing and the seeing and the listening and the hiking and the swimming, but I like to think he went to bed with a smile on his muzzle.

On this particular camping trip, we were at a privately-owned campground on Manitoulin Island. Early each morning, I would take Cai for walkies while e.g. and Jack were still nestled in their sleeping bags. One morning, a family of deer startled my dog and me, and we them; they leapt across the path just ahead of us and disappeared into the woods. I thought that was pretty cool, but Cai, who had never seen deer before, didn’t know what to think. He pulled the leash taut and stood stock-still, staring after them; and I felt his heartbeat through the leash.

On another morning, having familiarized myself with the trails, I decided to risk dropping the leash in an open area and let Cai walk beside me. He did, very nicely, until we both suddenly saw — or I thought we saw — the same thing. It was a pair of Sharp-tailed Grouse at the foot of the tree. I reached for the leash loop that was dragging in the dust, but all I found was a gone-dog. Cai sprinted to the tree and up scattered a whole covey of Sharp-tails. Then he trotted back to me, wagging with pleasure at his success as the birder’s apprentice.

I was reminded of all these things this morning, as I played ball with Cai in the field next to our apartment building. Sometimes it’s just the fact of his being a dog that makes Cai help me with my birdwatching. Today was a cat kind of day — stay indoors and watch the rain — but dogs don’t do litter boxes, so out we went. Up the field, down the field, facing north, facing south, I stooped for the ball as we were facing north, raised my arm, and halted in awe to watch a small flock of Sandhill Cranes, grey as the mist they were flying through, silently heading for Manitoulin Island.

Turtlecop! All Three Exciting Episodes! Next!

Although the scarf and helmet might suggest appropriate turtle use, the stirrups are ergonomically  unsuitable, as is the upright posture needed for this activity.

First Episode

I was nearly finished my Saturday morning at Tommy Thompson Park, on the Leslie Street Spit, when I saw a large dog merrily galloping across my line of sight. This dog and I were still far enough into the park to be beyond the signs that tell humans not to bring their pets to the park, and the sign that carefully explains why not to. While I realize that canine literacy rates in Canada are very low, I thought surely there must be a human owner somewhere about.

A minute later I caught up with bowser. He was on a ridge a few metres higher than the trail. He was defecating. I started to pull a pick-up bag from my  coat pocket. It was then that a guy maybe 30 years old, about twenty feet ahead of me on the trail, softly called his dog. I waded in with both flippers.

“First of all, you should be picking up after your dog! Second of all, he should be on a leash! Third, dogs aren’t allowed in here — the park is well signed!”

The poor bagless schmuck told me that he had just been explaining (the other guy with him was apparently a stranger) that when he was growing up here, he used to let his dogs run all over the place. Ignoring the logic that if he already knew his error, he should have already called his dog, I replied, “Well, it’s now a sensitive wildlife area, and dogs are not allowed! I don’t bring my dog here!” Handing off the bag to the hangdog owner, I went on my way. About twenty minutes later, while waiting for e.g. to meet me, I saw the young man leave the park, his big bouncy dog on a leash.

And I felt…really kinda crummy. I rarely intervene like that. If I hadn’t seen the owner, I would have simply picked up the poop and grumbled to myself about some people giving dogs a bad reputation. And I also didn’t know how much of my speaking up had to do with the fact that e.g. and Cai and I had come here one morning last summer, read the signs, and decided that e.g. would drive Cai over to the offleash area at nearby Cherry Beach while I explored the spit. If I’m going to abide by the rules, then by golly, everybody else can too!

Second Episode

When e.g. swung by with the car, I told her what had happened. Her first response was, “Anger can be a deterrent.” Then she proceeded to relate another example of citizen policing that she’d heard at the dog park that morning.

A woman walking her dogs saw a much younger woman eating take-out chicken pieces and dropping the bones on the ground. Older woman told younger woman that chicken bones can harm dogs. Younger woman started arguing with older woman and insulting her. When older woman walked away, younger woman threw the chicken bones at the dogs.

Final Episode

Yesterday, I played one of my least-favourite games: Homework Police. I had gotten one version of requirements from Jack’s mum, and was getting another from Jack. Much growling and squealing throughout the afternoon and evening ended with Baby Bear going to bed in tears, and Papa Bear (me) mad at everybody. This morning, as we were getting our coats on to head for the streetcar, I told Jack I made a lousy cop.

“From now on, if you’re gonna write your homework assignments on your arm and lose them during your swimming lesson, that’s your problem, not mine. Any time you want my help, I’ll be glad to help you; otherwise, you’re 11 now, so it’s time to be responsible for your own stuff. Okay?” Jack listened, silently, seriously, nodding. Then we headed out together to the transit stop. Jack got on the streetcar and waved; Turtle waved back, and threw away her badge.

Impulse Purchase, with Prologue and Afterword, in Diary Genre, Prefaced by a Victorian-Era-Style Overly Long Title — Complete with Two Types of Parenthetical Punctuational Enclosures — Made in a Slapdash Effort to Create some Humour by Providing a Visual Device to Preface the Writing Portion, Being as I Don’t Have a Ready-Made Photo to Insert Here and Didn’t Have Time to Compose One (Although I Did Briefly Consider Entitling this Entry, “Photoless Phursday,” in Reference to “Wordless Wednesday”, the First Attempt at which I Essayed Yesterday); OR, A Study in Concealing Mediocre Writing under Clever Design

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Wednesday, 2 pm.

I have a headache. Despite a nice visit with Jack’s mum this morning, followed by an hour and-a-half of walkies, I feel crummy. And Cai is limping again after playing with some of the other doggies in the off-leash area, which makes me feel doubly crummy. And tomorrow I have to work for a living, and Friday I have to work from 6 am to 7 pm, so like how am I sposta keep up with this daily writing habit when my head hurts and I’m feeling guilty for letting Cai offleash and all I can think of writing about is fridge magnets? I feel triply crummy.

3 pm.

I start sifting through my partner’s photos. I find one that I would like to entitle, “The Unbearable Lightness of Cheesies”, but can’t organize my thoughts to write any commentary. That would make it another Wordless Wednesday entry. Lemme see, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Su– I’m not that organized.

4 pm.

The cheesie photo has made me think of movies. I stuff the little cloth WWF bag, the one that Seamus the Sea Turtle came with, into my coat pocket and head over to the neighbourhood video store. They don’t rent videos anymore, of course, but my partner has claimed that even DVDs will soon be anachronisms. Never mind; no one has dialed a phone in years, either, though we still say we do. I’ll survive the next technological change with grace, if not gusto.

4 10 pm.

I’ve come to rent a movie. Some film with a bit of brain behind it. Maybe “The Unbearable Lightness of Being”, or “The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”, neither of which I’ve seen. Something that doesn’t have its protagonist staring at a computer screen wondering how to expound on fridge magnets. As I edge past the sale bin, a decade-old film that I’ve already watched waves to me. Should I buy instead of renting? These previously-viewed DVDs are are a good price; there’s a buy-two-get-one-free deal on this table; and two of the other six dozen movies look like we’d watch them at least twice. Good enough for me.

5 30 pm.

My better half arrives home. She has a great idea of how to cook the trout I pulled from the fridge this morning, so I graciously allow her to make supper.

6 40 pm.

We settle into the sofa with big, steaming bowls of soba noodles and trout with orange sauce to watch the Japanese film, “After Life.” Like the few other Japanese films I’ve seen, it is very quiet and slow paced — but hey, this one’s about eternity.

8 40 pm.

Such sweet characters! Such gentle pathos! Such  dirty dishes! Time to wash up, put Cai’s kibble on to soak, and go to bed. The movie was a good idea. By doing something completely different, away from my keyboard, my subconscious was able to move beyond cheesies and fridge magnets to Friday’s topic, which I’ll work on tomorrow when I’m fresh. Tomorrow, I will write about my coffee cup.