The cats let me sleep in.
I went to the animal shelter to see about walking a dog. They said i could stop by any time, and they had one who could use a walk right then. She was 4-month old Tiger Lily, and although the tiger part doesn't get her attention, the Lily part does. She's a black lab and shepherd mix. Nearly all black with a little patch of white on her chest and two little bits on her front paws, as if daubed with white paint. She tried biting the leash (lead) a few times, and if i stopped, she often sat beside me. She pulled a bit, and i let her sniff to her heart's content.
Two corgis at a house we passed took great interest only after we were all the way past their house and had turned around to come back on the other side of the road when first one barked, then the other. Lily sat down and stared at them. She seemed loathe to continue, but after a few minutes of their barking, i told her we needed to be on our way.
She's a happy little thing, and i felt i could have walked her for another hour at least. But, i'm new to the shelter and didn't want them thinking i took off with her.
It's been nearly 10 years since i walked a dog. I forgot how many people smile at you when walk with one.
They told me to come back any time i need a dog fix, and they'll be glad to let me walk whatever dogs need it. I'm thinking that going over my lunch hour would be just the thing.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Friday, April 20, 2012
Hunting
With Cro's and Tom Stephenson's blog posts from today both mentioning the King of Spain's big game hunting tour, I got to thinking about hunters i've known.
I am an omnivore, but i'd have a very hard time shooting or killing a living thing. This started early with me, as i remember being three years old and helping my brother catch worms. He was five and once he explained to me that he needed the worms because he was going to go fishing, i kissed every worm i found and tried to hide them from him. I was not entirely successful on this score, and Bill complained to our mother that i wasn't helping. From my perspective, i was. I was helping the worms.
Once i understood that he did indeed need some sort of bait to catch fish, and showed me how to bait my own hook, i didn't kiss and hide the worms from him, but i still felt bad. We used bits of bacon, too, on occasion, but the worms were the favoured bait.
My brother had the patience of Job, and felt a bad day of fishing was better than a good day of most anything else. I grew bored with it rather quickly, and saw little rewards for my pains at being patient, e.g., the same blue gill who was too small took my bait at least six times on one fishing trip, pulling up two blue crabs on my fishing line and finding a fish in the crab trap on another. The most ignominious occurred when my brother nonchalantly reeled in at least a half dozen fish to my none. Our lines were cast alongside one another, and even when he agreed to switch rods and places, he caught six more fish to my, say it with me, none.
My father liked hunting, owned several guns, and showed my brother and me how to use them. One winter's day, Dad and i tracked for deer. We found tracks, urine, and scat, but no deer. I never went again and don't know why. Maybe Dad thought my fishless day had some bearing. Or, maybe he caved to pressure that girls didn't belong hunting. I don't know how i would have reacted had we seen a deer and Dad shot at it. I do know if he wounded the animal, we would have tracked it down and finished it off. He would have shown me how to gut the animal, and i would have been called upon to carry the gun at least, if not help with lugging the animal back to the car. On that tracking day, though, i remember the respect my father had for the animals.
My brother went to college and majored in forestry. One of the classes he took his first year was how to butcher animals. It put him in good stead with hunting friends and acquaintances who shot game and needed a butcher. Bill was very good at it, and word spread. Most of the hunters were poor, and rather than pay him money, they paid him in meat. His freezer was full of venison, and he was invited to go hunting with any number of people. One was a young man named Dean.
Dean was highly skilled with rifles but felt at some point that it was a bit too easy and not quite fair on the animal. He thought the playing field should be a bit more level and went bow and arrow hunting for bear and wild boar. Bill told me this, and i got the distinct feeling this was one of those conversations we'd never tell Mom, as she'd worry too much. I was never a worrier, but even i felt deep concern as Bill got excited talking about accompanying Dean on these sorts of hunting trips. I know i would have felt a bit more comfortable if Bill mentioned that they had a rifle as back-up. But, there was no Plan B.
Dean turned out to be one of the champion bow and arrow hunters for boar in the state. Someone wanted to make a documentary, and Bill laughed as he told me the story. Dean had tracked a boar, told the cameraman where to set up and explained that he was going to attract the boar. The boar would come rushing out, and Dean would fell him with two arrows--maybe three at most. Dean assured the cameraman that all he had to do was to keep the film rolling. Ready?
Yes, the cameraman nodded, he was. Dean got the boar's attention, the boar came out from the brush and charged towards Dean. He shot the first arrow, and the boar kept coming. He shot the second arrow, and the boar went down, about six feet (two metres) from Dean. He turned to the cameraman to find him and the camera not there. After developing the film, one saw the boar charging and the first arrow. One saw the boar continuing to charge, and then heard the cameraman's saying, "Oh, shit," and the view was blurry as the cameraman ran for his life and scaled a tree, with no regard for where the camera was aimed or how focused it was. After some minutes of seeing blurred bark and leaves, ground, back to bark and leaves, and hearing human grunting and laboured breathing, the film zeroes in on the boar with two arrows in it, and Dean looking around to see where the cameraman went. Next, you see Dean looking at the camera and saying he's not going to do a second take, then proceeds to gut the boar. As he gets started, the film fades to black.
Dean told my brother he'd never agree to another documentary again. Those stupid cowards had a wonderful view of a magnificient beast, a clean kill just as Dean had described it would be, THEY were the ones who thought it a great idea to film the entire sequence, and THIS was the thanks and end result. Some scairdy-ass climbing a tree and blubbering, clutching the camera, and missing the whole thing.
I told Bill i'd probably act the same way the camaraman did. Bill assured me i wouldn't have. He said i would've told Dean that i was too chicken and that i would set up the camera and let it roll while i climbed up a tree, or that he'd have to find somebody else if he wanted the person to stay there all the while. He also told me that he thought i would have stayed. That i would have trusted Dean.
I know when i was tracking with my dad that winter's day, i trusted him. I trusted my brother whenever we tramped around looking for things, or when we went fishing. There was that same feeling of respect for wildlife, of taking what we needed or using all we took. The hunters i've met since my brother died share that same respect for wildlife and honouring their kills by using them as wisely as possible.
The King of Spain's hunting trip smacks of cowardice to me, or of sadism or supreme arrogance. What acumen is there in shooting fish in a barrel?
I am an omnivore, but i'd have a very hard time shooting or killing a living thing. This started early with me, as i remember being three years old and helping my brother catch worms. He was five and once he explained to me that he needed the worms because he was going to go fishing, i kissed every worm i found and tried to hide them from him. I was not entirely successful on this score, and Bill complained to our mother that i wasn't helping. From my perspective, i was. I was helping the worms.
Once i understood that he did indeed need some sort of bait to catch fish, and showed me how to bait my own hook, i didn't kiss and hide the worms from him, but i still felt bad. We used bits of bacon, too, on occasion, but the worms were the favoured bait.
My brother had the patience of Job, and felt a bad day of fishing was better than a good day of most anything else. I grew bored with it rather quickly, and saw little rewards for my pains at being patient, e.g., the same blue gill who was too small took my bait at least six times on one fishing trip, pulling up two blue crabs on my fishing line and finding a fish in the crab trap on another. The most ignominious occurred when my brother nonchalantly reeled in at least a half dozen fish to my none. Our lines were cast alongside one another, and even when he agreed to switch rods and places, he caught six more fish to my, say it with me, none.
My father liked hunting, owned several guns, and showed my brother and me how to use them. One winter's day, Dad and i tracked for deer. We found tracks, urine, and scat, but no deer. I never went again and don't know why. Maybe Dad thought my fishless day had some bearing. Or, maybe he caved to pressure that girls didn't belong hunting. I don't know how i would have reacted had we seen a deer and Dad shot at it. I do know if he wounded the animal, we would have tracked it down and finished it off. He would have shown me how to gut the animal, and i would have been called upon to carry the gun at least, if not help with lugging the animal back to the car. On that tracking day, though, i remember the respect my father had for the animals.
My brother went to college and majored in forestry. One of the classes he took his first year was how to butcher animals. It put him in good stead with hunting friends and acquaintances who shot game and needed a butcher. Bill was very good at it, and word spread. Most of the hunters were poor, and rather than pay him money, they paid him in meat. His freezer was full of venison, and he was invited to go hunting with any number of people. One was a young man named Dean.
Dean was highly skilled with rifles but felt at some point that it was a bit too easy and not quite fair on the animal. He thought the playing field should be a bit more level and went bow and arrow hunting for bear and wild boar. Bill told me this, and i got the distinct feeling this was one of those conversations we'd never tell Mom, as she'd worry too much. I was never a worrier, but even i felt deep concern as Bill got excited talking about accompanying Dean on these sorts of hunting trips. I know i would have felt a bit more comfortable if Bill mentioned that they had a rifle as back-up. But, there was no Plan B.
Dean turned out to be one of the champion bow and arrow hunters for boar in the state. Someone wanted to make a documentary, and Bill laughed as he told me the story. Dean had tracked a boar, told the cameraman where to set up and explained that he was going to attract the boar. The boar would come rushing out, and Dean would fell him with two arrows--maybe three at most. Dean assured the cameraman that all he had to do was to keep the film rolling. Ready?
Yes, the cameraman nodded, he was. Dean got the boar's attention, the boar came out from the brush and charged towards Dean. He shot the first arrow, and the boar kept coming. He shot the second arrow, and the boar went down, about six feet (two metres) from Dean. He turned to the cameraman to find him and the camera not there. After developing the film, one saw the boar charging and the first arrow. One saw the boar continuing to charge, and then heard the cameraman's saying, "Oh, shit," and the view was blurry as the cameraman ran for his life and scaled a tree, with no regard for where the camera was aimed or how focused it was. After some minutes of seeing blurred bark and leaves, ground, back to bark and leaves, and hearing human grunting and laboured breathing, the film zeroes in on the boar with two arrows in it, and Dean looking around to see where the cameraman went. Next, you see Dean looking at the camera and saying he's not going to do a second take, then proceeds to gut the boar. As he gets started, the film fades to black.
Dean told my brother he'd never agree to another documentary again. Those stupid cowards had a wonderful view of a magnificient beast, a clean kill just as Dean had described it would be, THEY were the ones who thought it a great idea to film the entire sequence, and THIS was the thanks and end result. Some scairdy-ass climbing a tree and blubbering, clutching the camera, and missing the whole thing.
I told Bill i'd probably act the same way the camaraman did. Bill assured me i wouldn't have. He said i would've told Dean that i was too chicken and that i would set up the camera and let it roll while i climbed up a tree, or that he'd have to find somebody else if he wanted the person to stay there all the while. He also told me that he thought i would have stayed. That i would have trusted Dean.
I know when i was tracking with my dad that winter's day, i trusted him. I trusted my brother whenever we tramped around looking for things, or when we went fishing. There was that same feeling of respect for wildlife, of taking what we needed or using all we took. The hunters i've met since my brother died share that same respect for wildlife and honouring their kills by using them as wisely as possible.
The King of Spain's hunting trip smacks of cowardice to me, or of sadism or supreme arrogance. What acumen is there in shooting fish in a barrel?
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Exeunt
I'm reminded once again how things roll on, time and tides wait for no man, and all of that. Everything is greening up, the days grow longer, and there's a sense of promise present in the morning.
This week, i've been reflecting on those i've loved and lost in April. Not in a maudlin way, just sad that this will be my first spring of the 21st century without Grace, how the air was this soft when we laid my maternal grandmother to rest, and when my next door neighbours broke the news that Sparky, the barn cat who followed us home, had been hit by a car. I pondered this as i refilled the suet feeder this morning, and noticed a few down feathers by the feeder. No body, so either the bird got away or became a meal for somebody.
In our new location, changes are afoot. Nearly every morning this week, the sound of sawing and hammering has greeted me from next door. At the end of one day, old kitchen cupboards were out at the kerb, and i wondered how
Mr P, the elderly man who used to live there, was doing. I had thought of him last week as well, when i heard a rooster crow. Mr P kept some ducks, a few hens, and a rooster, who crowed most of the day. If i walked out in the side yard, the ducks would quack to one another and move en masse away from the creek/shallow pond that runs between our properties when there's been enough rainfall. The rooster would eye me warily and walk towards me, letting me know he would stand up for any of his feathered charges.
I knew something happened when one day, the birds were no more, and in the weeks that followed, i found out that Mr P had a stroke and went to live with one of his children.
He kept to himself and seemed to prefer it that way, although in the few conversations we had, he told me that his house had been his mother's house. How she'd look out any time she heard a carriage, and later, a car approach. How a wolf most likely had come along earlier and taken all of his hens, but he hoped to get a few more to keep the rooster company (which he did). How his black and white cat was named Tuxedo; when i mentioned seeing Tux in my yard, he hoped i wasn't bothered by it. Not at all. I understand very well how a cat's territory can have different demarcations from what humans understand their boundaries to be. I had some extra catnip plants and gave Mr P one as Tux seemed to like the ones at my house.
After a short sailing season last year, i put the boat in the side yard, and i saw a number of middle aged people walking his property, glancing over at the boat. I realised with a start they must be his children and their respective spouses, and they were most likely looking at the property in terms of selling. One of them stayed on for a few days, and took down all the fencing he had up for the ducks, hens, and rooster.
I thought on this as i saw the cupboards at the kerb. I wondered the stories they could tell. They were nondescript white cupboards; rather unremarkable, and yet i couldn't help thinking that a sense of history was being cleaned away. I've never been inside the house, so perhaps that adds to my curiosity.
I had to run an errand today, and on my way to the store, a pair of mallard ducks were in the roadway in the other lane. I slowed down, in case they wanted to cross, even though i wasn't up close to them. There were two cars in the other lane rather close to one another, and the first one didn't slow down at all as it approached the pair. The drake flew up and out of harm's way, but the female was a second slower, and i watched with horror as the car's grille pushed her down and towards the right tyre, which rolled over part of her. The second car straddled her. I blinked in disbelief, and as i drove past, it looked like a magazine flopping open pages in the wind, only it was the duck, still writhing, body quivering, and flapping her one good wing trying to escape. My eyes filled with tears, my stomach lurched, and i prayed that she could die instantly, that the next car that was just now coming along, would run right over her, to take away her anguish. I looked in my rearview mirror to see the driver do what i would have done. Drove around. He was just enough later that he may not have realised she had just been struck, and that it wasn't just the wind moving her feathers. The pair were very near a small lake and had doubtless been looking for nesting spots. I thought of how their lives were forever changed, and yet the sun shone just as brillantly, the wind was as full as spring as it had been a moment before. I wondered why the first driver didn't slow down. Maybe she thought the car behind her was too close. Maybe she thought the ducks would fly away in time. Maybe she wasn't paying attention. Maybe her eyes were filled with tears immediately afterwards and her stomach was lurching, just like mine. I'm sure the second driver thought the first driver had killed the duck and that he didn't need to finish the job.
I went home a different way as i normally do when running this errand, and thought of the times i had a few cardinals fly into my car's closed windows only to crash to the roadway, or the rabbit that ran immediately before my car very early on Easter morning, leaving me no time to stop. I came back to my house with JoJo to greet me by the gate as she had been lounging in the sun, and saw that the truck next door looked ready for a dump run, as it was piled high with the old fencing.
Daily dramas playing out, giving no regard if the audience likes the performance or indeed cares if there be any spectators, and more bits being cleared away, making way for the next scene.
This week, i've been reflecting on those i've loved and lost in April. Not in a maudlin way, just sad that this will be my first spring of the 21st century without Grace, how the air was this soft when we laid my maternal grandmother to rest, and when my next door neighbours broke the news that Sparky, the barn cat who followed us home, had been hit by a car. I pondered this as i refilled the suet feeder this morning, and noticed a few down feathers by the feeder. No body, so either the bird got away or became a meal for somebody.
In our new location, changes are afoot. Nearly every morning this week, the sound of sawing and hammering has greeted me from next door. At the end of one day, old kitchen cupboards were out at the kerb, and i wondered how
Mr P, the elderly man who used to live there, was doing. I had thought of him last week as well, when i heard a rooster crow. Mr P kept some ducks, a few hens, and a rooster, who crowed most of the day. If i walked out in the side yard, the ducks would quack to one another and move en masse away from the creek/shallow pond that runs between our properties when there's been enough rainfall. The rooster would eye me warily and walk towards me, letting me know he would stand up for any of his feathered charges.
I knew something happened when one day, the birds were no more, and in the weeks that followed, i found out that Mr P had a stroke and went to live with one of his children.
He kept to himself and seemed to prefer it that way, although in the few conversations we had, he told me that his house had been his mother's house. How she'd look out any time she heard a carriage, and later, a car approach. How a wolf most likely had come along earlier and taken all of his hens, but he hoped to get a few more to keep the rooster company (which he did). How his black and white cat was named Tuxedo; when i mentioned seeing Tux in my yard, he hoped i wasn't bothered by it. Not at all. I understand very well how a cat's territory can have different demarcations from what humans understand their boundaries to be. I had some extra catnip plants and gave Mr P one as Tux seemed to like the ones at my house.
After a short sailing season last year, i put the boat in the side yard, and i saw a number of middle aged people walking his property, glancing over at the boat. I realised with a start they must be his children and their respective spouses, and they were most likely looking at the property in terms of selling. One of them stayed on for a few days, and took down all the fencing he had up for the ducks, hens, and rooster.
I thought on this as i saw the cupboards at the kerb. I wondered the stories they could tell. They were nondescript white cupboards; rather unremarkable, and yet i couldn't help thinking that a sense of history was being cleaned away. I've never been inside the house, so perhaps that adds to my curiosity.
I had to run an errand today, and on my way to the store, a pair of mallard ducks were in the roadway in the other lane. I slowed down, in case they wanted to cross, even though i wasn't up close to them. There were two cars in the other lane rather close to one another, and the first one didn't slow down at all as it approached the pair. The drake flew up and out of harm's way, but the female was a second slower, and i watched with horror as the car's grille pushed her down and towards the right tyre, which rolled over part of her. The second car straddled her. I blinked in disbelief, and as i drove past, it looked like a magazine flopping open pages in the wind, only it was the duck, still writhing, body quivering, and flapping her one good wing trying to escape. My eyes filled with tears, my stomach lurched, and i prayed that she could die instantly, that the next car that was just now coming along, would run right over her, to take away her anguish. I looked in my rearview mirror to see the driver do what i would have done. Drove around. He was just enough later that he may not have realised she had just been struck, and that it wasn't just the wind moving her feathers. The pair were very near a small lake and had doubtless been looking for nesting spots. I thought of how their lives were forever changed, and yet the sun shone just as brillantly, the wind was as full as spring as it had been a moment before. I wondered why the first driver didn't slow down. Maybe she thought the car behind her was too close. Maybe she thought the ducks would fly away in time. Maybe she wasn't paying attention. Maybe her eyes were filled with tears immediately afterwards and her stomach was lurching, just like mine. I'm sure the second driver thought the first driver had killed the duck and that he didn't need to finish the job.
I went home a different way as i normally do when running this errand, and thought of the times i had a few cardinals fly into my car's closed windows only to crash to the roadway, or the rabbit that ran immediately before my car very early on Easter morning, leaving me no time to stop. I came back to my house with JoJo to greet me by the gate as she had been lounging in the sun, and saw that the truck next door looked ready for a dump run, as it was piled high with the old fencing.
Daily dramas playing out, giving no regard if the audience likes the performance or indeed cares if there be any spectators, and more bits being cleared away, making way for the next scene.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Dogs
My father loved dogs and hated cats. I loved dogs and especially love cats. I decided when i was older, i'd have cats. And maybe dogs.
Growing up, we had dogs, and i loved them. Then after i graduated college and was living in an apartment, i wanted to have a furfriend but thought it unfair given my long work hours and no yard, as my living space was not on the ground floor. I had contented myself with petting other people's dogs and cats but knew there'd come a time in my life where i'd have one. I would take my aunt's dog, Woofer, for a walk or let him run in the park. He hated the car, but quickly learned that when he went with me, we didn't go to the vet's, but to a wonderful, green, large space where he could run at will. Woofer ended up with cancer, poor thing, and when we knew the end was near, i took him in the car to the park. He wasn't able to run boundlessly, but we enjoyed a saunter and rested a bit at the top of the hill. We both seemed to know it was the last time we'd be there together and wanted to savour every minute.
Then, i met Himself, and it wasn't too long afterwards that we knew we'd be staying together for the long term. Then i found out he was allergic to both dogs and cats. People who've never had pets or known their love will not understand just how much i loved this man when i told him that i was willing to sacrifice all opportunities to have a dog or cat since he had allergies.
Since he never had a pet, other than a rabbit and that was his sister's, he didn't understand the largesse. He nodded, said okay, and we got married. Shortly after we moved into our house, the one we helped build, our next door neighbours' black and white cat, Zerbe, decided we had the perfect place for her retirement home. Our neighbours had a yellow lab named Katy, who adored me, and after Katy died, they got Kay, a Siberian husky who was dumped on the road in front of their house. Zerbe had been flung out a car window when a kitten and landed on their driveway, so there seemed to be a pattern...
Kay was a lovely dog. She was afraid of most men, so we figured she had been beaten by a man, and she was really terrified of any man sporting a beard, which led us to surmise the idiot was a bearded one. Like other huskies and malmutes, she loved to run, and would sometimes take off for a run around the neighbourhood. I was home alone one night, watching tv, when i felt eyes staring at me. I looked out one of the large windows in the living room to see a pair of eyes staring at me unblinkingly. I shouted in surprise, and Kay barked gleefully. She didn't seem to understand that i nearly had a coronary, and wagged her tail.
Zerbe came by to see us nearly every day, and one cold February day, Himself let her in our house. He tried explaining to me that he thought she was cold, and she was after all, old. He didn't understand that by doing this, she now expected to live with us full time. Which, as it turned out, she did.
She was patient with us, seeing that we had possibilities. As Himself noted, she was old when she came to us, and i learnt to make the most of every day we had with her. He pet her, sneezed, and took allergy meds by the truckload. He also fell hopelessly in love with her, and though she came to us old, she lived to be ancient. I was home when she had the seizure that threw her down on the ground. I equated it with suffering a stroke and wanted to put her down right then. He wanted to wait just in case... in case of what? i asked. He talked to the vet who said that we'd know in 24 hours what to do. I knew right then what needed doing. Within 24 hours, Himself did, too, and my vet later said that if ever you wanted to get her to come over right away, have a man call her and break down and sob trying to tell her that the time had come for his pet to be euthanised.
Zerbe was 19 when Himself made that phone call. The vet paid us a house call and refused any money saying that's not what she wanted to be paid for. I baked a loaf of bread for the staff and attached a thank you card.
Himself and i were both very sad afterwards, the way one is whenever a loved one leaves the planet. It was during this season of grief, when for the first time in 7 years he could breathe more easily since there was no animal dander, that he said he could finally understand just how big a sacrifice it was when i said i'd forego living with dogs and cats for him. He didn't appreciate it at the time i said it, and how, after having had a four-footed creature choose us, he doesn't know how i found the strength to be able to say it. I smiled and said that breathing is fundamental, and he was breathing very much more easily now that we were once again pet-less. He looked at me earnestly and said that he'd rather have to take allergy meds the rest of his life than to spend it without a dog or cat in the house, as it was just so damn lonesome without them.
In time, he found Grace, the feral cat whom we rescued, and then Sparky, the barn cat, followed us home on a walk.
His breathing is a bit laboured with cats, but it's really terrible with dogs. So, we content ourselves with felines and pet other people's dogs. Lately, i've been really looking at dogs and thinking how nice it would be to have one live in our home. I don't know how Phoebe and JoJo would like it. I know Himself would love the dog, but given his breathing trouble, i don't think we can risk it. So, to date, we haven't.
Meantime, the next door neighbours have a dog named Kramer, who's happy to receive meat bones from us. I received a free goodies bag at a nearby store, and one of the items is a small bag of dog treats. Those will go to him or a hockey teammate's dog, Izze.
I get wistful when i see neighbours walking their dogs. An acquaintance suggested that i go to the animal shelter and volunteer to walk the dogs. They always seem to need someone to help out, and i'm toying with the idea. I just don't know that i have the fortitude to walk the dogs and love them and leave them at the shelter as they wait for their forever homes.
Growing up, we had dogs, and i loved them. Then after i graduated college and was living in an apartment, i wanted to have a furfriend but thought it unfair given my long work hours and no yard, as my living space was not on the ground floor. I had contented myself with petting other people's dogs and cats but knew there'd come a time in my life where i'd have one. I would take my aunt's dog, Woofer, for a walk or let him run in the park. He hated the car, but quickly learned that when he went with me, we didn't go to the vet's, but to a wonderful, green, large space where he could run at will. Woofer ended up with cancer, poor thing, and when we knew the end was near, i took him in the car to the park. He wasn't able to run boundlessly, but we enjoyed a saunter and rested a bit at the top of the hill. We both seemed to know it was the last time we'd be there together and wanted to savour every minute.
Then, i met Himself, and it wasn't too long afterwards that we knew we'd be staying together for the long term. Then i found out he was allergic to both dogs and cats. People who've never had pets or known their love will not understand just how much i loved this man when i told him that i was willing to sacrifice all opportunities to have a dog or cat since he had allergies.
Since he never had a pet, other than a rabbit and that was his sister's, he didn't understand the largesse. He nodded, said okay, and we got married. Shortly after we moved into our house, the one we helped build, our next door neighbours' black and white cat, Zerbe, decided we had the perfect place for her retirement home. Our neighbours had a yellow lab named Katy, who adored me, and after Katy died, they got Kay, a Siberian husky who was dumped on the road in front of their house. Zerbe had been flung out a car window when a kitten and landed on their driveway, so there seemed to be a pattern...
Kay was a lovely dog. She was afraid of most men, so we figured she had been beaten by a man, and she was really terrified of any man sporting a beard, which led us to surmise the idiot was a bearded one. Like other huskies and malmutes, she loved to run, and would sometimes take off for a run around the neighbourhood. I was home alone one night, watching tv, when i felt eyes staring at me. I looked out one of the large windows in the living room to see a pair of eyes staring at me unblinkingly. I shouted in surprise, and Kay barked gleefully. She didn't seem to understand that i nearly had a coronary, and wagged her tail.
Zerbe came by to see us nearly every day, and one cold February day, Himself let her in our house. He tried explaining to me that he thought she was cold, and she was after all, old. He didn't understand that by doing this, she now expected to live with us full time. Which, as it turned out, she did.
She was patient with us, seeing that we had possibilities. As Himself noted, she was old when she came to us, and i learnt to make the most of every day we had with her. He pet her, sneezed, and took allergy meds by the truckload. He also fell hopelessly in love with her, and though she came to us old, she lived to be ancient. I was home when she had the seizure that threw her down on the ground. I equated it with suffering a stroke and wanted to put her down right then. He wanted to wait just in case... in case of what? i asked. He talked to the vet who said that we'd know in 24 hours what to do. I knew right then what needed doing. Within 24 hours, Himself did, too, and my vet later said that if ever you wanted to get her to come over right away, have a man call her and break down and sob trying to tell her that the time had come for his pet to be euthanised.
Zerbe was 19 when Himself made that phone call. The vet paid us a house call and refused any money saying that's not what she wanted to be paid for. I baked a loaf of bread for the staff and attached a thank you card.
Himself and i were both very sad afterwards, the way one is whenever a loved one leaves the planet. It was during this season of grief, when for the first time in 7 years he could breathe more easily since there was no animal dander, that he said he could finally understand just how big a sacrifice it was when i said i'd forego living with dogs and cats for him. He didn't appreciate it at the time i said it, and how, after having had a four-footed creature choose us, he doesn't know how i found the strength to be able to say it. I smiled and said that breathing is fundamental, and he was breathing very much more easily now that we were once again pet-less. He looked at me earnestly and said that he'd rather have to take allergy meds the rest of his life than to spend it without a dog or cat in the house, as it was just so damn lonesome without them.
In time, he found Grace, the feral cat whom we rescued, and then Sparky, the barn cat, followed us home on a walk.
His breathing is a bit laboured with cats, but it's really terrible with dogs. So, we content ourselves with felines and pet other people's dogs. Lately, i've been really looking at dogs and thinking how nice it would be to have one live in our home. I don't know how Phoebe and JoJo would like it. I know Himself would love the dog, but given his breathing trouble, i don't think we can risk it. So, to date, we haven't.
Meantime, the next door neighbours have a dog named Kramer, who's happy to receive meat bones from us. I received a free goodies bag at a nearby store, and one of the items is a small bag of dog treats. Those will go to him or a hockey teammate's dog, Izze.
I get wistful when i see neighbours walking their dogs. An acquaintance suggested that i go to the animal shelter and volunteer to walk the dogs. They always seem to need someone to help out, and i'm toying with the idea. I just don't know that i have the fortitude to walk the dogs and love them and leave them at the shelter as they wait for their forever homes.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Carla's Mother's Day Tote Bag and Wallet Giveaway
Carla, yes she of the Sunday night chit chat fame, has made a lovely bag and matching wallet, which she is going to raffle. Everyone can have a chance for $5 (Canadian) between now and 30 April, when she shall draw the lucky winner's name. Each $5 buys another chance.
The monies she receives will go to two charities in honour of her mother and late mother-in-law: The Canadian Cancer Society and the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society of Canada.
I know UK readers already celebrated Mothering Sunday, but we celebrate it a bit later on this side of the Pond.
The monies she receives will go to two charities in honour of her mother and late mother-in-law: The Canadian Cancer Society and the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society of Canada.
I know UK readers already celebrated Mothering Sunday, but we celebrate it a bit later on this side of the Pond.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Sunday night chit-chat 15 April 2012
Carla says this can be a photo or saying.
Phoebe hard at work as a paperweight.
Reading
I am reading My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell. I'm still drooling over Treasure Chests The Legacy of Extraordinary Boxes by Lon Schleining.
Watching
I watched some episodes from the tv show "Frasier," and this was from the first season. Well-written show and great cast.
Listening to
JoJo crunching some kibble. We're all getting ready to turn in for the night.
Cooking/Baking
Made a lovely baked beets and onion dish following a recipe in the "Moosewood Low Fat Cookbook." It's been a long time since i made that recipe, and i can't think as to why, as it's tasty.
Happy you accomplished this week
I was hoping to say, "I got all the tax forms filled out." Not quite; i have two left, but all i have to do is transfer the values and i'm done.
Made a good dent on spring cleaning the kitchen. I've been giving it a lick and a promise for awhile and decided a good scrubbing was in order. I'm about two-thirds of the way there.
Looking forward to next week
Puttering around in the garden a bit. I've got some weeding to do and i'm going to start a few tomato plants.
Thankful for today
Gorgeous weekend! The weather was sunny and warm.
My leg feels nearly 100% so i played hockey this afternoon. There weren't many of us on the ice as kids have off school this week, and many families are away. We started with six-on-six and ended up with three-on-three. Phew! One of my teammates needed to move her boat, and i offered to help if i could. We drove over to the shipyard after hockey. Hauled on the bow spring and stern spring, realising as i did so that my hands have become very soft over the winter. I also didn't have a lot of oomph, though i was glad to be of at least some help. So many neighbours and friends have been so kind and helpful, that it's nice when we can lend a hand.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Theatrical hamper?
Cro was wishing i had a picture of the large baskets i described that J and i had bought a few weeks back. He thought they sounded like theatrical hampers. I had said i did have pictures but couldn't upload them. Now, i can, so here they are:
This is the one I chose.
And this is the one J chose.
This is JoJo, taking her quality control job very seriously.
I washed mine first, and Jo thought it offered just the right amount of camouflage and shade as it was drying.
A few days later, when the weather was once again nice, J washed hers. Here, you can see that hers still has the leather straps.
We had removed the top to allow for easier washing and faster drying.
On the day we bought these, i also bought a cart made out of buffalo hide.
This is a better view of inside.
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