How to Pick Up Poopies in a Wintry Saint John Yard

All photos below were taken by E.g. and cropped by Turtle.

Two days ago, on March 29, it was actually raining in Saint John, but when we got here on the 20th it was still solidly, stolidly winter. While Fergus and Cai were light enough to run around on top of the snow in E.g.’s parents’ backyard, a human step would sink up to the knee. How to pick up after the pupsters, then? Alyson?

That’s right: snowshoes!

One small step on yuccakind…

Snowshoes are a First Nations invention. They were originally made of wood and rawhide. The ones here are aluminum and nylon, with canvascloth bindings. No specialized boots are necessary; just slip the toe of your regular ol’ winter boot into the canvas toehold and wrap the strap around your ankle, then slip the strap through the metal clip.

Getting a grip

Their large size distributes a person’s weight to prevent sinking into the snow. One needn’t be heavy to founder, by the way; one simply needs pointy legs. After the rain softened the snow the other day, Cuca the cat snuck outside, only to sink up to his shoulders in the backyard. Differing temperatures and successive thaws and refreezes make for many different textures of snow. On the day these photos were taken, there was a thin crust that upheld the dogs but wasn’t thick enough for me. Snowshoes work on crusty snow as well as they do in deep powder.

The webbing keeps snow from accumulating and weighing down the snowshoe. It also, I think, helps to prevent slipping backwards on slopes. I’m crouching in the second picture above only because the drift is so high; the shoes stayed steady.

Coureur de bois cancan

The third picture displays gratuitous lifting; E.g. wanted a show-off picture. It does demonstrate, however, that I could make my way through the underbrush fairly efficiently, if I needed to step over low tangles of bush and branch.

Le petit prince

As with cross-country skis, the heel is not fixed. You walk normally — you don’t even need poles! — and can crouch to capture those elusive canine poopies. Shh now. Ready, set…

All the better to wait on you, my dears.

Ta da!

On a Train to Somewhere (journal entry, part ii)

Hi, people! Here is part two of three of my penned blather of April 19th. I promise to have a tutorial with E.g. this weekend, about getting photos posted once again.

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There were a few loose ends still to tie up after the pub supper, the evening before my departure.

20 15. I took out the blue plastic popcorn bowl and set some edibles in it: four red potatoes, half a head of garlic, three lemons, most of a jar of instant-coffee-with-chicory, most of a 500-gram bag of large-grain sea salt, a stick of real butter, six hard-boiled eggs, and two raw ones. These were the last of the still-usable commestibles in my apartment. Upstairs I went to bid my adieux to Coco’s daddies, Brad and Mitchell.

“Saint Paddy has decided you’ve been good little boys this year,” I joked, handing them the bowl, and showing them the penciled Xes on the boiled eggs. Brad and Mitchell, in turn, offered me food for the journey: a triple sampler-pack of high-end kibble that they’d picked up at the Menagerie. They buy the samples to use as treats for Coco. I was grateful, because the amount of kibble left for Cai and Fergus was, in fact, a bit on the scant side. I hadn’t mentioned this to Coco’s daddies, though; their offering was a surprise blessing.

21 00. Back in the apartment, I pulled out all the empty wine and beer bottles — currently worth 20 cents apiece — and set them in my smallest laundry basket. They fit snugly, not overcrowded but not rattly either: good! Upstairs I went to the apartment of Jock, an affable old gentleman who goes out each day to tidy the environment and make some pocket change.

From the neck of one of the bottles, like a Don Valley Brick Works smokestack, emerged a tightly-rolled envelope (the last piece of loose paper I had on hand) with “FOR JOCK” written vertically. Depositing the basket beside his door, I crept back downstairs.

21 30. One last trip outdoors with the dogs for the night, then we all curled up together on the sofabed. Big day tomorrow.

On a Train to Somewhere (journal entry, part i)

Hi, people.

Not having coordinated computers and photo programs et cetera just yet, I’m breaking my preferred habit of supplying a few photos to break up a long blog post.

What follows is the the first part of a 1300-word bit of writing I did on the train in the early afternoon on March 19th. I’ve cleaned up, but not gussied up, the writing; gussying up would include, f’rinstance, the use of a few more verbs than “be”. Anyway, here goes…

March 19 2009

At 13 19 I awoke to the surprising, surprised words, “Oh, but you don’t live there anymore!” The voice was my own, unspoken, interrupting my somnolent thoughts. I was on the train.

Yesterday, the 18th, I was out front with Cai at 08 30 when I saw a moving van parked in front of our building. It wasn’t the company I was expecting. I asked anyway who the men were here for, and sure enough, they were here for our apartment. Just as well that I asked, because the building manager wouldn’t arrive for another half hour, and no one had thought to discuss buzzer codes.

The neighbour who was to watch the Cardis during the move had fallen sick, so out they went onto the balcony to enjoy the Spring air, bark at other dogs in the back field, and occasionally whine to come in.

As the driver and his two hired hands set to work, I wiped down the kitchen cupboards and swept away prehistoric dust bunnies. We discussed dogs — the driver has a husky and one of the other guys a Chow-Collie mix. I told him about Goodbear’s dog, but he isn’t online.

One of the movers praised my packing job. I didn’t mention that I’d been at it since September. On the other hand, the platform bed was now in five taped packages, several odd-shaped things had been taped together and nestled in a large, see-through plastic bag, the futon was already enclosed in a plastic mattress cover, and nearly everything else was in a covered container, so I guess it was all as prepared as it could be.

The movers took just under three hours to empty the apartment. Everything wooden, from the kitchen shelf to the old rocking chair to the packages of bed planks, was wrapped in blankets. I have high hopes for their safe journey to Saint John. I tipped the movers $30, suggesting they get themselves some lunch.

When Cai and Fergus finally came inside again, they were happy and excited, playing a riotous game of chase through the nearly empty apartment. They were relieved, I think , to no longer have boxes, bins, and barbecues within swinging distance of their wags.

Some of the furniture was left behind.  It had been bought by our neighbour Gwen, who was moving from her one-bedroom unit into our two-bedroom. I should mention at this point that we were leaving a housing co-op. We had gotten to know several of the pet-owning neighbours, among them Gwen. I was happy to give her a good deal on the furniture; she needed the stuff for her new, larger space, and I didn’t have to break my back or spend money to have the stuff removed.

About 16 30, Jane and Robert called, ready to drive the dog crates and my suitcase to the train station, to store them in the checkroom overnight. As soon as the big pieces were stowed, Robert suggested we go have supper at Fionn McCool’s. I wasn’t expecting this extra meal on my final evening; Jane and Robert had fed me several times since E.g. had left for Saint John in mid-February, the last time being just three days ago.

We didn’t have a lot to say during this meal, but it was a good quiet, a sense that we’d all managed to say all that needed saying. We sipped our beer and admired the pub’s decor and noticed all the young people enjoying their dinners before they headed out to the Britney Spears concert. Then my friends dropped me off home again, and we promised to keep in touch.

The Turtle Has Landed

Hey there, good neighbours!

Not only is this a long-distance move, it’s also a slowmo. The moving truck picked up our stuff in Toronto on the 18th, and will deliver it to our new apartment on April 1st. In between times, Cai and Fergus and I have rejoined E.g. and Cuca at her parents’ place here in Saint John, where she’s been hanging out since February 15th.  I was a bit uncomfortable announcing the fact of being on my own for such a long time, so I kept it quiet.

My Sonny Boy is here for a few days, too. He came along for the train ride to help me with the pupsters (he doesn’t return to work until April). Since he’s never been to Saint John, we’re showing him the town. He’s sleeping in the computer room. I could pretend that I haven’t yet blogged because I don’t want to disturb him, but that would be fibbing; the truth is I’m still kind of tired from all the last-minute heave-ho.

I did, however, write a 1300-word, longhand blibbity on the Toronto-Montreal train, which might make for a three-part entry over the next few days.  We’ll see.

And there should start to be some new photos, too. Yeay.

And now, back to our regularly-scheduled sofatop loitering.

Pots and Pans and Winter Coats

Turtle is getting creative in her packing.

Yes, a couple of winter jackets are mixed in with the set of nested pots — helps keep the lids from rattling.

The “kitchen implements” include a rubber mallet, needlenose pliers, and two sets of allen keys.

The cat kibble container is hiding a collander, a large mixing bowl, and a beach towel.

My favourite, though, is the dog kibble container: dog toys, the rice cooker with a café au lait bowl nested inside it, a couple of spring jackets, my pair of high rubber boots, a coffee cup, and the cast iron duckie doorstop.

Soon this will all be over. Then we get to unpack.

Happies Birthdays

Fergus, in tinier days.

While the Ides of March may not have been a happy occasion for Julius Caesar, it’s a wonderful day for Turtle: her partner and her younger puppy were both born on March 15th.

Ten-week-old Fergus adoring his mummy E.g.

Fergus is one year old today, and E.g. is… well… old enough to have seen Topo Gigio’s debut on the Ed Sullivan Show (although of course, so am I; we’re only six months apart in age).

Fergus at four months, lounging on E.g.’s ankle.

In preparing for our long-distance move, we’ve been working hard to improve our Cardis’ manners. Sometimes I despair that Fergus will never “get it”, even though I know that two-and-a-half-year-old Cai was older than Fergus before he settled down on leash. I’m much more philosophic about training E.g.; she’s had as many decades to form ingrained habits as I have.

Post-pinecone Fergus presents his papasan-hopping prowess to his proud mum.

Despite his mischievous ways, however, Fergus has one big thing over both Cai and Cuca: he loves to cuddle. He snuggles right in, and loves to be fussed over. (The photo below isn’t the best proof of this, but it’s the best one I can find. The other is possibly still lurking in the backup hard-drive thingy.)

E.g. holding her snugglepuppy, with Cai and Cuca at her feet.

Happy birthday, you two! Many happy returns.

Guinea Pigs

http://make-bread.blogspot.com/2007/07/youtube-video-easy-bread.html
Sorry, people, I wanted a nice Youtube video at the top of this post, but couldn’t remember how to insert it. Since the “Easy Bread” video is on Jim Mortenson’s blog, however, I figgered promoting a fellow blogger’s blog was the proper thing to do.

Today I’d like to tell you about three recent experiments. The first two are in the spirit of using up pantry ingredients, and the third is a preparation for getting the furchildren to Saint John.

1. Easy Bread

What intrigued me with the “Easy Bread” recipe was the puny amount of yeast it requires: only a quarter-teaspoon! In order to make a little yeast go a long way, however, the dough needs to rise overnight (a similar video suggests 12 hours) .

I followed the recipe exactly, except for the part where you’re to put a pan of water in the bottom of the oven. Because Jim’s oven is gas and mine is electric, I wondered how well the instructions of 10 minutes each at 500, 450 and 350 degrees would work. I wondered even more that the bread dough was lower than the rim of the pie plate when it went into the oven.

In ten minutes, however, the round loaf had puffed up like a package of Jiffy Pop. The bread came out properly cooked after the allotted time.

The crust would have been nicer had the pan of water been in the oven. And the inside looked like an English muffin, with cells the size of my thumb; not sure why. It tasted fine, though.

2. Fudge

“Fudge” should have been a sweet, but it turned out to be an oath. I followed the recipe, used the candy thermometer, and strictly adhered to the commandment NOT to beat the fudge until it had cooled to room temperature. When I took the wooden spoon to it, it fell apart into cocoa powder and dry marble-sized lumps — which is pretty strange, considering I used baker’s chocolate and not cocoa. Am considering using it to make hot chocolate; not yet sure how to sell E.g. on the drink’s added-value raisins.

3. Rehydrated Guinea Pigs

When E.g. and I were working out the logistics of our long-distance move, I suggested that she should drive down with the breakables and Cuca, while I would take the train with the dogs. That way, we’d be assured of the least damage to the most important things. She agreed.

This week, I contacted the train station for more information regarding Fergus and Cai. One of the things the baggage people recommended was that I take a couple of plastic margarine tubs, fill them with water, and freeze them overnight. That way the dogs wouldn’t spill their water, and it would last for hours. Great idea! I immediately set two small food containers in the freezer, eager to test the procedure.

The next morning, I presented the Cardis with the frozen water dishes. Well! This turned out to be the greatest treat they’d had in ages. In five minutes, Fergus had his ice flipped outside its container; in ten minutes, all the plastic tabs had been chewed off; and in twenty minutes, half of the ice in each of the two-cup containers was licked away.

Hmmm.

Out I went to the pet store, and returned with a twelve-ounce rodent bottle-feeder. Sitting on a stool, I licked the tube, and then invited the boys to try. It was a hit! The feeder is made of indestructible glass and metal, and fits perfectly on the inside of a crate door. So out I went to buy a second one for the other crate.

Just glad I didn’t have to show them how to eat liver biscuits.

Perfect, Except For the Main Point

As you may know, in preparation for our upcoming long-distance move, we’ve been using up as much fridge-door and pantry food as we can. Tonight’s supper, for example, consisted of a mound of kale the size of Kahoolawe and two sausages, each lightly dressed with 1/3 cup zucchini relish. (There would have been potato pancakes as well, but I forgot to make them.)

Cruising the web for ways to use up our flour the other day, I came across an intriguing claim that bread can be made in one’s rice cooker. Sure enough, several recipes surfaced. I was game.

My version of the recipe follows.

1.   In a small bowl, stir 1 tsp (5 ml) sugar into 3/4 cup (180 ml) slightly warmed, leftover potato-boiling water. Sprinkle 1 tsp (5 ml) yeast overtop. Let foam 5 minutes.

2.   In the rice cooker pot, stir together:

• 1 1/2 cups (375 ml) flour
• 1/2 tsp (1 metric smidgen) crushed fennel seed
• 2 Tbsp (30 ml) sugar
• 1 tsp (5 ml) kosher salt.

3.   To the dry ingredients, add:

• 2 Tbsp (30 ml) milk
• 1 generous Tbsp (40 ml) room-temperature unsalted butter
• the yeasty water.

4. Mix everything together, knead the dough five minutes (add a few more spoonfuls of flour if it sticks too much to your fingers), cover the rice cooker with the lid and let rise one hour.

5. Punch down dough, let rise a second hour.

Everything went fine until this point, the point wherein one is to turn on the rice cooker, cook the bread for half an hour, flip it upside down, cook it another 30 minutes, flip it rightside up again, and give it one more half hour for good luck.

Well. Mine being a small, semi-cheap rice cooker with teflon insert and glass lid, the button stayed down for all of five minutes before it popped up again, and nothing could convince it to do otherwise.

Not that I was going to argue with an electric appliance. So my version of this recipe continued thus:

6. Place three metal cookie cutters in the bottom of the largest cooking pot. Fill pot partway with water and bring to a boil.

7. Place rice cooker, with lid, onto cookie cutters. Cover with largest cooking pot’s lid. Lower heat to medium-low. Pretend you’re making Boston Brown Bread, and let it simmer 45 minutes.

8. Remove pot lid and rice cooker lid. Pinch lips in disgust over pale appearance of bread. Turn on oven to 400°F (200°C).

9. Place unlidded rice cooker insert in hot oven for 30 minutes.

10. Remove bread from insert and let cool on a rack.

The verdict? Delicious! It was browned on top, wonderfully moist, and perfectly chewy. One of the best breads I’ve ever made.

Tonight, I’m going to assemble the ingredients for “Easy Bread”. I’ve seen two versions of this on Youtube, but I like the one in which the fellow sings “Easy Bread” to the tune of “Spiderman.” No accounting for taste… but I’ll let you know how it turns out.

Two Out of Three

After Fergus’s run-in with the Husky the other day, I was pretty upset. I still don’t think “Who started it?” was the question to ask at the time, and yet it’s very much the question in my mind. Why does Fergus get into these tangles, while Cai never does?

There are a few possible answers:

1. Fergus is still very much an in-your-face kinda puppy; Cai is more mellow.

2. Fergus enjoys playing with other dogs; Cai has never shown much interest, preferring to play ball.

3. Fergus was formerly wary of big dogs; Cai has never noticed size differences.

4. Cai sometimes intercepts when Fergus starts playing with another dog.

Actually, come to think of it, that’s a pretty decent list.

The answer I do NOT want to hear is:

1. Fergus is a sociopath.

George the pharmacist on Desperate Housewives, now THAT’S a sociopath! Not Fergus.

Anyway, yesterday we went to a different off-leash area, one that isn’t fenced in, on the theory that fewer badly-behaved dogs might be there in the first place. In fact, the park’s visitors at that hour were about 90 per cent Golden Retrievers. I walked the perimeter, and the boys followed at my heels or dolphined on ahead.

Everything was fine until (PennyCat! John Deere alert!) Fergus got too interested in the small tractor that was ploughing the sidewalk. Off he bounded. When I called his name in sing-song fashion, he took one glance over his shoulder and continued toward the tractor (which had already halted at his approach). When I growled, “Hey!” in my biggest meanest Bull Mastiff voice, Fergus cowered and stayed still until his leash was on again. Then we all continued around the park a couple more times, Fergus on leash and Cai free, before heading home. So Fergus hadn’t been perfect…

But there were no dogfights.

This morning I decided to try yet another dogpark. As soon as he set paw to sidewalk, however, Cai started limping from the salt, so I took him back inside and continued on with Fergus. When we arrived at this park, completely new to Fergus, there were no other dogs. When I bent down and unsnapped the leash, the little dog stared at me a moment, incredulous — then he threw himself into the snow, leaping and licking and rolling and bouncing all over the place.

Soon a pair of dogs showed up. Then another dog came, and a few more. Fergus played with most of them, including a three-year-old Shipoo named Tofu who was wary of Fergus at first because he was so big. Fergus got 45 minutes of joyful play, no altercations, no snarls, no trouble at all. I even tried calling him a couple of times, in sing-song voice, to which he responded immediately, charging across the snowy field like he hadn’t seen me since July.

That’s more like it.

And Now For Someone Completely Different

I’d like you to meet, while the meeting’s good, a little dog named Rusty.

When my brother’s first marriage came to a surprisingly sudden halt a few years ago, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the family Toy Poodle. He asked my mum if she could take Rusty temporarily.

“What? A dog?  I’ve had enough of them, thank you very much!” Such were her protestations. Still, she had known Rusty all his life, which was by then over a decade. “All right, just until you’re settled.”

I now refer to Rusty as Mum’s extra appendage. He is always in her arms. He sleeps on her bed. He has grown incontinent over the past year, and… well… Mum has made him a set of little cloth diapers.

Happy 16th birthday, you sweet, spoiled poochy, you!