It's a girl!

Many couples that we know had the "Honey, I think it's time for us to have kids" conversation. We never did. We knew from the beginning that we weren't the parenting kind. That does not mean, however, that we have not had plenty of conversations about bringing life into our home. Only that we talk about bringing furry life into our home.

The issue, however, is that Hubby is a cat person, and I am a dog person. [Insert gasp here] So there was an awful lot of talking, but not a whole lot of agreeing. Here are a couple of sample conversations:

Me: "I grew up with a dog. It sure would be nice if I had one again."

Hubby: "No"

Me: "But you work long hours and I'm here all by myself. I need company!"

Hubby: "You work long hours too."

Me: "Not as long as you!"

Hubby: "That's not really true, is it?"

Me: "But I'll take care of it! You don't even have to do a thing! I'll walk it, and feed it, and pick up after it, and train it!!!"

Hubby: "No."

Me: "My friend just got a wiener dog and he's sooooo cute! Come on! Can we get a wiener dog?"

Hubby: "No."

Me: "Can we get a wiener dog? Can we get a wiener dog? Can we get a wiener dog?"

Hubby: "No. No. No."

Me: "Don't you even love me?"

[long awkward pause]

Hubby [furrowing his brow in deep concentration]: "Yes. But we're not getting a dog."

*****************

Hubby: "Let's get a cat. I grew up with them and I miss having one around."

Me: "Over my dead body."

Hubby: "They're not a lot of work, Jay. Not like that dog idea you are always going on about."

Me: "I hate cats. They're aloof. They lick themselves and then cough up fur balls everywhere. And they track their kitty-litter-soaked paws all over the house. Gross! I'm not having one here."

Hubby: "They're not that bad, Jay."

Me: "Yes. They are. They are assholes. They are just waiting for you to die so that they can eat your organs for breakfast."

Hubby: "What happened to you when you were a kid?"

Me: "Nothing. Why?"

Hubby: "You seem a little aggressive about cats. Why are you okay with the ones that we pet-sit for our friends?"

Me: "Because I know those little assholes are eventually going home."

Hubby: "You're cold, Jay."

Me: "Shhhhh..... I'm trying to watch the football game!"

*************

... and so on, and so on, and so on...

I thought I'd won the conversations would end when I finally convinced Hubby to get a dog, thanks in no small part to the crazy man running around our 'hood hitting women over the head with hammers. And as I watched the ever-deepening bond between Hubby and Fergus, I was sure we both felt that our family was complete. No more conversations about cats! Yay!

Our very first family outing, and the very first picture of Hubby and Fergus together.

Watching t.v. together

Best friends hanging out and playing in the Arboretum

But as it turns out, Mr. Fergus is also a cat person. After pet-sitting a friend's cat for a week (affectionately nicknamed Princess Kitty, but known as Sadie), we discovered that he absolutely loves having a cat around. Particularly this cat. When Sadie left, he pined over her for days and days and days on end, running up and down the stairs as he futilely searched every corner of the house for her, whining and barking the whole time. Which of course, Hubby used against me. Leading to this conversation...

Hubby: "Huh. Will you look at that. It looks like Fergus wants us to get a cat!"

Me: "Shut up."

Hubby: "Are you really going to say no to Fergus? Look at him! He's miserable and lonely. He needs a little friend around."

Me: "Shut up."

Hubby: "Really, Jay. What happened to you?"

Me: "I'm going to punch you in the face."

***********

Things only got worse for me when Sadie came to live with us for a year after her human got an excellent career opportunity in California. The deal was that she would take Sadie back when she returned to Canada. But with each passing day, Hubby became more and more used to having a cat around. And Fergus was more and more thrilled to have a constant companion and playmate (by playmate, I mean something that he could herd up and down the stairs). Even Sadie started to relax into her new setting, getting particularly attached to the F-Bomb, mewling and howling whenever he wasn't around for her to torture.

Soon, we were a mere month away from our friend's return. As the time drew nearer and nearer to sending Sadie home, I started to dread having to give her back. I worried that her departure would lead to a renewed debate about whether or not to get a cat. I worried that Fergus and Hubby would mope around the house for weeks on end. I even worried that Sadie would be a little sad without her big, dumb, high-strung friend around to mercilessly taunt.

Damn it!

And so it was that, over the Christmas holidays, Hubby and I had one more conversation about growing our family.

Me: "I don't know who will be more depressed when she is gone. You or Fergus."

Hubby: "Ahem.... Definitely Fergus."

Me: "I'm not so sure about that. You want to keep her, don't you?"

Hubby: "Ahem... ahem... Well, Fergus wants to keep her. That's for sure."

Me: "And you?"

Hubby: cough, cough, sputter, sputter "Yes."

*********

The next day, Hubby sent our dear friend a note that went something like this:

You love Sadie. And Jay and I love Fergus. I know that we all want to do what is right for our pets. They have become best friends, and I worry that separating them may not be the best thing for them. If you agree, Jay and Fergus and I have a loving home waiting for Sadie.

....

And so now, we have a cat.

I am still firmly in the dog-person camp. And I still get grossed out by her kitty-litter soaked paws. And I make Hubby clean the kitty litter because I refuse to touch it. But even I have to admit that she has weasled her way into a tiny little corner of my heart. The way she comes running to the door alongside Fergus to greet us when we come home. The way she cuddles up to me as I am doing my post-run stretching routine. The way she curls up in my lap when I'm watching t.v. or reading a book.

Fine! I admit it. I like her. And I'm glad that we adopted her into our home. She makes our little family complete.

She may be an asshole. But now she is my asshole.

Welcome home, Sadie. And thanks, JJ, for making it all possible.

Sadie has become the real boss. She gets the dog bed, the dog hides under the table.

Unless she is in a good mood. Then she will share.

I run with Fergus. But I do my post-run stretching with Sadie

A family moment - Sadie cuddled on my lap and Fergus at my feet

Hubby and his herd hanging out watching t.v.

A rare quiet moment - Sadie hunkered down for a nap. She is actually pretty cute when she sleeps.

Taking a break from chasing and swatting at each other. 

It's a tough life, but someone's got to love a sommelier

I like wine. A lot. (Hiccup)

So you would think that I consider myself one lucky lady to be married to a trained sommelier. I never have to worry about what wine to serve with what I am cooking, because Hubby takes care of that. I rarely run out of wine because we have a cellar. And I go on all of these great vacations to wine destinations, like Bordeaux. What the heck is not to love!

But I gotta tell you... It's not always easy to be married to a sommelier. For instance, I can't enjoy a glass of wine without first being forced to stick my nose deep into the glass to determine its "nose". And I get in trouble when my answer is "grapes". "Come on Jay," Hubby will say with some measure of exasperation. "You must get [insert green peppers or caramel or tobacco or jam or any other appropriate wine smell here]. It's so obvious!" And heaven forbid I have a Malbec when I'm not eating barbecue meat, even if I really just feel like a Malbec. "It doesn't go with white fish, Jay. You can't have a Malbec with that. Here. Try [insert name of wine that goes well with white fish here] instead." Oh, and that wine cellar we have? I'm not allowed to take a bottle from it without first consulting the house sommelier. Seriously. I'm a grown woman, and. I. am. not. allowed. to. choose. wine. from. the. cellar. on. my. own. But don't worry. I am allowed to touch the "every day" upstairs supply whenever I want. "Every day" being code for "the stuff that the dumb girl who doesn't understand wine can have."

Perhaps the most difficult thing about being married to a sommelier is that Hubby is a member of a wine guild (sounds positively Middle Ages, wouldn't you say). I end up going to an awful lot of wine events, where I am surrounded by a whole lot of people who know a whole lot more than me. With their sophisticated palettes and their love of debating one another about the merits of a super Tuscan over a Côte de Rhone, I haven't got a chance of being the life of the party, a role I hold dear. Because you see, when you are not a wine connoisseur, going to a wine guild event is kind of like being an antelope stumbling right into the lion's den. Chances are pretty good that you will be the centre of attention, but for all the wrong reasons. You're likely to get eaten alive. Especially if the most insightful thing you can say about the glass of wine you are sipping is that it tastes like grapes.

Yes, as much as I love wine, wine events make me feel positively insignificant. And oh so very out of place.

But I am a supportive wife. So the same way that Hubby humours my blue collar passions like Springsteen and football, I cater to his love of trying to be the smartest wine professional in the room by going to guild events with him.

Some of them are really quite fun. Like the "speed dating" event where we worked our way around a room full of wineries, 8 minutes per winery table, sampling their award winning wines. Pretty effective way to get a Tuesday night buzz on in less than an hour, if you ask me.

And then there was the reception at the Argentinian embassy, where not only did I get to taste about 25 of my favourite varietal (Malbec), but I also met a talented Argentinian artist and purchased some of his beautiful art, which, one of these days, I will actually hang on a wall...

But by far, the best guild event is the yearly holiday dinner, refreshingly held after Christmas instead of before, and hosted by one of Ottawa's premier chefs. It is a five course food and wine pairing that makes foodies, sommeliers, and even regular folk like me, weep. And this year's dinner was just last night.

The first year that we went, I was seriously intimidated at the thought of being seated at a table full of wine experts and being forced into conversations about wine with them. So I adopted a strategy. Trophy wife. I was going to play the part of a trophy wife. Surely that would earn me some attention. Hubby could regale our table mates with stories about wine and I would charm the pants off of them by being the best dressed person and by making people laugh. So I went out and dropped an absurdly high amount of money on a sparkly holiday outfit, complete with new shoes and jewelry. Surely my lack of wine knowledge would go unnoticed!

It did go unnoticed. But not because of anything I did to divert attention away from my ignorance. But because wine lovers are really, really, really focused on their wine. And they don't really concern themselves with the fact that you can't contribute to the conversation, because they are happy to fill the void with the sound of their own wine-soaked voices. So I spent most of the meal in silence, a remarkably different scenario than most dinners I attend where I can't be shut up.

Still, dressing up is not something that a football-loving Springsteen fan gets to do very often. It's nice to get all dolled up for a fancy event once a year, even if it doesn't result in me being the centre of attention. So we keep going back. If for no other reason than I like to wear pretty dresses!

2013 dinner

2014 dinner - I don't know why I am squinting so much... This picture was taken before we started drinking all the wine...

And of course, there is the food. It is incredible. Where else would I ever try veal tongue pastrami. Yes, you read that right. And yes, it was delicious. This isn't a food blog, so I didn't take pictures of all of the courses so that I could describe them back to you in vivid detail. Just believe me when I say that no calorie was left behind last night. Even if I have to be in a bathing suit on the beaches of Jamaica in a mere ten-days time.

And you know what? Over the years, these events have actually become a little less intimidating. Partly because some of Hubby's knowledge is starting to rub off on me (but don't you dare tell him I said that). But mostly because those who know and love wine are simply very passionate people who love nothing more than to share their passion with you. They're not showing off. They're sharing their knowledge in the hopes that you will be as excited as they are and that you will find beauty in the sediment left behind in your wine glass just as they do. And when you finally accept that you don't have to be the centre of attention at each and every event that you attend, you can sit back, relax, meet some pretty fantastic people, laugh a little, and see a whole new and wonderful world unfold in front of you.

Oh yeah. And you can drink some damn good wine. Wine that tastes and smells like grapes. Damn good grapes.

Quirky Canadiana at its finest - 101st Grey Cup in Regina

Last Friday, Hubby and I were relaxing at the Ottawa airport bar, having a beer and waiting for our flight to Regina, connecting through Toronto. Flying in winter can be dicey in Canada, but the weather looked good in all three cities, and I had checked the status of the flights before we got to the airport. No delays were reported, and all looked to be clear sailing.

And then, midway through my beer, I got an alert on my iPhone. AC465 to Pearson delayed. "Oh shit," I muttered. "What's wrong," said Hubby. "Our flight to Toronto is delayed, and we've got a really tight connection to make it to Regina." "Let's go see what this is all about," said Hubby.

And so off we went to the RapidAir desk. Where an Air Canada agent informed us that heavy winds in Toronto had closed down all but one runway - for inbound and outbound flights - at Pearson. "But don't worry," he said, "we still think you'll make the connection, and we're working on back-up plans just in case. We'll at least try to get you to Winnipeg tonight. And if you don't make it all the way through, we'll put you up in a hotel."

There was nothing to do but wait. So we waited. We waited while boarding was delayed by 30 minutes. We pulled away from the gate and then waited on the tarmac for another 30 minutes before leaving. We waited while we circled Pearson a few times because the one open runway wasn't ready for us to land yet. Finally, we landed. And it was 9:15 pm. One hour and twenty minutes later than intended. And five minutes after the flight to Regina was scheduled to depart.

As soon as we could turn on our cell phones, I checked to see if the flight to Regina was delayed. It was showing on time. "We missed it," I said. "Maybe they can get us to Winnipeg tonight and my sister can drive us to Regina tomorrow. It's only a 6 hour drive. I'm sure she won't mind."

Before Hubby could tell me what a stupid idea that was, one of the air flight attendants announced that the pilot of AC1119 to Regina was holding the plane. She kindly asked those not trying to make this connection to sit back and let those of us who were exit the plane first. This, of course, did not happen. But we made it off the plane quickly enough, and ran through the terminal to the right gate. There were about a dozen of us, all breathlessly handing our boarding passes and i.d. to the gate attendants.

We've all been on a plane stuck at the gate because it is waiting for the couple of stragglers. I admit it - I hate it when that happens. I usually mutter under my breath at the jerks responsible for making me sit in a plane a minute longer than I have to. So I was quite sure that we would face some fairly surly people when we boarded that plane. I put my head down - to avoid making eye contact - and shuffled onto the plane. But there was no grumbling. Only cheering. "Yay! You guys made it!" and "We were worried you wouldn't get to Regina in time!" and "Thank goodness the pilot held the plane for you!" Hubby and I got high-fives all the way down the row as we made our way to our seats at the back of the plane.

At any other time of the year, I would be willing to bet that the pilot would not have held the plane. That the passengers would not have so patiently and willingly waited for us, nor cheered us as we boarded. And that Air Canada would not have offered to put us up in a hotel were we not to make it to our destination. But at any other time of the year, the whole nation is not converging onto one city to celebrate that most Canadian and most quirky of events.

Yes, welcome to Canada in the days leading up to the Grey Cup.

Those of you with nothing better to do who follow this blog know that I am a regular Grey Cup pilgrim. Even when my team doesn't have a hope of making it there (it's okay, Winnipeg. I know we're rebuilding). And even when it takes me into the arctic chill of Regina in November. After all, that was my excuse for finally purchasing one of these bad boys:

I might have spent a small fortune on this Canada Goose parka...

The tight connection through Toronto was not my only challenge in getting to Grey Cup this year. First, there was booking a hotel. Hubby and I tried to book a hotel back in December of last year. But all these Grey Cup tour promoters bought up large blocks of rooms in advance so they could sell ridiculously overpriced ticket-and-room-packages. And with Regina being as small as it is, that meant buying up all the rooms in town. They even bought up all the rooms in hotels that were yet to be built! There was not a room to be had in all of Regina. Even neighbouring Moose Jaw, about 70k down the TransCanada highway, had no rooms available. For a while, it looked like Hubby and I were going to sleep in a snowbank outside of the stadium. Luckily, through a friend of a friend of a friend, we found the one Regina-ite who was leaving town for Grey Cup weekend, and we rented her townhouse. Which turned out to be much better than staying in a hotel anyway. Take that! - all you suckers who paid thousands of dollars to stay at the Super 8!

Then there was getting the tickets. Season ticket holders in the host city always get first dibs, followed by season ticket holders across the league, followed by the rest of the country. I hold season tickets with a good friend of mine in Montreal, and so I wasn't too worried about getting four tickets. But I didn't realize that we would be offered the worst seats in the whole place. I don't want to complain because at least we got tickets. But those who entered the lottery for the third wave of seats - you know, the guys who get to go after league season ticket holders and who weren't supposed to have any guarantees of even getting tickets - got great seats along the 40 yard-line. Ours, on the other hand, were in the corner of the end zone. In the temporary stands. Where there is absolutely no coverage from that cold, howling, prairie wind. Cra-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-p-py! Here's the view:

Hard to see from way back here... At least that sky is spectacular!

It gets cold in those stands! Bundle up!

Okay, so the game-day view kind of sucked. But Grey Cup - even for the most hardened fan of the game like me - is about so much more than these four quarters.

It's about two great teams who battled hard all year to play in the big game. This year, the Saskatchewan Roughriders in the West, and the Hamilton Tiger-Cats in the East.

VS.

It's about their fans who come from across the country to see them play. In this case, Saskatchewan ex-pats returned to their home province in droves. And the infamous "Box J Boys", who've held season tickets in Box J of Ivor Wynn stadium in Hamilton since its construction, donned their kilts and descended on the prairies.

Photo courtesy of the Hamilton Spectator

It's about all the other devoted (and crazy) CFL fans who don their team colours with pride. Even when their team isn't playing. Even though their team had a horrible re-building season. Even when their team doesn't even exist yet (Hubby represented you well, soon-to-be Ottawa RedBlacks).

Representing our teams!

It's about spending time with old friends, and making new ones along the way. Both of which always seem to involve beer...

Finally meeting my fellow Twitter trash-talker. Of course, he has to be a Rider fan.

Taking a break from the cold outside to come into the Underground Tent and enjoy some music - and beer - with friends.

It's about meeting some rather interesting characters... Like this guy:

Green Simmons. I can't make this up...

...or this guy, who must have frozen his arse off in those temporary stands:

Cowboy Saskatchewan?

It's about RiderNation, the members of which are the craziest of the crazy CFL fans (you saw the picture of "Green" Simmons above, right). Especially this year - when the game was on their turf and you could not turn around without running into a wall of green or stumbling over a watermelon. They even got their storybook ending. Hosting only their third Grey Cup, and winning only their fourth, their team - which they so passionately love and support - gave them an early Christmas gift. RiderNation, I'm sure, has never been so pumped. And while it pains this Bomber fan to say it, Congratulations, RiderNation. I really am happy for you (and my fingers aren't even crossed behind my back... mostly because I wouldn't be able to type if they were).

The Green Mile - RiderNation takes over the streets of Regina after the game
Photo courtesy of the Regina Leader Post

Dwight Anderson hoisting the Grey Cup during a victory parade at the Saskatchewan Legislature
Photo courtesy of the Regina Leader Post

Even Fergus, who faithfully watches every Bomber game with me, became an honorary member of RiderNation this year. Of course, that's because he was brainwashed by the people who care for him while I'm away... But if sharing this picture doesn't show you how happy I am for you, Rider fans, I don't know what will!

Photo courtesy of Dogs at Camp Ottawa

Grey Cup really is that one week of the year when we all put aside our team rivalries and support one another in our mutual love of Canadian football. We take a time out from our regular lives to embrace our quirkiness. We meet each other again, or we see each other for the first time. We share a few laughs together. We drink beer together. And we do it all in a parka and a pair of sorels.

Is there anything more Canadian than that?

Probably not.

See you next year in Vancouver.

And away we go

The herd as been dispersed as Hubby and I embark on another adventure!

Princess Kitty, who is back in our lives for a few months, is hanging out with our neighbour for the next 2 weeks. Last I saw her, she was running around the house, meowing uncontrollably as we did our last minute packing. I do believe it is because she misses the F-bomb, who was dropped off at puppy camp early Friday morning. I am sure that Fergus missed us for 2 minutes, but if Facebook can be trusted, he is now having the time of his life herding all of the dogs who are camping out for the May long weekend. I am sure that by now, he has forgotten who we are.  

No matter - because we are completely unplugged from our lives back home. The blackberry has been left behind, I have no idea who is leading who in any of the Stanley Cup playoff series, and I can barely remember my home phone number. I AM ON VACATION!!!!!

So what am I doing, you ask? Well, about six or so months ago, as I was reading through the blogs that I follow, I came across a rumour that Springsteen was gearing up for another leg of his Wrecking Ball tour, this time in Europe.

"Hubby!" I said.  "Springsteen is going to Europe!"

"Uh-huh," he said, barely glancing up at me from his community newspaper. 

"Let's go see him in Europe!" I said. 

"Uh-huh," he mumbled.

And so it was that a few days later, when the rumours were confirmed and the dates were announced, I found myself setting my alarm for 3:00 in the morning so that I could wake up and purchase tickets to see The Boss in Munich. 

(Incidentally, Hubby doesn't remember agreeing to this. I tell him that he should simply pay more attention to me, and less attention to his community. So there!)

But back to our story. 

Why Munich?  Quite simply, I've never been to Germany. And Springsteen announced 4 shows in Germany, but not in any other country.  And so I figure that he must really like Germans, and they must really like him. So I must really like Germans too. And frankly, how could they not like me. 

Whatever. I'm going to see Springsteen in Munich!!!!!

Along the way, we've built in a couple of other stops. London, Vienna, and, wait for it, Winnipeg. That's right kids, we're rounding out our trip with a stop in Winnipeg!  A cousin's wedding, my niece's 16th birthday, and of course, the hamam at Ten Spa. Sure to be the most relaxing bit of this trip...

I've never used this blog to chronicle my travels, but I figure why the hell not! Neat things happen to us when we hit the road - or the skies, as the case may be - so why not tell you all about it. And I thought I would begin with the top 10 reasons why Hubby and I are the world's worse travellers, who could never be on The Amazing Race. 

10 - I can't sleep on planes. I can drink a bottle of wine and take 6 gravol before hopping on an overnight flight, but I. Can. Not. Sleep. Not good when the only times you really have to grab some shut eye are when you are in the air. 

9 - When I do manage to catch a few zzzz's, I do so in the most dangerously unnatural position I can squeeze myself into in these miniature spaces that pass for airplane seats. Meanwhile, the coldest of cold, recycled, germ-infested airplane air blows down my neck, causing it to seize up and lock into place, and thus decreasing my mobility for at least a few days. 

8 - I can't leave the airport without getting a proper coffee. Which, by the way, is slightly difficult to sip on without spilling when your neck is jammed at a 45 degree angle. But can you blame me??? We just took the overnight flight, I've had a bottle of wine and 6 gravol, and I only got maybe 30 minutes of sleep! You bet your ass I need a coffee!

7 - Neither one of us has any bladder control. It doesn't matter if there is a million dollars on the line - when one of us has to go to the washroom, we have to go RIGHT. NOW. 

6 - But one of us - I won't say who - does not like to have to pay for the luxury of using a toilet. And so, rather than simply cough up 35 pence in Paddington Station, this person instead runs around from bathroom to bathroom, until after 10 minutes and 6 bathrooms, he/she realizes that all of them require 35 pence.

5 - All the while, the other of us follows in exasperation, screaming "Just pay the 35 pence so we can get the hell out of here!" But during this time, this other one doesn't think to use the washroom him/herself, and only realizes about ten minutes later, when the couple is about to enter the Underground station where there are no toilets, that he/she won't make it for an hour on the tube. So the couple has to reemerge to the surface with all of their luggage so that the other one can also visit the W.C.  And now they are down 70 pence, and at least 25 minutes behind schedule.

4 - Our suitcases are way too big. I mean really, could we be MORE North American? How are you supposed to carry two big suitcases up and down flights of stairs in the Underground, or weave through the London throngs? And another thing - why the hell aren't there more elevators and escalators in these damn Underground stations? Do they think no one uses he tube to get to and from the airport? None of this is helping my Hunchback of Notre Dame-seque stance, either!

3 - We are too trusting of others who give us directions. Bakerloo line to King's Cross, my ass! Sabotage! This little mix-up cost us at least 20 minutes as we had to double back and then get to the complete opposite end of the station to get onto the Hammersmith line. Which, may I remind you, is a pain in the ass to do when carrying everything you own in a large roller suitcase!

2 - I am too easily distracted by pretty shiny things displayed strategically in shop windows.  As evidenced by the 40£ dent in my wallet as a result of a lovely scarf display that I just had to take a closer look at. 

1 - Hubby is just too damn nice.  And when you want to get somewhere quickly, this is a damn problem. You shouldn't be opening doors for people and letting them go before you! You should have your elbows up and muscle your way through! And there is no time for conversations with people when on the train! That's how you miss your stop! Seriously - why can't he be just a little bit more like me: mean and aggressive!!

Okay, so we won't be winning any million dollar prizes. But I suppose we do have a lot of fun together, and that has to count for something. Plus, we are bound to have some good stories to share! So stay tuned!

Farewell, primate

Perhaps you remember this post. Or this one. Or finally this one. All about Fergus and his Monkey.

If you've been following this story, or if you are just reading it for the first time, here's the Cole's notes version:

• Fergus destroys all of his toys within a matter of days, even those that are supposedly the toughest of the tough;
• I found a Monkey with tear-proof seams and bought it;
• The lady at the pet store told me to keep it among my things for about a week so that it would pick up my smell, which would mean that Fergus would be more gentle with it;
• Monkey slept in my bed and lived in my clothes basket for a week before I gave him to Fergus, who proceeded to whip him around violently, as he does with every other toy he owns;
• Nonetheless, Monkey held on, sustaining some minor damage to his tail, which Fergus chewed through;
• Fergus and Monkey have been best friends for two whole months now, and are still going strong.

Make that were going strong. 

That's right. Last night, our little herd suffered its first tragedy of 2013.

It started innocently enough...

Fergus was running around the house, sniffing in all the usual hiding spaces. Up and down the stairs he went, over and over again. The second floor, the first floor, the basement. Running around every single room in the house, sniffing away.

"What's up with him?" Hubby asked.

"He's looking for Monkey," I said. "Do you know where he is?"

"Yeah," said Hubby. "He's in the closet."

"Why don't you open the closet door and see if he will find Monkey," I asked.

And so off Hubby went to open the linen closet door. When he came back downstairs, he looked at the Beast and said, "Find Monkey!"

And like a bolt of lightening, Fergus was climbing the stairs, and about 3 seconds later, he came back with Monkey hanging out of his mouth and a smile beaming across his snout.

We played tug for a few minutes. Then we played some fetch. Then we played some Monkey hide-and-seek. And then, by 8:30, all three of us were beat. So we retired to the t.v. room to watch some Yes, Prime Minister and catch a few laughs. 

Just another Thursday night at our place. (Exciting, I know...)

Fergus settled in nicely at our feet on his dog bed, perching his head on Monkey as though his best pal was his pillow. 

And then things got quiet. Too quiet, when Monkey is around, frankly. I turned the volume down on the tv, and heard a distinct sucking sound. I peered over the edge of the couch, and spotted Fergus sucking on Monkey's head as though it were a pacifier. 

"Ah... Cute!" I said. "Hubby, look at our boy!"

"Turn the volume back up!" Hubby said. "I'm trying to watch this show!"

The grouch and I went back to watching the show. When the episode was over a few minutes later, I got up to go to bed, and reached down to pet Fergus. And that's when I saw it:

Monkey's ear. The sucking sound from earlier? That was Fergus, sucking the ear right off.

And where Monkey's ear used to be, there was just a big, gaping hole, with beautiful white mounds of stuffing ripe for the picking.

Fergus was well on his way to performing a full scale lobotomy, thus wreaking digestive hell on his delicate belly.

What choice did I have? I took Monkey away, shot a few pictures so that I could keep you all updated, and laid him to rest n the garbage can under our sink.

It sounds like such an awful demise. But when you think about it, Monkey had a damn good life. He lasted 2 months and 4 days. That is about 2 months more than every other stuffed toy Fergus has ever had. Not a bad run!

So what have we learned from this little experiment? First, making a toy smell like me does not lead Fergus to be more gentle with it. Second, some toys are clearly made with better stitching than others. Monkey was one of those toys. Three, I am going to spend a fortune on toys for Fergus over the span of our lives together. But that's okay. Because they make him happy. Which means they make me happy too.

Which is why we already had another toy ready and waiting for him for just such an occasion.

Let's see how long you last, Kong Wubba. We'll call you "Red".

In with the new

The first morning of 2013 could not have been more perfect. Although there was a little nip in the air (okay, a big nip in the air, as it was -22 with the windchill), there was not a cloud in the sky. So, with a fresh coffee in my hand and a broadcast of "This American Life" playing on my iPhone, Fergus and I set out for our first trip to the Arboretum of the new year. We spent two hours outside together, running through knee-deep-on-me and belly-deep-on-him snow, playing fetch, and greeting every dog that came our way. It was a perfect start to 2013. (Except for the part where I threw his fancy, brand new frisbee over the fence and into the parking lot of a Honda dealership.... Oops...)

Sitting nice, waiting for me to throw his frisbee 

Chewing on his frisbee

So much fresh snow!

Running through piles and piles of the stuff

We came home to a freshly cleaned house - including mopped floors - courtesy of Hubby. Which Fergus promptly messed up again by tracking snow and ice through the entire house. Nonetheless, it was nice to catch a glimpse of clean floors, if only for a millisecond.

The floors (and bathrooms and all other surfaces) were sparkling so because Hubby and I were getting ready to greet our nearest and dearest to our 8th annual New Year's Day Levee. What is a levee, you ask? Worry not. I did not know what a levee was either, until I married Hubby. A levee is a fancy word for an open house, and evidently, this is a very East coast thing to do on New Year's Day. Of course, it is normally the lieutenant governor of the province throwing such an event (for my American friends, that would be the Queen's representative). Hubby and I like to believe that we are equally important. And so while he finished cleaning, I rushed around my kitchen like a mad woman for 4 hours, putting the finishing touches on the way-too-much-food-again-this-year that I was preparing.

I will stop here and blow my own horn for a moment. I never, and I mean never ever ever, serve finger foods from a box. You know, the ones that come frozen and you throw them on a cookie sheet and bake them. No. Instead, I always make them from scratch. Which amounts to an awful lot of stress for a few hours days. This year's menu included:
- goat cheese crostini with blood orange and black pepper marmalade;
- marinated chicken kebabs with lemon pepper yogurt sauce;
- mini crab cakes;
- homemade hummus and pita chips;
- figs and mascarpone cheese wrapped in prosciutto;
- veggies and dip;
- homemade chocolate chip cookies;
- homemade rum balls; and
- strawberry, lime and champagne cocktail.

Why do I make the holidays even more stressful by going through all this trouble? Because I like to cook. And because I like my friends. And this is my little way of showing them how much I like them.

(But mostly because I have an A-type, ultra-perfectionist personality, and I can't stand the thought of not being the best hostess in the whole world).

Delicious! (And yes, those are Winnipeg Blue Bombers oven mitts in the background...) 

Still delicious, but from another angle. With Fergus supervising form the background. 

There is always booze at a New Year's Day Levee. Including champagne punch. Hair of the dog and all... 

All those tears and that swearing that work is worth it once we open our doors to our friends, who trickle in and out in shifts throughout the day. And really, is there any better way to usher in the New Year? Well, if there is, we haven't found it yet. Which is why next year, we will surely host the 9th annual levee at the same time next year. Although perhaps next time, we will leave Fergus somewhere a little more quiet, as all of the in-and-out and doorbell-ringing is a little stressful on his overly excitable mind...

And so with that, my friends, I bid you the happiest of starts to your New Year. I hope that your 2013 started with a bang, as did mine, and that you make the most of your time with family and friends this year.

An experiment

This is Monkey.

You might be asking yourself a couple of questions. Like, "Can't you come up with a better name for a stuffed monkey?" Or "Why is he sticking his hands up?" Or most likely, "What the hell is a grown woman doing with a stuffed, green monkey in her bed?" (Yes, that is my unmade bed. Nice sheet set, n'est-ce pas?)

All perfectly reasonable questions. With answers.
- No, I can not come up with a better name than Monkey, but feel free to give me some suggestions.
- Perhaps he is trying to jump out at me in surprise. Or he is dancing. Or he is being robbed.
- I am conducting an experiment.

Let me elaborate on this final point lest you think that it is a little weird for a grown woman to have a stuffed, green monkey in her bed for the purposes of conducting an experiment...

Monkey is not mine. He belongs to Fergus. Or at least he will once I take those pesky price tags off of him, take him out of the bed, and give him to the dog.

You see, Fergus LOVES his toys. A little too much. You may remember the tragic demise of his beloved Rochester Q. Squirrel. More recently, I bought him what I thought would be the ultimate, indestructible, stuffed dog bone, with a so-called "Tuffy rating" of 9 out of 10. Which he promptly destroyed in less than 4 hours. After tiring of tossing it around and playing tug, he attacked the corner seam with meticulous precision until he could wriggle his snout all the way inside, pulling out reams and reams of stuffing. Which he then ate. Which led to some, er, unpleasant digestive issues...

So I was a little nervous when, after spending the day with Auntie K, he came home with...

...Ms. Hedgehog. Also known as Henrietta. A stuffed animal with lots and lots of vulnerable seams to rip open, felt toes to rip off, and chalk full of stuffing. This could not end well - not for Henrietta, and certainly not for the Beast's digestive system...

But oh my how he loved Henrietta... I mean, I know I said that about the squirrel, but this was different. His eyes lit up with excitement every time he heard "Where's Hedgehog?" We'd hide her in every closet and under every pile of clothes in the house, and he would sniff his way all over the place until he rescued her. We would throw her up and down the stairs and down the hall, and he would chase after her like an Olympic sprinter. When we would tire of playing with her, we would put her on a shelf just above his reach, and he would whine until we would take her down again. He carried her everywhere around the house with him. Whenever it was time to have a rest, he'd lie down with her. I even caught him carrying her upstairs for bedtime, and found him using her as a pillow when I woke up the next morning. No toy has ever captured his heart like Henrietta did.

I started to think that maybe he was over his need to destroy his toys at all cost. Maybe the promise of stuffing was nothing compared to the love and companionship of this squeaky hedgehog. I mean, it had been two weeks, and she was still in tact. Not once did he try to rip off a limb or go after a seam. Maybe he was finally learning to be gentle with the things that he loves!

And then, one morning, while my father was visiting, he and Fergus were playing fetch with Henrietta. Fetch turned into a particularly rousing game of tug. And then we all heard it.  RRR-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-PPPPPPPPP!

Followed by a collective "GGG-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-S-S-S-S-S-PPPPP!!!"

I rushed to the scene to survey the damage. And there it was. Just behind Henrietta's hind left leg. A small hole. And a clear path to fluffy white stuffing.

I knew immediately that it was over for Henrietta. As soon as Fergus got a whiff of her insides, he would not be able to control himself. Still, I held out a faint hope that he would not destroy his beloved hedgehog. And so, I tossed her up the stairs, and he ran after her as fast as he could. He brought her back to me, lay down at my feet, and began to gnaw on her injured leg.

I took her away from him, and threw her again. Like a lightening bolt, he flashed across the hallway to retrieve her. He brought her back to me, dropped her at my feet, and just as I bent down to throw her again, he picked her up and trotted off to his favourite spot on the stairs, and proceeded to work at undoing the seams.

It was a solemn affair, having to take her away from him, but I knew that it had to be done. And so I walked over to him, picked her up, and carried her away to her resting place... in the garbage under our kitchen sink. Confused and hurt, the Beast looked up at me with his saddest brown eyes, whined sullenly a few times, then let out a great big sigh of despair.

It was terribly sad.

We tried enticing him to play with other, unstuffed toys. Like his squeaky rubber ball or his braided tug rope. But they could not hold his attention for very long. Hide and seek just isn't the same without Henrietta.

Which brings us back to Monkey. Hubby and I were visiting our favourite pet food store to replenish the Beast's food stocks over the weekend, when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the stuffed animal section. "Do you really think that is a good idea, Jay?" Hubby asked. "He's just going to destroy it anyway. Maybe it's time we gave up on stuffed animals."

"But they make him so happy!" I exclaimed! "I want to see him having fun with his toys again. He's been so pathetic since Henrietta has been gone. It's breaking my heart!"

As we argued back and forth about whether or not to replace dear Ms. Hedgehog, a store attendant overheard us and stepped forward. First, she pointed out the "more durable" (a term I use rather loosely given our track record) stuffed toys. Then she offered this advice: "If you take this toy home right now and give it to your dog right away, all it will represent to him is excitement. But if you hang on to it for a couple of days, and bury it in your bed or your clothes hamper, so that it picks up your smell, your dog will associate it with you. And he wouldn't want to rip your arms off, would he? I bet you he will be more gentle with it once he picks up your scent all over it."

Politely, I nodded my head and gave her a heartfelt, "Wow, what a great idea! I can't believe I didn't think about that!" But in reality, my inside voice was saying, "Yeah right, lady. You've never met my dog. Jaws-'o-death over there is not likely to stop himself from destroying something that smells like me...." Still, I figured it was worth a try. I am, after all, a trained social scientist, and I can't resist this opportunity to decipher the behaviour of another sentient being.

So, we brought Monkey home. And since Sunday, he has been hidden in our bed, or underneath that big pile of clothes that always seems to be on my bedroom floor. And in a few more days, when he is doused in "eau-de-Jay-and-Hubby", we'll give him to Fergus.

...And see just how long it takes for him to destroy something that reminds him of his two favourite people on earth....

Why do I have a feeling that this will not end well...

Stay tuned...

The meaning of life

An interesting side effect of getting a dog is that I have begun to read a lot of books about dogs.

Now I've always been an avid reader. When I was nine years old, I spent my summer vacation reading all nine volumes of Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House on the Prairie. (What a geek!) Over the years, my tastes have bounced all over the map: non-fiction, political biographies, CanLit, fantasy, and historical fiction. But I'd never really read a book about canines until I picked up A Dog Year by Jon Katz, lent to me by a friend when I started talking about adopting a dog of my own. Now, almost two years later, my book shelves - physical and electronic - are filled with "doggie lit". Books about training, books about herding, books about breeds, (auto)biographical works about dogs and their people, and most recently, novels about dogs.

One of the most recent books that I read is called A Dog's Purpose by W. Bruce Cameron.

I first stumbled across it last Easter long weekend, when I ended up stranded at Regan International Airport for four very long hours. After drinking a couple of overly-expensive and even-more-overly-watered-down American beers in the airport bar, I wandered over to the bookstore. And there it was - this little black doggie snout looking up at me from a blue cover. "Huh. I wonder what this is?" I said to myself. So I picked it up and started to read Chapter 1. And quickly realized that the novel was written from the perspective of a newborn pup. Cute, right?

So I bought it. And finally got around to reading it this summer. Without giving too much of it away, this book is about a dog (d'uh) who lives a number of lives (it's not just for felines anymore). Four, in fact. Each time he dies, he comes back as another dog - a different breed, sometimes a different sex, who lives a very different life surrounded by very different people in very different circumstances. About mid-way through his lives, he realizes that he is going to keep coming back as another dog until he fulfills his true purpose in life. He spends a great deal of time trying to figure out what that true purpose might be. And every time he thinks that he has figured it out and that he will escape reincarnation, he opens his eyes and finds himself a suckling pup yet again.

On each new quest, the hero understands that his life has meaning because of what he does for the humans around him. And all of his lives bring him back full circle to helping one human in particular, who is in dire need of friendship and loyalty. And therein lies the message behind the book. Dogs love humans with selfless abandon. Their needs, their wants, and their desires are ultimately sacrificed so that they can fulfill their destiny as "man's best friend."

I do have to admit that this touching tale made me cry a little a lot. And like any crazy dog person who reads novels about dogs good dog owner, I could not help but think about my own wee Fergus as I read the lovable protagonist and his many personalities.

Now admittedly, there are times when I don't think that Fergus really cares too much about what Hubby and I want, and that all meaning in his life revolves around fulfilling his basest needs. Why else would he terrorize the neighbourhood children by barking at the top of his lungs whenever they play out on the street. Or jump in the swampy, disgusting, smelly Arboretum pond when I tell him not to. Or roll around in rotting plant material that sticks to his fur for days on end. Or go on periodic hunger strikes in a bid to get us to feed him human food instead of kibble. Or howl at the church bells like a dog possessed when we walk down the street. Or... well, you get the picture. He does a lot of things that aren't exactly designed to make me happy...

So then what the heck is his purpose? Surely, it can't be to drive me crazy with his bad behaviour?

For days after finishing the book, I tried to figure out Fergus' true purpose in life. But I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I mean, there are lots of things that he does to make me smile. But some grand destiny related to making my life infinitely better - I just couldn't see it. And it was bothering me. I mean, I just read a book that promised me that every dog had a purpose in life! Mine had to have one too, dammit!

So, after about a week of still not being quite able to put my finger on it, I gave up and asked Hubby. He seemed puzzled. "Isn't it obvious?" he said. "His purpose is to make you happy!"

"Well of course, he makes me happy!" I said. "That's not what I mean! I mean what is his, you know, ultimate purpose for being on this planet? What is his destiny? Why did we end up with him? Is it because the universe sensed that we needed something that only he could give? What is it about being with us that gives his life meaning?"

Long pause, followed by, "I think you should stop reading novels about dogs." He is ever helpful, that Hubby of mine...

Still, his answer got me thinking. Can it really be that simple? Is Fergus here simply to make me a happier person?

To answer that, I've considered all the ways that my life has changed since the Beast galloped through the door in a blur of red and white fur:

• I feel safer on my runs. And since running is something that I love to do, and since there are times when I'm too scared to be out there on my own, well, having the Beast makes me happy.
• I have better work-life balance. Sure, I still work long hours and weekends, but I never do so at the expense of coming home and caring for my boy. Having him forces me to take a time out, which might, on the surface, be for him, but ultimately benefits me. And this makes me happier.
• On a related note, I don't feel as much stress as I used to. And this despite having the most stressful job of my career thus far. Again, this is because I have to take the time to take care of the Beast, which means that I have to park any negative feelings I am having about work or my uber-sensitive primadonna will know it and act out. This means that I am forced to take better care of myself. Which makes me happier.
• I spend more quality time with my husband. Almost every weekend, he and I take the dog out for a walk together, giving us precious time to catch up. Which makes me happier.
• My husband and I work better as a team now, a phenomenon which, I am convinced, is because of all the hours that we have had to put into training Fergus. We don't often find ourselves on the same page when it comes to how things should be done (ask him one time to tell you how I have banned him from painting because he doesn't do it right), but for the Beast's sake, we had to agree early on to the rules of canine engagement so that our overly-intelligent pup could not play us off of one another in a bid to take over. I know this makes Hubby happier because I am not constantly nagging him. And it makes me happier because, well, he is not constantly ignoring me nagging him.
• I'm more excited to come home, especially because it means being greeted by a bum that won't stop wagging and a head that just wants to bury itself in my lap so that I can give it ear scratches. It doesn't matter how bad of a day I might have had. The Beast's overly exuberant reaction, each and every time I walk through the door, makes me happy.
• I'm more patient. I'm far from being Mother Theresa, but learning to deal with Fergus' behaviours - both good and bad - has forced me to take a step back from being the neurotic, emotionally-driven gong show that is my standard default whenever something doesn't go my way. I've learned to take a deeper breath and collect myself before I react, which is no small feat for a girl like me. And which, I realize, makes me happier than I was when I was flying off the handle at the slightest little thing.

So maybe it really is that simple. Maybe I'm not some kid who fell down a well and needs to be rescued. Maybe I'm not some old, lonely bachelorette who needs companionship in her dying days. And maybe I'm not a policewoman who needs a new partner to help me catch the bad guys. 

Maybe I am just a regular girl, who has a pretty good life, but who just needs to take a little better care of herself, to better appreciate the people around her, and to simply smile a little bit more every now and then. 

In which case, Fergus is the perfect dog for me. And if you don't believe me, just look at this face:

Or this one:

Or this one:

How could that little bugger not be meant to make me happy?