It’s been a busy week, not least of which has been Dog Duty. Jon decided to go fishing, cycling and canoeing this week. He also packed the bike trainer just in case none of the above three were convenient. He is less like a desert nomad than Jonathan Swift’s satiric characters who carried everything they owned on their backs so as to avoid the necessity of language.

That left me with Theodore. As you are aware, the challenge for me in a three-pack has been to establish my Number Two credentials. Some weeks go better than others. And he and Jon have been particularly tight, to the point that when Jon gets up at midnight to make a snack, Theodore leaps off the bed to follow. When Jon failed to return last Sunday, Theodore reprised his flying Wallenda, looked around the house in vain, and became disconsolent when it became clear that I was It. Nothing like a concert of mournful howls, sharp barks and little girl whining to defeat the sleep sheep. Finally about four in the morning, I simply grabbed him and held on, pulling the blankets up over the two of us with my teeth. That desperate gambit bought us both four hours of blessed sleep. We repeated the little routine with inventive variations until two nights ago, when he finally settled for The Back-up Beloved and simply went to sleep.

This would never have happened with Jewell. She not only loved us equally but she was cooperative to a fault. Typical female, come to think of it. The only time I ever heard her growl was when Maureen brought Molson, a sweet Aussie, over to play. Jewell wasn’t about to make any other dog feel at home and flashed white teeth at the poor boy, who after that wouldn’t even get out of the car if he suspected her presence. Other than that ten minutes of mau-mauing, she was placid by nature and incredibly easy to live with.

Jewell even played like a girl. After running after a ball and retrieving it once, she politely declined such a pointless game. The one she adored, though, was hiding. I taught her to crouch behind a bush and wait for me to call for her in a worried tone. After a suitable suspense, she would leap out; I would shout “There you are!!!!” and we would both run celebratory circles around the hydrangea bed. Neither Jon nor I have ever claimed that Skyes are bright, so no surprise when she continued to play with the same vigor after the the leaves she was hiding behind had dropped. Probably, she had concluded that I was the one, too dim to notice.

Theodore, on the other hand, prefers games which take place at high speed and which he controls. He’s the local James Dean. He runs like the wind but I have yet to capture a good shot of returning the ball because the distance between A and B is rarely a straight line. As he pelts down the driveway some scintilla of scent available only to a dog calls for an abrupt right turn and off he goes. Only after pleasuring his snout with something new* does Theodore remember that he was mid-retrieve and he saunters back to the ball and chews on it pensively. Eventually he notices me standing and waiting; if I’m lucky, he eventually returns the sopping prize.

By the way, Jewell came with the name and it suited her perfectly. "Theodore" is a bit grand for our scalliwag. We should have called him MacDuff — Mac because he’s Scottish, and Duff because he comes iin ten times a day festooned with spruce twigs and leaf fragments. By himself Theodore could play all of Birnham Wood advancing on Macbeth in Act V.

Okay, I admit it. He’s an entertainment. Just be warned if you are coming to visit. Pre-Theodore, the house used to be cleaner. And quieter. Moreover, because he takes guard duty seriously, he might swear at you full-bark when you enter. But the full-body-wagging-tail tells the real story. He’s all in, whatever the game. Theodore may be a tramp but he is thoroughly our tramp!



*I read recently that a glorious sunset to a human being was equivalent to the effect of a strong unfamiliar smell on a dog.

I wish I could tell you that I’ve been feverishly painting since we last met.  Alas, nada.  I can’t stay away from the garden.  Because I crashed at six yesterday and went to bed with a dose of muscle relaxant, Jon has banned me from the garden until I demonstrate that I can walk upright..  But, even right now, where I sit working on the iMac in my studio, my nose is practically pushed against the glass because I’m afraid of missing something.

Let’s start with the aerial acrobats.   Today alone a brown thrasher bounced past me on the shrub near the back door, three turkey vultures circled (a bit worrisome, when you think about it), and a pair of red-tails surveyed the neighbourhood from the top of an old spruce until they were routed by a furious grackle.  A blackburnian warbler treated us to flashes of orange while scouting the buffet.  As usual, loud mouth blue jays and cardinals compete for the “Best Effort at a Primary Colour”, although blue jays cheat by sporting body parts with different shades of blue.  Jon just ran past with the two halves of an orange, intent on attracting the orioles who haven’t come by much since our pear trees died of storm damage but who are calling to one another.   (As I word-process this, a black squirrel has already spotted and claimed at least one of the halves.  I am told that oriole feeders have been invented and wow do we need to purchase one fast.  Oh,  the oriole has just arrived.  To eat suet??  Go figure.  I want my orange back.)

All in all, it never surprises me when a wild critter has the last laugh.  — the red-bellies continue to confound us;  we know they are living in our garden but they practise ventriloquism, then cleverly vacate their  perch before we can track their trajectory.  But the best event was last week in the park when I watched a gaggle of bird-watchers train their cameras and binoculars on a warbler while right behind them a gigantic wild turkey sauntered past.  

It’s like Cirque de Soleil around here.  There could be a bit more soleil but cirque it is!  I finally got the chippie out of the garage and closed the door. 

​Oh, dear.  Cue the red squirrels....

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief.  I come into the presence of still water,
and I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light.  For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry

Our world in spring is full of bustle, mine included, and my most peaceful hours are spent gardening, where I catch myself blurting out greetings to the shy friends who have returned.  “Welcome back!” goes to the busy girls who hive in the old cedar tree.  “Hello, Gorgeous,” I tell the chippie who has parked himself under the feeder.  And “Hope you ate all our grubs” is my mumbled message to the gentle skunks who visit at night, leaving a toppled path of divots across the lawn.  I say nothing to the mourning doves who have established a new nest high in the climbing euonymus;  they prefer not to draw attention to themselves but we do nod civilly and they know I wish them well.

The wonderful collection of essays titled Hope beneath our Feet:  Restoring our Place in the Natural World reminds me that it is not only the natural world which gives me hope but also the “ordinary people willing to confront despair, power and incalculable odds in order to restore some semblance of grace, justice, and beauty to this world.”  Paul Hawken goes on to quote Adrienne Rich, who wrote “So much has been destroyed/ I have cast my lot with those / who, age after age, perversely, with no extraordinary power, /  reconstitute the world.”  Good to be reminded where we too should cast our lot -- with like-minded citizens.  But tending our gardens and welcoming our wild neighbours is a great way to get into the mood.

Right now I’m mired down in decisions:  I have to determine where each of my little soldiers will be posted over the next few months.   This business of trying to satisfy the demands of one weekend art show and three month-plus shows within a short period has given me a surprising sympathy for Napoleon.  To be honest, I’ve never thought much about the little general.  But planning troop movements is more complicated than you might think and he had all of Europe to worry about;  I have only Southern Ontario and I'm beserk.  Jon is phlegmatic, pointing out only that I have brought this on myself.  Save the truth until September, Mister, when I might manage a philosophical attitude.

Keep in mind that I am a S L O W painter and I produce only a few offspring a year.  That horrid virus in the late winter didn’t help, and it’s gardening season already.  Because it is expected that artists show recent work, my small troop of child soldiers is being stretched like a supper served to surprise guests.  In one case, I am retrieving some of them in one town and delivering them to a Georgian Bay gallery later that same day. So here I sit.  I am not painting.   I am plottingcampaigns.  I  consult calendars and I pore over maps. (To make things worse, three of the four shows demand a roll call a month early.  Good grief.)  I have a folder labeled “Where, What, When?”  Honest, I do.

Having finally resorted to a paper calendar (thank God for paper),  I draw lines with a ruler to figure out where my troops or scouting parties will be on a particular day.  When the lines cross, I know I’m in trouble.  And I can’t help thinking of Napoleon.  I am wondering if Elba didn’t feel like a bit of a relief.  I could use banishment to an island right about now.  I plan to take paints and brushes.

Lest you think I am exaggerating, here is the pansy painting, which has not progressed past the underpainting.