I had to open the sun-roof today so that Theodore wouldn’t cook in the car.  It is 18 degrees Celsius, no trace of snow remains, and buds are starting to swell.  Even if I ignore the elephant in the room - climate change - this weather is unsettling.  I am so glad we had a snow-filled post-Christmas.  

Jon, Theodore and I  spent a week up north in a cozy cedar-lined log cabin which was literally buried in snow.  Every day brought another ten centimetres of powder so we took full advantage of the weather and spent hours tromping along the winding snowshoe trails.  Jon and I went first, trying to flatten enough of the trail for short-legged Theodore* to navigate.  It was glorious.  We even came upon a pair of swans who swam over, hoping for a hand-out.  Who knew that pockets should contain swan treats?  They got nothing for their trouble but I scooped some wonderful images for a painting.

There was lots of other evidence of local wild-life.  A pair of red squirrels whom we dubbed “Frick and Frack” because of their constant bickering spent the week excavating deep wells to access their cache of cedar berries; their heads popped up and down like periscopes as they took unwilling but necessary turns on sentry duty.  A solitary deer visited nightly,  her trail meandering up from the water’s edge.  The other walk-past - long trail drag and all - was performed by a pheasant.  We saw neither deer nor bird but were exquisitely aware of living within their home grounds.  The only other bird we saw was the grouse Theodore and I accidentally flushed;  he exploded from a snowbank and made no secret of his annoyance.

​While all three of us loved that magical week, Theodore in particular was beserk with joy.  His snout ranneth over.


*A typical Skye terrier, he has enormous 4 inch “hare feet” attached to 6 inch legs.  Mom would have loved him.  She was 5’2” with size 9 feet and always claimed that God bent her legs over too far up.  Theodore could mount a similar argument.  After his dental cleaning, the vet tech went in to rouse him from the anaesthetic;  urging T to stand up, she eventually realized that he WAS standing.

​It is said that pets resemble their owners.  I did not believe this.  Theodore has an enormous skull in proportion to his body, an effect magnified by the Dumbo ears which open like Batman’s cape;  the neighbour boy called him “Big Head.”  Jon and I, on the other hand, have always assured ourselves, if no-one else, that we are perfectly proportioned.

Then I had to rethink this.  

Because I keep an enormous photo library, some digital, some prints, I occasionally come across an old forgotten image.  Yesterday Jon’s high school graduation picture surfaced.  Well, yes, that was ONE BIG HEAD he sported.  I’m mildly surprised that no birds nested.  

Feeling smug, I thought to myself, “Well, I certainly never had a big head!”  Admittedly, I would have killed for big hair but that was never an option with the absolutely straight and fine slippery stuff I have wrestled since I was three and finally grew some.   Then I remembered.  My university grad picture.  I had my hair “done” and - wow- that guy was good with hair spray.  Never before has so much been done with so little.

So here we are:  The Big Head Family.  It was meant to be.

And they're off!  It's worth your life to wander on our property.  A squirrel is likely to thunder past you, with four or five others in close pursuit.  The first one, judging from the whites of the eyes, is a female.  It's mating season.

I've written before about the raccoon with whom we shared the property for several decades.  She was an excellent neighbour but we did worry about her.  As a young raccoon, she had been robust, even portly.  But her good nature and obliging manner conditioned her to say yes to the dress rather than no means no.  So every spring Raquel (so-named because of her May curves) devoted herself  to the lovely kids she raised but her devotion took its toll. Near the end, she was a shadow of her former self though still good-natured and quiet.  She died under our canoe behind the stone garage.  We will always remember Raquel with affection and respect.

This plump little gaffer was inspired by a shot I took last November.  Look at that relaxed face!  A squirrel’s autumn is dedicated to fattening up but this one was nearing ZPG and was downright mellow, anticipating what was to follow.  Winter must be a squirrel’s version of summer holidays - lots of sleep, not much to do, the occasional outing - while February marks the start of the new year.  
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​As I recall, the first squirrel who passed me today had a serious expression but I’m pretty sure the posse were wearing party hats.

I’ve been reading a mixed bag of stuff lately, all of it worth my time (something I cannot always say of best-sellers).  For that, I thank the Toronto Star for making the New York Times Review of Books available on Sundays.  That section is almost too exciting to read because  there are only so many hours in a day and lots of other commitments as competition for concentrating on a book and therefore choices must be made.  Reading has always been one of my favourite pastimes and I cannnot imagine life without it.  One cottage rental decades ago made that point nicely; when I finished the books I had brought and there was NOTHING to read, I stood on a table to read the old newspapers which acted as insulation between the joists.  And canoe trips were stressful because Jon made me choose a one lousy book (not too heavy, either) to bring along.  Good grief.  I often chose a favourite to re-read because I couldn’t face the possibility of having chosen badly.  Frequent bouts of laryngitis during the school year at least offered the opportunity to binge-read in bed.

Now I request the books whose reviews interest me from the library and purchase the ones I loved.  Inevitably these requests mean waiting for months, and then of course they all show up at the same time.  Thus, I am currently alternating between American Philosophy - a Love Story and White Trash:  a History of Class in the United States.   Both are excellent and are as interesting as their titles might suggest.  


The first, written by a young philosopher, has as its ostensible focus an overview of American philosophy from Emerson to Coleridge to William James (so far - I’m only half way through)  in the context of their classical and European influences.  Kaag writes well enough to make American pragmatism clear and sensible, something I could not say for my philosophy courses in university.  The charm of the book, however, is not only the setting - an abandoned library filled with precious and historically important books which Kaag is permitted to catalogue - but the emerging love story which is nurtured within its walls.  I must say that it’s the first philosophy book I have ever eagerly returned to.


White Trash drew my interest largely because of the surprising outcome of the recent U.S. election;  the concept of “populism” is postulated on the existence an angry and unacknowledged under-class.  Again, it is extremely well written, although a far more academic piece than the first book - with 150 pages of end-notes.  Meticulously historical, it begins by making the case that the colonies (and this would include Canada, of course) were conceived as receptacles for the mother country’s human “trash,” who would then function as the raw materials - tools even -  for the creation of wealth to be rechannelled back across the ocean.  Nothing much surprises me any more, but it seems I severely underestimated the crassness of the entitled.  And I’m only into the 1600’s.


Lest you think of me as pondering great thoughts in an ivory tower, I offer this photo of the real reason I am reading so much this month.  In this closeup of our dog, you can spot my shoes in the mid-distance.  Theodore, who seems to have no conception of how small and how short a lap dog should be, scales my legs when I sit down “for a minute” and promptly begins to snore.  What is a girl to do when an enchanting guy falls asleep in her arms?  I am learning to plop down only where there is a book handy.  Even though the focal distance is challenging, seeing as I have to prop the book on Theodore’s back, time passes and both of us are pretty danged happy. 

Yay for libraries and dogs!!