Monica, one of my dear walking-friends, asked me today if I could remember the funniest thing that ever happened to me, a coals-to-Newcastle question if I have ever heard one.  So much to choose from....

My left brain attacked the problem by starting at the beginning.  Apparently my parents did not have long to wait for the amusement I was to provide.  When I was a toddler, back in those pre-plastic days, my toidie seat (bathroom booster) was made of wood. That was lucky, or I suppose I would still be wearing the one I managed to fit over my head one day .  Retraction was futile and my sainted father, who was a talented woodworker among other things, was tasked with sawing it off my neck. My mother cried throughout, I am told.  I have no recollection of event but was frequently reminded of its occurence.  Every new boyfriend was regaled with it, as a matter of fact.  I probably should have run away from home, given this mental abuse, but I was too short to climb up the bus steps at the time.

And, oh yes, the milkman called me "Sonny,"  and my pediatrician used to pretend that he was a girl.  Pretty sure he was kidding.  I adored him, despite his evident confusion.  I didn't really have a chance, did I?

It might have been optimistic to forecast a peaceful life reading books by the fire.  Last Friday there was a weather window of sorts (if you don’t count ice pellets and freezing rain) through which Jon leaped to get to Pittsburgh in order to meet the Skye terrier “Theodore” (rhymes with “Je t’adore”) and bring him safely home by Saturday.  Let’s start with the good stuff…..

He has a solemn face crowned with Mickey Mouse ears and a dainty body of shining black silky hair .  Somehow this “designed by a committee” combination ends up being enchanting.  He is snuggly and a pretty good boy, affording us (me, actually) only the occasional glimpse of his dominant male-ness.  He loves being brushed, walked and generally pleasured (and who doesn't, for heaven's sake).  He hates stairs and distains dogs with poor manners but has schmoozed like a devil with the twenty-odd people he has met so far.  He has been known to climb onto the knees of new friends so as to better enjoy their adoration.  

Now let’s talk about me because the dog is fine.  The last time that I combed my hair was, I think,  two days ago.  I have a shiner (self-inflicted when I bent over to pick up his you-know and ran into one of those curly garden stakes), and a large bruise from unsuccessfully negotiating uncarpeted stairs (in/out/in/out is now the rhythm of my life).  My missing pearl earring turned up IN my ear.  I misplaced a roast beef yesterday;  it was last seen in my supermarket cart in the parking lot.  Two pairs of boots are reduced to singletons; again, though I would dearly love to blame this on Theodore, his innocence has been established beyond a doubt.  Last night I fell asleep with my clothes on so I am sporting a fetching “fell off the turnip truck” air.  The kitchen counter is probably still there but I haven’t seen it recently.  

​I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

This is all to say that life is wonderful, if busy, while I concentrate on maintaining on my Dog #2 status.  At the very least, I am assured of Alpha Female……  

Merry Christmas, all!!

They’re back! The snowfall turned out to be deeper and heavier than expected, and we turned on the roofing cables this morning just after we noticed that our garden had returned to its winter state as an Eden for the local deer. Hoof prints everywhere, and a suspiciously empty bird-feeder. SOMEBODY figured out how to empty it onto the snow. Doesn’t that just prove my mother’s point that one must never brag about anything or God will consider you ungrateful and revoke the privilege. To add insult to injury the blasted feeder is so high-end that I couldn’t figure out how to disassemble it in order to refill it with sunflower seeds. Again, something I should have foreseen: when we will all learn to avoid owning something (a computer) or a someone (the dog) smarter than we are? I'm not as worried about the dog part: Skyes show up near the bottom of lists which compare canine IQ's; Jewell's EQ, however, was through the roof and we expect that Theodore's will too. They are not called "the heavenly breed" for nothing.

Segue aside, the poor euonymus foundation plantings have returned to their winter state: pathetic bald sticks. It takes them until June every year to fill out again! The poor things must dread the first real snow. On the plus side, it’s dead easy to see who dropped by the night before. Squirrel tracks are my favourite - so dainty - but the raccoons’ dexterous feet are also fun to find. The chippies are sawing logs underground but occasionally we see the trail of a glamour puss like a pheasant, the tail drag and long toes giving him away. For some reason the red-bellied woodpeckers have vacated the property. I am miffed because we did, you remember, provide free room and board this year. (Note: between the time I wrote this and now, the mister showed up at the feeder. Just proves that the jungle telegraph is alive and well.) And it would be lovely to run into Mouse (the House Grouse).

Indoors, the fireplace is on, wreaths and mercury glass ornaments have been hung, and gleaming bowls have been filled with pinecones. I'm even toying with the notion of baking something delectable - scones come to mind. But the snow outside muffles all city sounds and I am determined to finish my chores quickly, so as to grab an hour or two with a good book. Barkskins (the new Annie Proulx) and Do Not Say We Have Nothing (the 2016 Giller Prize winner - thanks, Carol) beckon.

Welcome back, Winter!

Finally it’s snowing today - a soft slow accrual which feels more benign than inconvenient.  While Jon and I both love winter in general, he alone likes to drive in it.  I had to be T-boned only once on an icy highway to lose any enthusiasm I had for winter driving.  I am more of a snow-angel-making kind of gal.  Moreover, though Jon has seen to it that I have better long underwear than any of my friends, even merino wool has its limitations.   Jon is still working on this as a concept.

Surely I have described my beloved’s idea of a perfect winter day.  One memorable adventure on an intensely cold day involved hiking miles from home to an urban wilderness where, crouched in the bush, he merrily heated hot dogs on a primus stove while I shivered on a wet log.  Choruses of “I’m toasty! and “Isn’t this fun!” were met with my literally-frosty glare.  We have had many such outings over the years and I see absolutely no signs of his mellowing.  In nightmares, I am ninety, wearing a toque, and gumming my weiners in a snowdrift, albeit with a cheery mate.

Jewell also had her issues with snow.  Skyes have such short legs on such middle-sized bodies that they tend to plow the snow in front of them rather than ski or prance on top of it.  Skyes don’t prance at all, come to think of it.  Other dog owners dry their dogs’ feet;  we have to towel down the entire dog.  No doubt Theodore too will require the "full-body rub/wrapped in a fleece" spa treatment to which Jewell became accustomed.   I am a slave to my dogs' comfort.

Outside my studio window, the snow  is accumulating on our private jet pad -  other couples go on cruises; we buy high-end squirrel-proof bird-feeders.  While the squirrels, well and truly out-witted, nose around the bases, aerial acts are performed above them.  I read recently that chickadees have an elaborate caste system, although short of daubing paint on them, I can’t discern it.  The only ranking squirrels admit to is the terror that the little red ones invariably inflict on the lumbering black squirrels.  Apparently, the reds are channelling my great-grandmother who, her husband claimed, was "wee but mighty.”


I am waiting for tomorrow:  usually a snowstorm is followed by a period of brilliant sunshine.  This is my favourite kind of snow day, and already I am hungry for the pure blue shadows cast across smooth slopes of white.  My toes may be frozen but my eyes are warmed.

Pray for me.  In the last week it has transpired that my living arrangements will be topsy-turvy by the end of January.  No longer alone all day in the house. I will be living with two dominant males.


The first DM, as you have probably guessed, is Jon, who is on the cusp of becoming Retired Jon.  Exciting but a wee bit terrifying.  I have already been advised by the many friends who are further down the same path that I am not to expect a happy house cleaner.  No kidding.  All those years of hope popped like a soap bubble.  Some of the gals simply gave me a wordless hug and a whispered “Call me.”  Hmmm.  I wonder what they meant.

DM 2 is more of a surprise to all concerned.  I’ll give you a hint:  Mickey Mouse ears.  If you guessed Mouse the House Grouse you are wrong.  One more hint:  walks on four legs and wags his tail.  His name is Theodore , a dignified name which conjures bowties and homburgs but he is in fact a dog.  And not just any dog but a Skye terrier.  The “heavenly breed” won our hearts in the person of Jewell and it has taken years to locate another Skye, for they are rarer than pandas.  The selfless act of another dog lover means that he will be ours.  Theodore has a chequered past but has not forgotten how to love.  You could say “six more sleeps” until we finally meet, but sleep has been eluding me for some reason. 

Just like that:  from Top Dog (day shift) to Dog #3 in the blink of an eye.  So if I seem unusually spaced-out this week, understand that my brain has PTSD:  Pre-traumatic Sleepless Disorder.  No loud noises, please.  A girl can be almost too happy, ya know.  And a little nervous about dropping down two ranks.