Thursday, July 11, 2013

Pepper the Pooch

I just noticed that I had listed Pepper, our dog, as a "zany puppy" in the description of this blog's cast of characters.

I've changed that to "our standard poodle," because Peps is no longer a puppy, although she is definitely still zany.

Here she is, in all her fuzzy wuzzy glory.

Pepper will be two years old soon, which means she's just about grown out of teenager-dom, in dog terms. Phew!

Dog ownership is a world unto itself, as any dog owner will tell you. So is cat ownership...and I imagine owning something like a rabbit entails some work and adaptation, as well. Now hamsters....they just don't have much impact on one's life. I speak from experience.

Not like dogs and cats do anyway, for sure. Peps is high energy, highly intelligent (in dog IQ) and high-and-mighty. She's the queen-in-waiting around here, and knows it. By that, I don't mean she's the dominant pack leader of the house. That's me.

But she is coddled and loved and petted and cared for to first-world standards, and she seems to know it. What a princess. She will jump through a hoop, sit, shake a paw, lie down, roll over and stay. But will she eat her dry dog food?

Will she tolerate her minions when they attempt to bathe her?

Will she refrain from terrorizing the neighbor's cats?

No. These are her royal rights.

What a gal.

I exercise Peps every day, off leash, so that she can run and jump and hunt squirrels and hop in the lake/river and roll in the green, green grass: in other words, do all the things that first world dogs expect to do.

She's in way better shape than either Anthony or me, as befits the athletic critter that she is. Poodles were originally bred as hunting, herding and retrieving dogs. Peps shows all those keen instincts and would retrieve a ball smartly almost before she could untangle her puppy paws to chase after it. She attempts to herd anything moving, including me, resulting in a lot of tripping and swearing.

And she has a pronounced, quite vicious prey drive. Thus I fear for our neighbor's cats, who seem to have lost any inborn instincts around their own vulnerabilities. They prance across our lawn, just begging for Peps to scoop them up with her gleaming fangs and eat them.

Anthony has had to forcibly pull Pepper off one of these felines when it strolled into our backyard while the princess was loose.

Anyway, I just thought I'd update you about the 5th member of our current household configuration. Puppy she is no more. Big trouble...yes, that's more like it.


Tuesday, July 9, 2013

25

I just attended a 25-year reunion with one of my university graduating classes.

I had maintained friendships with several of those classmates, even though we have lived in different cities for pretty much the entire intervening 25 years.

Others, I hadn't seen since our last day of classes, 25 years ago. Some of them even live right here in Kookytown, and one is just a few blocks away!

It was very nice and interesting to see the attendees, and hear about their lives and experiences over the last two-and-a-half decades.

And it made me realize, once again, that it's important to not sweat the small stuff, and to even not necessarily sweat the somewhat-larger stuff.

The majority of the class have led adventurous, well-employed lives. Some have succeeded spectacularly in their careers, but not so well in their personal lives, and of course, others are in the opposite situation. The very lucky seemed to have lived charmed lives, seemingly succeeding at everything they attempted, and turning to gold everything they touched.

But those types are rare. Most of us have just done relatively well, more-or-less.

A few have faced serious health challenges and luckily surmounted them.

Like I say: the important thing is to maintain your health, and your happiness. The last part, I remain convinced, is by not sweating over every little detail, and just enjoying the journey that is life.

In the end, looking back over the last 25 years, all the worrying, planning and hoping I've subjected myself to could have been eliminated. I would have arrived here, almost right where I am today, I think, anyway.

Monday, July 8, 2013

17-1/2

My son Alex is 17-1/2 and it's summer.

It occurred to me last night as I lay sleepless in a too-warm bed with too many tangled sheets twisted like confounding ropes, that I was 17-1/2, and it was summer too, when my father died.

That was in 1978, and it's become a faded dream, that summer. I can't remember the sound of my dad's voice, not really, because it's been 35 years since last I heard it.

It seems bizarre to contemplate either of my children losing a parent at the age I did. I've become used to thinking about how my life unfolded in those terms, but am startled thinking about such a thing in the context of Alex and Kathleen.

My father wasn't happy all that summer, as I recall. He was a quiet man to begin with, and he was particularly withdrawn, yet testy and jittery at the same time, in the summer of '78.

We were at our cottage in Manitoba, and I had a job at a pizza joint in a nearby town. My nephew and niece spent that summer with us because my brother, their father, was going through a divorce and had custody of them but nowhere to stash them for the summer months. So they came to us from their broken home in Montreal, and there we were.

You'd think it would have been pleasant. The lake was gorgeous: clean, cool and welcoming. I liked my nephew and niece, enjoyed my job and had friends to swim and suntan with. But somehow it wasn't pleasant.

We could see how tightly wound my father was, unhappy with every little thing. My mother would complain in private to me about him, not a good thing to do by a long shot.

"We have to walk on eggshells around him," she'd sniff, and though it was true, I gained no solace from gossiping about my dad behind his back. It only made me irritated with her.

By the end of August, my reticent father had quietly slipped over the edge. He exploded one day, drove off in a cloud of dust with our only vehicle (and we had no phone at that cottage), and left us adrift. I couldn't get to my shifts at the pizza joint, located in a town seven miles away. So I walked a mile in the opposite direction, down dirt-rimed country roads, trying to ignore the heat and flies, arriving in the nearest hamlet from where I called my employer.

Yes, it's true. There were no cell phones back then. 

I can still clearly conjure up the Manitoba Telephone System public pay phone that stood literally in the middle of a field of grass in front of the local candy store. But I cannot remember what lie I told my boss, to gently let him know I wouldn't be coming in for any more shifts that week. He was kind and understanding.

Dog-days dawned and went by, bathing us in blistering, dry heat, the kind the prairies serve up with such mastery. We didn't know where my father'd gone, but assumed he was at our house in Winnipeg. Because of the uneasy relationship my parents enjoyed, I didn't think it strange at all that my mom didn't make the same march I had down the dust-choked road to call from the MTS phone booth and locate him.

Then one day, my brother-in-law, my sister's husband, pulled up behind our cottage. He strode past me into the building, and a minute later, I heard my mother scream.

I ran in and with no ado, no preparation, no "Maybe you better sit down Delia," my mother shrieked out: "Dad's killed himself."

And that was that. Possibly the most distinct sensation I still retain from the week following on that, is of the heat. The funeral took place right after the Labour Day weekend, and that entire week was a scorcher in Manitoba.

My mother and I couldn't return to our house until the brains and blood had been cleaned up. It's pretty amazing that there are services to do this type of thing.

So we stayed at my sister's house, sleeping on a mattress in the basement, which was not the hoity-toitiest accommodation, but was thankfully a cool place in which to get away from the stifling miasma of over-heated air and emotions.

Did I mention that no one had air-conditioned homes back then?

My nephew and niece were bundled onto a plane back to their unhappy home in Quebec, and the funeral took place, a miserable, sweaty affair at which I spent most of the time trying not to cry, but failing spectacularly.

This summer, my son will not work at a pizza joint, or anywhere, because for the second year in a row, he hasn't been able to find even a part-time job. I am given to understand this is fairly common these days with youth unemployment so high.

He won't spend endless sun-kissed days hanging around his family cottage because I too, am divorced, and do not own a cottage. My mother sold the cottage of my childhood two decades after my father passed.

So instead, Alex will experience a patch-work quilt of this-and-that: a weekend in Lake Placid with his father, cycling and camping; another week with us at a cottage I have rented which is very nice, but not as nice as the one in my memories; another weekend camping with his best buddy and their family, etc.

To all our chagrin, he'll have to endure the removal of his wisdom teeth toward the end of August, a week before he returns for grade 12 at Kookytown High.

He'll earn no money, but have fun, get tanned and fit, and experience a radically different type of 17-1/2 than I did. That, I think you'll agree, is probably a very, very good thing.