Farewell, faithful drooler

For those of you who haven't already heard, my big, sloppy, "I weigh 100lbs but still think I'm a lap-dog" bull mastiff died in December. Neko was riddled with doggie lymphoma, and I decided to send her "to the happy hunting grounds" three weeks after her diagnosis.

It's taken me a while to find the motivation to write this entry; anyone who has lost a pet will understand how tough it is to pay them proper tribute. I don't want to get maudlin over a dog, especially when there are terrible, horrifying things happening to human beings on the other side of the world right now. But she was a faithful, loving companion for over seven years, and I think she deserves some mention in my bloggy annals.

Neko belonged at first to my ex and me. I'd always wanted a dog that looked like a DOG - wee little canines afflicted with cute and/or fluffy need not apply, thank you very much. And after spending seven years with an irrepresible bull terrier, I wanted a dog with personality, but not TOO much personality.

We researched portuguese water dogs, ridgebacks, vizslas and weimeraners. Then we found a bull mastiff breeder in Mowhawk. She was such a nice person, and her dogs were friendly, well-behaved and healthy looking. When the breeder showed me into a pen that held 15 sleeping bull mastiff puppies, I knew I was in trouble. When they woke up and tumbled over en masse to climb all over me and shower me with puppy kisses, I was done for.

Neko was a singleton, the only puppy from her mother's first pregnancy. We lucked into getting her, as she had already been spoken for, but the people who'd been first in line backed out when they found out she was a tawny red instead of brindle. When we sat in the kitchen signing the paperwork that would make her ours, the breeder asked us what name we'd picked. I told her Neko, which was Japanese for cat (I was taking Japanese at the time), a little joke and also a nod to Neko Case, a
Canadian singer my ex and I admired. A minute later, the breeder's kitchen radio played a Neko Case song, which freaked us all out a little bit. Obviously, Neko was meant to be ours.

She was a rambunctious dog from the very beginning, chewing up her basket and anything else within teething range; as a puppy, she hated being held and lived only to wrestle with anyone who'd throw down from the time she woke up until the time she collapsed in a heap in her crate. As she grew into adulthood, she became more and more of a cuddle bunny, which was problematic since she ended up weighing only 20lbs less than I did. As a teenaged dog, Neko's favourite pasttime was leaning on people until they fell over, at which point she'd happily sit on them until they were rescued from her scary love.

She survived two knee surgeries, a bout with mange, a weird growth on her head and several skunk attacks. She also survived my bad divorce and subsequent anxiety attacks. I'm thankful she was with me through all that crap - she was a great companion, and a grounding presence for me to come home to. And when D came into my life, she lucked out as much as I did: he took her on epic walks through the city and spent hours giving her the endless belly scratching sessions she so craved.

Our move to the country was probably the best thing to happen to her. I felt such a surge of joy whenever I saw her gallop along the beach, run blindly through the long grass in the meadow, or fjord the depths of the Pine river behind our property. Nekes spent long, lazy days stretched out in a variety of sunny spots, often taking refuge from the heat under the mock orange shrubs, where she'd finish off her nap with a back scratch from the low-hanging branches. The city dog transitioned to country dog without a backward glance.

I admit that since Jade came along, Neko didn't get the attention or exercise she used to. But she had slowed down considerably as well; whether that was due to age, having adapted to our new lifestyle or the cancer's inexorable advance, I'm not sure. She got growly and miserable at the end, and that's why I decided it was time to give her some peace. Owning a dog is a huge responsibility, the hardest part of which is knowing when it's time to let them go, and preventing unnecessary suffering.

The vets came to our place so Neko could pass out of this world in the comfort of her own home, on her own stinky bed. Watching her eyes glaze over, seeing her take her last breaths, knowing she wouldn't be there to rub up against me and cover me with hair anymore - it was pretty awful. Awful, and necessary.

So we have started a dog-less era here at Someday farm. D isn't in a hurry to add any more furry friends to our family, and I want some time to grieve Neko before I even think about another dog curling up in my heart again. It's the first time in 14 years that I haven't had a canine friend shuffle to the door to welcome me home; the first time in a long time D and I haven't had a constant companion tugging us along on our walks. But the most poignant stab came a few days after Neko's death, when Jade threw a handful of food on the floor, looked around, and asked "Where Keko?"

We miss her.

What the what?

Okay.

Yesterday I spent a happy half hour in the sun. I looked for the first shy violets on the lawn, counted robins and admired the pretty pink nubs of rhubarb that were starting to poke their heads out of the dead leaves. I even raked some of the accumulated autumn detrius off the daffodils so they could breathe a bit better. It smelled like spring. It felt like spring. I was convinced it WAS spring.

This morning I awoke to another sunny, albeit chillier, day and looked forward to my afternoon walk with Neko. I thought I might rake some muck off the tulips. Maybe I'd even do some more Tai Chi in the sunny corner of the south field.

Then I looked out my window at 1pm to find Someday farm engulfed in a complete snow squall. That's right - snowflakes swirling, north wind gusting, God laughing. There are actually a few millimetres of accumulation on the ground, for Pete's sake! Not to mention the Weather Network won't even admit we have any snow. Although they do tell me it "feels like -13." Yeesh.

I love snow but I have to admit, my thoughts have turned towards spring these past few days and I'd resigned myself to seeing the last of the white stuff. And hey, isn't March supposed to go out like a lamb, since it lambasted us like a lion the first week?

Humph.

A perfectly perfect day

Sunday was what I consider to be one of those rare, perfect days, full of simple pleasures.

D and I slept in until noon and woke up in a pool of sunlight. After so many grim, grey days, the golden light felt like a miracle. From our bed you can see birds flitting around in the ash tree against a background of a wintery blue sky.

D made me french toast for breakfast & we did the dishes together while listening to the Vinyl Cafe. Comfort paid us a weird visit - the cats NEVER come to the house - but when I looked out the kitchen window, there she was, hanging out in the driveway Fed her some eggs and she moseyed back to the barn. Was drifting off on the couch with my feet in D's lap while he watched Band of Brothers (his Christmas present) when a few of his old friends dropped in. We hadn't seen them since the summer; it was good to have a visit.

After they left, we took Neko for a long, lazy stroll through Blair's Grove, along our favourite trails. Stopped in at C's for a Haagen-Daaz bar (I'd strategically left a few there as C is chronically understocked with good treats), then headed home to make D his favourite turkey casserole.

Ended the night with a long hot shower and crawled into bed with D...a perfect ending to a perfect day. It's not often we get such days, so I thought it worthy of note, esp. after all the cranking I've been doing lately about crockpot disasters, sick kitties and nightmares!

The Kittification of Someday

We have four cats at Someday Farm. They are inherited barn beasties, left for us by the previous owner's daughter, who cared for them diligently after her father died. I tried to tell her she was welcome to take the cats before we moved in; she looked at me as though I'd suggested she barbeque them and retorted, "It's the only home they've ever known." This sentiment was forcefully repeated inside a card she left us after we took possession of Someday, along with photos of "the girls."

My mother always had a cat in the house when I was growing up, with a succession of different personalities and a variety of names: Vodka, Snowball, Velvet, Champagne, Selina, Chaucer. But four cats is more than I've ever had to deal with at one time, and I'm now faced with the dilemma of a very sick kitty. Comfort, the friendliest, purriest and most congenial of the barn kitty coalition, has not been well of late. She's gotten skinny, even though she still rams her way into the food bowl. I suspected an ear infection, as she was shaking her head a lot, and made a mental note to go and buy ear drops from the vet. But this week she has deteriorated at an alarming pace, walking with a lean and sometimes falling over when one of her companions brushes by her too enthusiastically. Yesterday I found her looking practically post-nuclear, with a trail of crusty blood coming out of her eyes.

So, much to the amusement of D and C, I'm waiting for the vet to arrive. Most country people don't spend money on barn cats; they are an expendable commodity, and believe me, when one goes to "the bush" or "the happy hunting ground," there are a dozen more willing to pounce into the empty place at the food bowl. But I feel bad about leaving Comfort to suffer. She is the only barn kitty who'll stand up to Neko, and the only one I can pick up and hold in my lap. She's a friend to all children and amuses visitors with her paunch of belly fat that swings when she walks.

We've spent hours together sitting in the sunshine. She truly was a comfort to me while I was on my leave of absence, her purrs a tonic to my grieving soul. So although I am usually a bit more of a hardass when it comes to animals, it doesn't feel right to follow "the country way" in the case of Comfort. I called the vet over on the 4th Concession and he promised to drop by today. I'm going to shell out a fistful of dough, probably only to have the vet tell me she's a goner, but at least then I can put her out of her misery knowing I tried to do something for her.

I wonder how the other kitties will react if Comfort, whom I've always thought of as the feline ringleader, disappears from their kitty coalition? I think Comfort and Betty are sisters; I have no idea if cats care about that kind of thing or not. I guess I'll just have to wait and see.

Scared silly at Someday

They (e.g. the weatherfinks) have predicted -20 weather for the next few days, cheerfully adding "or -30 with the windchill!" Apparently exposed skin can freeze really quickly in this type of weather. My dad called this morning to inquire whether I knew what to do if my pipes froze. Egads.

Now, as I've mentioned before, I don't mind the cold. I can handle frigid temps and I am not one of those people who refuses to wear winter gear for fear of looking unfashionable or goofy (D bought me my very own pair of insulated coveralls for Christmas two years ago, thank you very much). I love snow - the deeper the better! - and I can even handle the isolation the mixture of the elements enforces on people living in the country. What I cannot handle is the scary, scary wind.

Yes, I know what you're thinking: who in their right mind would move to Bruce County, home of windmills galore, if they don't like wind? Call it temporary, self-imposed ignorance. Sheltered as we were in Blair's Grove last year, I really had no clue just how windy it actually is here. I have tried to get used to it, but can't seem to lose my suspicion that the wind is somehow out to get me. I don't know what I'm expecting - to be swept up like Mary Poppins and flown to Detroit? Like all irrational fears, being scared of the wind is a bit ridiculous. But I'm telling you, when it blows up here, I cower like a dog in a thunderstorm and want to creep under the dining room table.

It is howling and shrieking outside my study window like an angry banshee as I type this with trembling fingers. It has tossed our Christmas lights askew, knocked over my nice new light-up deer and shredded pieces of the steel barn roof. Neko doesn't even want to go out in it, which is the ultimate sign of impending doom. I can see one member of my gang of Blujays huddled in the pine tree outside, looking perturbed. Even the thick branches can't shelter him from these crazy gusts. His little feathery cap keeps flipping over backwards, reminding me a bit of my Dad's old comb-over flying up when we'd go skiing.

No likey windy. Going to go and turn up the stereo now to drown out the banshee sounds. How I am going to summon enough bravery to feed the kitties or get the mail, I'm not too sure...

Memorable Moments of Christmas 2008

Song: "Shimmy Down the Chimney" - sung rather lasciviously by D thoughout the holiday season, but most often when I am trapped in the car with him. I never realized how suggestive that song actually is, which is just wrong for a Christmas tune.

Food: Chinese food on the 24th. Shortbread that tasted like disappointment (wretched cookie press!). Crisp gingerbread biscotti that Neko got the burnt ends of. Thanks to Jaime, I whipped up her grandma's recipe and recreated the taste of my childhood with some peanut butter balls. First time I've done holiday baking in a few years - but Someday's big, airy kitchen lends itself nicely to domestic activities so I think I'll be baking again next year.

Sound: the scary, powerful, relentless winds that have pummelled Someday almost daily since November.

Smell: pine, cedar and fir, thanks to Mr. Christmas Tree and various fresh branches we hung throughout the house.

Annoyance: Neko gobbling down not only D's king-sized Mr. Big chocolate bar (right out of his stocking!) but also his sacred bag of Lindt chocolate almonds. Naughty doggie.

Gifts: D's fancy new hockey stick from Dad, which he clutched like a kid whilst watching the Junior World Cup game. Dad's new hockey bag, which will replace the decrepit, vile thing he's been carrying around for the last 20 years. Our snowshoes, a study in irony as it rained buckets for three days and melted all the snow. My pendant, a memento of Rose, with rubies for each month she was with us.

Laughs: C not bothering to change out of his barn clothes and wearing the same grubby purple sweatshirt for Christmas Eve supper, Christmas Day brunch and Christmas evening supper! (I'm pretty sure he did it just to bug me) Attempting to take a photo with Neko wearing a Santa hat; dogs just aren't meant to be clothed. Playing highly competitive games of crokinole with brother & sister in laws. Knowing my nephew woke my sisters up at 5:30am to unwrap his gifts. Putting the last deocoration on the tree, gloating over its turquoise and silver beauty, then realizing I'd forgotten to put on lights.

Memories: walking with D through a deserted Blair's Grove with Neko on Christmas night and feeling like we were the only living souls around for miles. Watching old home movies of the boys and their family. Making breakfast for the Lowry clan on Christmas morning and watching D and C pay the price for gorging themselves on crepes (they're more filling than they look). Teaching D to play cribbage on the old table at Dad's and letting him feel smug when he beat us. Waking up on Christmas morning together for the first time in our bedroom at Someday.

I'll have a blue Christmas...

Christmas can be a strange and beautiful time. On one hand, feelings of love and warmth and goodwill flood the heart. It's a time for generosity, family, food, drink and laughter. But there's always that brief but poignant stab of longing for people who are no longer present, for old times and old traditions no longer practised.

I have been missing Rose and Nana quite a bit; the first Christmas "under the sod" is always the hardest. It's hard to watch my husband's neice enjoy her first Christmas without wanting to stand up and shout, "Rose should be here too!" She'd be eight months old. I stood in front of our tree yesterday and I swear I could see her, reaching for the ornaments, crinkling tissue paper in her tiny fists, grinning over her first present. We probably would have stuffed her in some ridiculous Christmas outfit like most parents are wont to do and taken pictures. There are still times when this house feels miserably empty without her.

I always think of my mother at this time of year as well - the queen of all things Christmas. Her supper table was a masterpiece of red and gold and white each year, heaped with delicacies like her cream-cheese-dilled-mashed potatoes and mashed turnip so delicious I would eat it cold the next day for breakfast. I tried to honour her memory a little bit by decorating the dining table lavishly and making crepes on Christmas morning for D and his family. Mom always did like to make a splash on the 25th.

And no Christmas thoughts are complete without dear old Nana. I'm thankful we spent at least one last Christmas together last year before she died. Her birthday is Dec 24th and this year I coaxed D to get Chinese take out, as Nana used to like doing that around the holidays. My shopping list felt strangely short - for the first time since I was little, I wasn't racking my brains trying to think of the perfect gifts for a 96 year old lady who had everything. And boy, did I miss it.

My beloved sisters (and nephew) are spending the holidays together in Australia this year and I miss them too - even when they call long distance in 35 degree weather to inform me they're heading to a resort for an afternoon of cocktails by the pool. Humph! (I hope the mosquitoes got you - hee hee)

Snuggling with D on the couch on Christmas afternoon, watching some old home movies of his family from the 60's the 70's, chopping down and decorating our tree, taking Neko for her traditional Christmas evening walk - these are all good things that I cherish. Yet it's funny how a few unhappy memories seem to skitter across one's brain at this time of year, unwanted and uninvited. For example, I was wrapping gifts the other night when an image of worst Christmas of all time (2004) interrupted my moment of Santa serenity: after a miserable holiday feast at my then-husband's family's house, where he'd seemed ill at ease with everyone and me in particular, he confessed that he didn't love me anymore. Ho ho ho indeed!

I'll never forget the awful gifts he gave me that year either, which made sense after his yuletide confession. They were absolutely devoid of any sentiment or affection: a set of measuring spoons, a hideous huge apron that didn't fit, and a purple laundry basket. Sure, I was just starting up my preserves business, and yes, my favourite colour at the time was purple, but I mean, REALLY - Merry Christmas wife of almost 10 years - here's a bunch of utentsils & a laundry basket?? I should have skewered him with the sharp end of a broken tree ornament. To top it off, he stuffed a can of Pepsi in my stocking, knowing full well that I loathe Pepsi and adore Coke. No one deserved a lump of coal thrown at his head more than my ex that year.

Thankfully, memories like these, although still slightly prickly, no longer have the sting they once had. It's next to impossible to linger on nasty bits of my past now that I am blessed with the love of a good man and his family. So I paused in my wrapping (purple paper, which must have triggered the laundry basket incident) just long enough for a head shake, an eye roll and a rueful giggle.

I truly am blessed these days, and it's good to remind myself of this daily, but the holidays do give one time to pause and consider the past, savour the present and turn hopefully toward the future.

Go 'way, Mr. Marmalade

I went out to the stable the other day to feed my four lovely barn cats (they came with the place), only to find a giant, marmalade-coloured interloper in their midst. I was surprised, to say the least. My four kitties are mild-mannered, clean and friendly. This new kitty was big, dirty and looked like he knew cat-kwon-do.

He stared at me defiantly as I furrowed my brow and tried to figure out where he had come from and what I should do about it. In the end, I shrugged and scooped out the usual supply of Barn Cat kibble. They must know him, I thought, as my kitties meowed and prowled around my legs like Mr. Marmalade was no big deal. Maybe they invited him over for supper.

Well, the moment the kibble hit the plates, Mr. Marmalade barged right in, elbowed Comfort and Black Betty out of the way and began gobbling food like a garborator. The other cats philosphically left him alone and went around to the other plate of food. But Mr. M must have thought they were getting something tastier, because he flew over to THEIR plate, hip-checked them all out of the way and plunged into THEIR food like...well, like Neko.

I swear I could hear The Teenager sigh as she looked up at me with an exasperated expression and trudged back to the first plate again. Obviously, Mr. M. was not a guest my cats had intentionally invited. And his table manners left much to be desired. MY cats are mellow creatures who wait patiently for their food and eat it in delicate little crunchy bites. They love to be petted and stroked, and sometimes they even sit in my lap. Mr. M. looks freaked out if I try to come near him, and when I did manage to try and pet him, he shied away like a kid who doesn't want to be hugged.

So Mr. M. has got to go. He eats too much and doesn't want to make friends. He bullies my foursome of kitties and I don't like it. But herein lies the rub: how do I get rid of the creature? I have tried to shoo him away. He runs two feet and then stops, as if daring me to chase him. I have yelled at him, made weird noises, stomped my feet and threatened to let Neko finish him off - all to no avail. Mr. M. has established himself as the newest, greediest resident of Someday Farm and I have absolutely no idea how to get rid of him humanely.

Suggestions? Anyone?

Let it snow, let it snow, let it - HOLY CRAP!

I love snow. There, I said it. I'm not ashamed of it, either. So, nyah.

Usually when I say that sentence out loud to people, I get massive eye rolls and dirty looks. A lady actually shook her fist at me once. It's pretty rare that I get a "ME TOO!" or meet a fellow winter-lover who wants to high-five me.

I cannot understand folks who continue to live in Canada but moan and bitch for five solid months about winter. Some, like my wise older sis, recognize their aversion to white stuff and move somewhere warm, like Australia.

But all you winter whiners who stay put and poison my fun - you hate winter? You detest driving in slush? You like snow "at Christmas" and then want it all gone? Well, guess what? We live in CANADA and this is how it's been for eons. Better suck it up, snowflake, cause until global warming takes over, it ain't gonna change. Really don't like it? MOVE! Us winter-lovers will be happily rid of you.

Okay, I know moving isn't a particularly realistic solution, but I wish people would at least quit their constant complaining. Why moan about something that isn't going to change? Then again, a professor once told me that whinging about the weather "is part of our Canadian identity." I shudder to think that might be true.

At any rate, after two raw, blustery days here at Someday farm, the skies cleared around 10am this morning. Snow sparkled on the fields, every branch and berry on my ash tree was coated with dainty snow-lace, and the sun warmed my office through the south window. Winter heaven! Of course, that all changed at approximately 3:30pm, when the skies darkened and began to dump a fine, sugary snow that knocked off all the pretty, feathery stuff. I just checked the weather network and was informed that Bruce county will be having massive squalls all weekend - resulting in possible accumulations of 50 cm!!! Holy crap!

Sometimes one must be careful what one wishes for. But I'm quite content to put on my thickest coat, goofiest hat, and clunkiest boots to brave the snowbanks. There are barn cats to be fed, a winter-loving dog to walk and bird feeders to fill. Why fight winter? Embrace it and it just might grow on you. (Or at least it will fill up your mouth with snow so you can't complain anymore!)

Hallowe'en is HERE at last!

Now that the big day is finally here, I'm a little bit disappointed, since D has to do chores and I have to hand out candy by my lonesome. But Neko is going to wear a nice orange feather boa, so I should at least get some good old fashioned pet humiliation satisfaction out of tonight.

Hallowe'en in the country is a lot different than H in the city. There are no adult parties, no bars having costume contests, and since we don't have cable, nothing scary to watch on the telly. Hmm. Maybe I'll just hide in the closet and jump out at D when he comes home from the barn.

Anyways, in honour of the big day, I'd like to share a new joke I heard at work. (Ahem)
Q: What do vegan Zombies crave?
A: GRAAAAIIIINNNNNSSSSS...


Get it?

Happy H everyone!

Countdown to Hallowe'enie - part III - what NOT to do to your pets

My friend Ginny sent me these photos, and I have to say, it DOES give me ideas about what to do to poor Neko. Do you dress YOUR pet up for Hallowe'en? If so, do tell.


You've gotta love how sad this dog looks:



Neko would probably eat this mask in about 4 seconds:



I am realllly not sure what this poor little guy is supposed to be:


And the best is for last - Count Schnauzerla!

Things that go "Rrrrrr" in the night

Living in the city, one forgets how many creatures exist outside our patio doors. Oh sure, there are the squirrels, the raccoons, the occasional skunk. But none of these city critters stack up to the country monsters that go "Rrrrrr" at you in the night.

My dog wolfed down a rather sizable raw pork roast a few weeks ago. It was one of those nasty stuffed concoctions, filled with lard and seasonings galore, hand-picked by my father, who was visiting for the day. I'd set it in the sink to thaw while we frolicked at the beach, forgetting about Neko's ability to liberate food off counter tops. You can imagine my dismay at discovering a slimy trail of raw pork across the floor and no supper in the draining board. At least Neko had the class to drag the roast into the dining room to devour it.

I figured I'd be getting up with her at 3 a.m. when the raw pork began to take effect on her system and she didn't disappoint me. I heard the panicked scritch scritch of her claws on the screen door and, clumbsy with sleep, got myself out of bed, into a robe and down the stairs to let her out.

The stars twinkled at us as we walked down the path towards the garage - Neko yanking on the leash with a desperate look in her eye, me stumbling after her wishing I'd thought to put on my glasses. As my dog made her way to the hallowed pooping ground to do her dirty business, I stood and listened to the wind in the trees, the distant rush of waves, the crickets. It was kind of nice.

That is, it was nice until I heard SOMETHING say "rrrrrrrrr" from over by the chestnut tree. Neko froze in mid-poo. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, something I thought only happened in books. I squinted, trying to figure out what kind of creature the SOMETHING was. Maybe it was an angry squirrel. Or a baby raccoon. I took a step closer. The SOMETHING said "rrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!", the bushes rustled and I tore up the walkway, dragging poor Neko behind me. That was no freaking raccoon!

Now, I don't consider myself to be a fraidy cat. But when things make noises at me in the middle of the night from my very own yard, I have to draw the line somewhere. We've heard coyotes howl pretty darned close to the barns, and there was a recent bear sighting in Tiverton, so who knows what evil lurks in the fields of Someday Farm? I wasn't about to find out for myself. So I woke up my husband.

To his credit, he didn't make fun of me or moan about getting up at 3:15 a.m. He gamely stumbled down the stairs (looking very manly in his Big Bill work pants with crocs and no shirt), grabbed his trusty flashlight and went in the direction of my pointing. D made it about 3 steps onto the lawn when the SOMETHING said, "RRRRRRRRR? RRRRRRRR!! RRRRRRRRR!!!" That was enough to send my brave husband scuttling back to the safety of our porch to admit he didn't know what it was, and he wasn't about to find out.

We never did find out what the SOMETHING was. All I know is that it was mightily displeased at having its territory invaded, and it had a helluva set of lungs on it. Sharing our space with things that go bump in the night is going to take some getting used to. But I'll take noisy critters in the country to sirens and buses and drunken idiots on the road in the city any day.

Flotsam

Walking the beach in early spring is only for those who are strong of stomach. I found that out the other day when I took Neko for our first beach stroll of 2008. It was one of those fine, fresh spring days where you feel like maybe there's hope for mankind after all. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed the sound of the waves.

We moved here last September, so I've never gotten to know the lake through a spring yet. I had the pleasure of living beside it this past autumn, with its wild blue waves and stormy skies, my hair and face lashed by its seemingly endless winds. And it was a sort of honour to experience it in the winter; most people only see the beach in summer, so I get a thrill knowing it's mine to enjoy all year round. It's like a different creature with every turn of the season. In winter, the waves freeze along the shore in bizarre formations; the silence is unnerving. It's like one of those stretches of salty desert you see in magazines sometimes - a white, frozen wasteland.

Now the ice has melted away at last - only to reveal a beach that resembles more of an abbatoir or cesspool than the glorious retreat I'm used to. To my disgust and Neko's delight, all sorts of nasty things have washed up during the latest spring storms: dead seagulls, bloated possums, fish with their eyes picked out, broken bottles, mylar balloons, plastic bags, gnarled branches choked with seaweed and muck. At least there's no sign of the primordial algae ooze that slopped its way up and down Lurgan and Emerton beaches last summer...but I'm sure it's lurking in the lake, just waiting to creep up onto the sand again.

The strange thing is that as repulsed as I was by all the ugliness, I couldn't help but find bits and pieces of beauty where I least expected it - uprooted dogwoods, their blood-red branches fanned against the sand; seaweeds so green they almost looked black; twisted pieces of driftwood as smooth as skin to the touch; birch trees shedding their white bark in delicate curls. And I can't deny the joy that lept to my throat when I watched Neko galloping free along a beach full of canine delights with a big doggy grin on her face.

I'm sure there's a proverb or bromide in here somewhere, but I'm too tired to spell it out. I'm just going to go back to the beach and watch Neko run.

Doggie Dreams

Neko has found her happy place, and unfortunately it's on the thick pile carpet in C's study where I work most of the day.

Neko has been expressly forbidden from going into any of the carpeted rooms here in Blair's Grove, but somehow she's managed to inch and sneak her way into the study. At first, C would catch her in here and glare at both of us balefully. I'd shoo Neko out, pretending she'd just arrived or that I hadn't noticed her there. But truthfully, there's something soothing about having a dog stretched out beside you while you work or write or play scrabble. C's rarely here in the daytime so I figured it would be Neko's little secret.

Once C caught on to our attempted deviousness, he brought in a rug for Neko to lie on. Sadly, Neko is not interested in parking her carcass on a dollar store rug. She prefers the carpet, the nice, grey, squishy, warm, expensive carpet. The one that will require severe steam cleaning eventually to remove all traces of her doggyness.

So, through sheer canine determination, Neko is now free to spend her slothful days in the study, head stuffed under the bed, body splayed out in varying degrees of weirdness across the carpet. And for most of the day, she seems content. But approximately 5 or 6 times a day, she has a bad dream. I've never known a dog that has such terrible dreams as she does. Her whole body twitches, her legs paddle and thrash spastically, her lips curl and her ears go backwards. She moans, woofs, yelps, growls, cries and basically makes me feel miserable until I pet her and say a few soothing words to snap her out of it. I can only assume these dreams are in fact nightmares, because the look on her face when I wake her up is one of dazed relief.

One has to wonder what it is dogs actually dream about. I can't imagine that dreams about rawhide or rotten groundhogs or even racoon encounters would cause her this much sleep strife. I guess I'll never know.

Rambles

I have a suspicion that walking is better for the soul than it is for the body. I want to believe that being outside, striding along, can help to heal just about anything that ails us metaphysically, emotionally or mentally. I will be walking a lot this week and next for a variety of reasons; mostly I'm hoping my suspicions are correct.

My Dad is a famous walker; he goes for miles in the woods in search of game in any type of weather, even now, at 72. I remember our old neighbour Tony telling me I was a "high stepper," just like my Dad, after he watched me walk across the lawns that separated our properties in New Hamburg. I have an especially favourite memory of walking through the food court at Eaton's Centre when I was about 18. A bit oblivious to the crowds, I was wandering around trying to find a good place to eat. As I walked past two men sitting at a table, I overheard one guy murmur to another, "Mmm, mm, check her ass," and realized with some surprise that he was talking about me. "Yeah," said his companion, "and I like the way she walk." Embarrassed and a little flattered, I became so self-conscious about my walk I could barely stagger out of the food court.

But I digress.

A few nights ago, Neko and I sallied forth into the frigid night air for some soul-cleansing. I was grumpy and she was restless. There was only a sliver of moon to light our way, although the stars were brilliant. I disdain the use of flashlights; they wreck the mood of walking through the woods in semi-darkness. You can't feel close to nature or fully at peace with the night when you're waving an artificial beam of light around in front of you. Neko is only a semi-reliable guide; she likes to veer off the path and into various snowbanks, which is not helpful when you're counting on her to lead the way and end up thigh-deep in snow.

The darkness was ever-so-slightly creepy, and the night was very still. Have you noticed how many different types of silences there are? The silence of an empty house, the silence when you drive your car wtih the radio off, the silence of the fields, forest or waterfront. Night-time silences seem more profound than any of these, somehow. But you can be still inside when there is silence blanketing you from every side, especially when that silence is coated in darkness.

Even with a hundred pounds of frolicking dog with me - a furry blur several paces ahead, a wet nose against my knee - I felt deliciously alone without being lonely. As we walked down the cottage lane that flanks the lake, we came upon a lone globe lantern, lit at the end of a driveway. The cottage was deserted; no footprints or tire tracks led to it, so I don't know why the light blazed out so stubbornly. I'd never seen it on before and I haven't seen it on since. It made me think of Lantern Waste in the Narnia books - a guidepost, an unexpected beacon, lighting the way briefly before the darkness swallowed me up again.