Much Better, Thank You

Turtle out walking with 11-week-old Cai, Dec 2006

Jane came over just after 6 yesterday evening, to pick up her keys and drop off a bit of pocket money and a lovely little souvenir from Mijas, Spain, which I’ll use for this week’s Wordless Wednesday photo. I’m afraid I was rather rude; while E.g. kept the conversation going, my eyes unfocussed and drifted away from Jane and towards the movie Jack was watching. After Jane left, I had a bite of supper. At five to eight I announced I was going to bed. I read the first page, if that, of a novel before drifting off; I heard the rest of the family coming in from a potty break at 8:30, but hadn’t heard them going out.

Fergus woke up about one-ish, and E.g. went down to him. When Cuca started tapping me on a hand at five to six, I went downstairs with him while E.g. slept in.

Since today is Victoria Day, Jack doesn’t have school. And since it’s another cold and rainy day, E.g. looked up indoorish activities suitable for all ages. She found some kind of circus goings-on down at the Harbourfront, but I just couldn’t get up any interest.

“What would you like to do, then?” she asked.

“I’d like to take Cai to the big park.”

“Okay. You go give him a good play, and when you get back, I’ll take Jack to the circus.”

Deal! Cai and I left at 9, and returned home at 10 to 11, just as E.g. and Jack were on their way to the parking garage. And a good thing we crossed paths, because I noticed that E.g. had forgotten to take her camera. I’m looking forward to seeing the photos.

Turtle, 11-month-old Cai, and Jack on the Bruce Peninsula, August 2007.

Cai makes me feel good. This morning he trotted along beside me, good as gold, even trying to hold himself back once we got to the big park. I rewarded him by removing his leash at the top of the off-leash area. “Top” should be taken literally: the dogpark is at the bottom of a bowl. The steep side has been a favourite place for tobogganing for over a century.

So yeah, I unclipped him, and tossed a ball down the hill. Away he went on his specially-designed hill-running Cardigan legs, while I followed. We perambulated the edges, fetching and tossing, ignoring the other dogs. This was our time.

After an hour, Cai was pretty much wiped. I had forgotten to bring a water bottle. Cai drank out of a puddle on the baseball diamond a few times, but kept regurgitating his water from all the running, so we walked one more time around, and back up the hill to the top. Cai was tuckered out, and I was refreshed. The grey coolness was full of birds, the tiny front yards full of flowers.

Like I said, we met E.g. and Jack in the hallway. They reported that Fergus had just had a 45-minute potty and play. “Work on getting your sanity back!” were E.g.’s parting words, but after a full night’s sleep and a walk with my dog, much of that work had already been done. Cai and I entered the apartment, Cai lay down for a snooze, and I — this will tell you! — I did the dishes.

 

Turtle and 18-month-old Cai, Inglis Falls, March 2008.

Going to Blazes

The Bruce Trail runs along the Niagara Escarpment in Ontario from Queenston to Tobermory. Back in 1967 when it was officially opened, before Canada went metric, it was about 500 miles long; now it’s 845 kilometres (plus half again as much in side trails). We like hiking bits of it on sunny days.

At Inglis Falls on Friday, doggles and I walked a few yards of Bruce on our way around a loop trail. Yesterday at the Pottawatomi Conservation Area, we strolled or struggled along another 2.2 km — about a mile and-a-third — to the town line before retracing our steps.

Up we went along the edge of the cliff, from Jones Falls through cedar scrub into the birch woods at the top. The line of hard-packed snow was mostly level or gently sloped, but occasionally we had to clamber up a steeper spot. Two or three times I dropped the leash so that my kneeless fox and I could find our way over the tricky bits at our own pace, and not jerk each other off balance. Each time, he waited for me to catch up and take the leash again.

And a good thing, too. There was plenty of great sniffing to be had for the discerning nose, and the little herding dog could have taken off to round up red squirrels, mice, fox, chipmunks, cottontails, deer, or grouse. And he could have tangled with a coyote or fisher, and come out the loser. And he could have been sprayed by a skunk. And he could have been killed by a dose of porcupine quills. And he could have been bitten by a rabid raccoon. And he could have slipped on the snow right over the edge of the cliff.

Instead, my canine companion and I enjoyed a carefree hike, connected together by six feet of purple nylon strapping. We stayed on the trail, going from blaze to blaze, ignoring the impromptu paths to the precipice that other humans had made. He sniffed, and I saw, tracks of all kinds. We noticed the grouse droppings, the porcupine browsings, the pileated woodpecker chippings. We also noticed that I had left my bookbag and water bottle in the car.

Since dehydration can cause carelessness, I phoned my partner, who was down by Jones Falls near the parking lot, and she brought the bottle up to us. Meanwhile, I used a mossy outcropping beside the trail as a misericord, and Poggles scrambled up to sit beside me. The outcropping was on the inside, not the cliffside, of the trail, so that we faced towards the view. I gave my dog teeny chunks of cheese. We relaxed. There were no birds except a few chickadees calling “Yoo-hoo!” and some Canada Geese scrutinizing the cornfield down below. The only other sound was the far-off swish of traffic.

Suddenly, I heard a whistling. It was the wingbeats of a crow, who flew up the escarpment face, over the treetops, and away. Pupster didn’t care about the bird; he did, however, crane his neck in astonishment as a chipmunk crossed the trail and proceeded up a log about two feet from his wide eyes and flaring snout.

My partner arrived a few minutes later with the water and her camera. On our return, she took lots of photos; we admired the grouse droppings and the tree chewings and the various animal tracks; and back down at the river, we watched a chestnut- coloured weaselly minkish thing galumphing along the far bank.

We were safe, we were sated, and we were starving. A few miles down the road at the Chatsworth Coffee Time we sat in the car, lunching on burgers and the fattest, hottest, crispest onion rings I’ve ever eaten. Poggles had a couple of bickies in the back seat, and then settled down for the two-hour ride home.