Mother Goose

If we all search back deep into our childhood psyche, I am quite certain that we will find this iconic image buried in there somewhere:

That's right. Mother Goose. Who can forget "Baa Baa Black Sheep", "Georgy Porgy", and "Hickory Dickory Dock", all told lovingly in that soft British accent by this famous narrator of nursery rhymes and lover of children everywhere.

Lover of children, maybe, but not of dogs. At least not of the Beast...

Let's rewind a little...

Until I moved to Ottawa, I had never seen a Canada Goose up close. I'd seen them flying overhead in a great big V, migrating south for the winter and returning in the spring.  And once, on a school field trip to the Fort Whyte Nature Centre in Winnipeg, I saw a gaggle of them hanging out in a big marshy field. But I'd never stood, you know, right close to one of them. And so, like many Canadians, I shared that romantic notion of this noble creature who is a symbol of our great nation.

And then I went for a bike ride down the Ottawa River pathway one day. And I saw one up close. As in inches away.

Let me tell you, they are nasty. N-A-S-T-Y. They take over the entire river pathway, walking back and forth in front of walkers, joggers and cyclists without fear. They stare you down as you pass by, almost daring you to try to get them to move. And they shit. Everywhere. I shudder to think of the layer of green goose shit that is on my bike tires and on the bottom of my running shoes. Green!!!! I mean, is there anything grosser than that?

They positively ruin the most peaceful run down the pathway. In fact, I am not ashamed to admit that I am more than a little scared of them.  (Pigeons too, but that's a whole other story for another time). I have actually found myself foregoing a run down the river just so that I can avoid those disgusting creatures. Which is sad, because the path is such a beautiful spot to run.

And then I got the Beast.

Shortly after I taught him to run nicely alongside of me, I took him and my brother's dog for a run along the river for the first time - one dog tethered to either side of me. The first kilometre was a bit of a gong show. My brother's dog channels all of his herding instinct into chasing squirrels, and there are an awful lot of them down by the river. Being tied to my waist does not stop him from trying to catch them either. It just puts me at severe risk of ending up with a displaced hip at the tender age of 35. And indeed, there was a lot of swearing as Toby kept trying to tear off after black and grey rodents. He was actually making the Beast look relatively well behaved, which, back in the early days of our time together, was no small feat.

Eventually, Toby got tired of being unable to catch squirrels, and he settled into a nice trot alongside me. Just in time for the Beast to spot his very first Canada goose.

Up until that point, I had been thanking the gods of dogs that, of all the behavioural issues the Beast was unveiling to me on a daily basis, herding small animals was not one of them. It made it infinitely easier to teach him how to run nicely alongside me or alongside my bike without fear for my joints. And so the thought never even occurred to me that the Beast might have an innate desire to herd geese... And had I even suspected that, I probably would have been deathly afraid for my very life, since those fearless, nasty birds would likely just turn around and attack us if the Beast dared to get too near. And then they would shit on us just for good measure.

And lo and behold, the Beast saw his first goose, and he bolted. Or tried to. Being tethered to my waist did prove to be somewhat of a hindrance. Frustrated that he couldn't get closer to the geese, he started to bark and flail like a rabid dog. Which set Toby off. Which led to me having two mad dogs tethered to my waist flailing about and barking like they were possessed, dragging me back and forth across the pathway like a freaking rag doll.

I was struggling so mightily to gain control of these two jackasses that I barely had time to be terrified that the we were about to be attacked by geese. And then, all of a sudden, I realized that we were NOT, in fact, being attacked. Quite the opposite, actually. The geese were running away, heading for the safety of the river, with the sentry loudly honking to alert the gaggle-members further down the path that two monsters were coming.

It was fantastic!!!

So fantastic that I forgot to be mad at the dogs for misbehaving!!!! Instead, I just firmly planted my legs on the path and let them bark and bark and bark and flail and flail and flail until the very last bird hopped into the river to get away.

And then I laughed. Maniacally. Cyclists and fellow joggers going by quite possibly thought I was insane.

When I got home, I ecstatically told Hubby that I never had to fear running down the river pathway again, because the Beast was going to keep me safe!!!  "You should have seen it, honey. He cleared the path. Like 20 birds - poof - GONE!!!!  If there wasn't so much goose shit along the path, I could have rolled around and done cartwheels without hitting one damn goose!  Woohooo!!!!"

(I'm quite certain that Hubby didn't share my enthusiasm. But then again, he does not have an irrational fear of birds....)

Well, he might not care, but this was a life-changing event for me and the Beast. Every single run, I found myself going down the path, enjoying morning sunrise after morning sunrise over the Ottawa River for the whole of summer. And I don' know much about the goose-to-goose communication chain, but I do know that word somehow got around that they should all be on watch for the red-and-white monster who appeared suddenly out of nowhere. Because whenever they caught his scent, the sentry would bellow and hurry the gaggle out of the way to safety, leaving the entire path to me. Fabulous!!!!

Now having a dog who likes to scare geese definitely has its benefits, but it also has its risks. He has, for instance, pulled me down off my bike in his enthusiasm to herd these nasty birds. But frankly, a little scrape here and there is worth it if it means I'm not going to get stared down by those cold, beady eyes....

Which brings us back to present-day...

No longer having to be afraid of geese means that I have boldly ventured out onto the path every single day that the Beast and I have gone out for our morning run or bike ride. No longer does my heart start to beat a little more quickly when I see them up ahead, because I am confident that as soon as they smell him coming, they will flee in fear.

What I did not count on was hatching season...

You see, by the time the Beast came to me last year, there were no goslings along the path - they were already teenage geese - big enough to defend themselves and no longer needing the fierce protection of Mother Goose...

But this year, last week in fact, the Beast and I biked smack into the middle of a goose family....

I saw the adults from far away. But did I worry? Of course not. As soon as they noticed the Beast, they would be gone... And sure enough, the familiar HHHHOOOONNNNKKKK of the sentry soon rang out, prompting the geese to head for the river.

All but one rather large goose, that is... The sentry was not moving toward the river, but it did appear to be directing others with its large wing, honking madly. And the others happened to be babies. Little fluffy, yellow, cute goslings, hurrying as fast as their little goose legs would take them.

And then it hit me... This was no sentry. This was a Mama Goose, desperately trying to get her babes to safety...

The babies made it across the path and into the water just before my bike glided past, with a very curious and interested Beast watching the goslings with perked up ears. "Phew," I thought to myself. "The babies are safe..."

And then I realized that Mama had not followed them into the river. Nope - she did this instead:

Except she was facing me, and was about 6 inches away from my rear bike tire, and she was violently hissing. So it was way, way scarier. Even the Beast got scared, and jumped up ahead of the bike. For one frightening moment, I thought he was going to pull me down on top of him, and the Mama goose would attack us. With my heart somewhere in my throat, I peddled as fast as I could, convinced that she was following us but too terrified to look back. "Hustle, Beastie! HUSTLE!!!!" I yelled at him, panicked, as he sped along beside me with his tongue hanging out. We must have been quite the sight to passers-by, but I didn't care. I wasn't stopping until we could get off that river path and away from psycho-Mama...

About a kilometre up, we turned off the path and into a residential neighbourhood. When I was satisfied that the coast was clear, I pulled over by the side of a baseball diamond. Both of us were panting from exertion, so I poured the Beast some water and let him have a drink while I willed my heart rate to slow down. "Whew.... That was a little too close, eh Beastie?" I said as I reached down and pet his head.

And then I started to laugh. And laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh. Which made me cough and gasp for air. Which prompted a couple out with their dog to stop and ask me if everything was okay. I could barely stop laughing and coughing and gasping long enough to tell them that the Beast and I had just been chased by a mama goose protecting her young. And by the look on their faces, I could tell  they thought that I was the most ridiculous woman they had ever stumbled upon. "Oh," said the nice-looking lady, "that sounds, er, well, um, terrifying. Will you look at the time? I've got to go. But it was really nice meeting you and your dog, and I hope that you don't meet any geese on the way home."

Which, of course, just made me laugh even more, as I sputtered out, "Yeah. Me too!!!!"

So, the moral of this story is that this whole notion of a loving, nurturing, not-at-all-scary Mother Goose is bullshit.

Or maybe that's gooseshit...

Either way, Mother Goose doesn't have glasses, or a book of nursery rhymes, or a nice looking bonnet. And she doesn't gather children around her to tell them little rhymes. No - she's got a six-foot wingspan, big sharp teeth, and a rattle-snake-like hiss. And she's effin' mean. So look out. Because even with the Beast, you're not safe from that crazy bitch!

Which leaves me back to being scared of geese. At least for the month of May, during hatching season...

Just like learning to ride a bike

This past Sunday, I found myself clutching a hot chocolate in a local coffee shop, while bouncing up and down in one spot as I desperately tried to bring some circulation back to my fingers and toes. You see, all 20 of my digits were frozen solid, because I had just returned from a 10k bike ride. On December 11.

Now I know a few cycling fanatics who are brave (or crazy) enough to bike all year round. But not me. No sir. I wimp out sometime around Canadian Thanksgiving. When it starts to rain a lot and when that North wind really starts to feel like a North wind.

But this year, it's been unseasonably warm. And snow free. So as we've somehow convinced Mother Nature to extend autumn, I've saved my bike from storage dust bunnies for a few extra weeks.

Which makes the Beast very happy. Because biking is one of his top favourite activities. Right up there with eating and, well, eating some more.

T'was not always so.

The enlightened idea to get the Beast running along side a bike came to me as so many of my dog training ideas do; while watching a dog show (although I can't remember if it was The Dog Whisperer or At the End of My Leash). Biking = good, according to t.v. canine experts. Especially for high energy dogs like mine. Also good for doggies who don't like following direction. They kind of have no choice but to pay attention to you when they are being forced to keep up to (and out of the way of) a bike. So two birds, one stone: drain the Beast of his vast reservoir of energy and firmly establish myself and hubby as top dogs!

So one Saturday afternoon about a month after we brought the Beast home, we figured that it was time to give this biking thing a whirl. Remember how excited your parents were on the day that they decided it was time to take your training wheels off and get you riding a two-wheeler all on your own? Well, that is how hubby and I felt: confident in our abilities to lead our little man through this exercise and convinced that he would be a pro within a few minutes!

Now remember how you felt the first time your Dad gave you a push and let go of your bike? Remember how you screamed, "No dad, don't let go! Don't let go!" as panic rose in your throat and you shakily made your way down the street and into a garbage can at the end of the alley? Yeah, that pretty much sums up the Beast's feelings about this whole experience...

The first exercise was relatively simple: introduce him to the bike. So I led the Beast over to this two-wheeled monstrosity and let him have a good sniff. No problem. He likes sniffing things. And he's really good at it.

Next, I leashed him up around my waist, grabbed the handle bars, and went for a little walk, so that it was bike, me and the Beast, in that order. Also no problem. He knows how to walk, after all.

Then I straddled the bike, one leg on either side, and kept walking down the street. This is the part where the Beast started to get a little jumpy. As he was getting closer to the wheels, he started looking around for hubby, as if to say, "Dude, where are you and why are you letting her walk me next to this weird looking thing?" But after a couple of minutes, he settled into a cautious pace, casting a cautious eye on the bike every now and then.

After going around the block a few times, I decided to up the ante. It was time to get him to respect the bike, and learn how to stay out of its way. So I gently nudged him with the front tire once.

He didn't like that very much. 

The Beast leaped 6 feet into the air and about 6 feet away from the bike, growling and barking and having a general fit. And remember, he was tied to my waist, and I was straddling the bike. So violent was his reaction against the nudge that he took me down, along with the bike, and the three of us landed in a pile one on top of the other, with the Beast on the bottom writhing like an individual having a demon exorcised from him. I, on the other hand, was swearing a blue streak, as hubby looked on, trying not to laugh. When he felt it safe enough to come close to me without fear of getting a knuckle sandwich, hubby helped untangle the Beast, the bike and me. And then, ever the optimist, he said, "Well, this is good. I'm pretty sure it means that the Beast will respect the tire, right?"

"Something like that," I mumbled. Then we called it quits for the day, deciding that learning to ride a bike is something to be done in stages.

We went out again the very next day, and repeated the exact same exercises. This time, the Beast didn't throw a tantrum, although he clearly wasn't having any fun and was having a hard time relaxing. So we did this over and over again for a week, no more than 15 minutes a day, until he finally started to calm down enough around the bike for us to actually try taking him for a ride.

Hubby tried first. Having learned from my experiences of being pulled down before we were even riding the bike, he decided to hold the leash in his hand and take the Beast for a ride. We found a large, abandoned parking lot and hubby started pedalling in large, slow circles. The Beast started to panic, bucking and lunging away from the tires, and looking at me with a plea in his eyes to make this hellish experience stop. Hubby, ever the calmer influence than me, held firm and got the Beast to focus on him and the bike ride. It took ten minutes before the Beast stopped whining. And while his furtive glances continued, I watched as the leash got a little bit more slack because he stopped trying to leap as far away from the bike as possible. Then I watched as hubby started to pedal a little more quickly, and the Beast kicked up his own gait to match the bike's. Still cautious, and still a little panicked whenever the bike made a turn, but settling into a reasonable pace.

We did this for another week. And we watched him closely. And when we noticed that his ears were finally dropping back, we knew that he was actually starting to enjoy this bike thing. And so...

His summer days became filled with bike rides. When we wasn't busy as my running partner, hubby would take him on 6 or 7k bike rides along the river in the mornings. Every Sunday, the three of us would take off for a 5k ride to the Farmer's market, followed by a visit to the nearby dog park, and a 5k ride back home. And some nights, when I would come home from work, I would trade in my walking shoes for my bike and take the Beast for a nice ride so that he would be sure to settle into a nice quiet evening.

And he loves it. I mean, LOVES it. Every bike ride starts out the exact same way: the Beast taking off in an all out sprint, daring hubby or I to keep up with him as he sets the pace for the initial stages of the bike ride. Within a few minutes, his panting can be heard by all within a three block radius, but his face is glowing with the biggest puppy grin. And his ears are pinned straight back, the ultimate sign that he is having the time of his life. The further we go, the more he slows down, until he is content to trot alongside us at a more reasonable pace, casting the occasional glance back to make sure that whichever one of us taking up the rear has been able to keep up. And everyone who passes us in the opposite direction smiles at him, sometimes exclaiming in amazement that they have never seen a dog run alongside a bike before. The Beast smiles back at them as if to say, "Yeah, I know. I'm a freaking rock star!"

There have been unfortunate mishaps. Like the time his herding instinct kicked in when we stumbled upon a gaggle of geese and he pulled me straight off my bike and on top of him. Or the now infamous cone episode, when he dodged a lunging dog and ran straight into the rear tire of hubby's bike, suffering from a nasty bout of road rash that drove us all crazy for two weeks. But neither of these episodes have made him scared of the bike. Like a true pro, he gets right back into that saddle.

These days, there's not enough light to bike early in the morning or in the evenings after work, so our bike rides are relegated to Sunday trips to the Farmer's market and the dog park. I don't know how much longer this will last, because let's face it, when the snow falls, the bike gets stored. So I admit, I would love to have a white Christmas, but I'm okay with the snow holding out a little longer. Because there is nothing like seeing the Beast's face break out into that smile as he runs top speed alongside my bike every Sunday.

Weekends

I have a tough job. I work hard during the week. I feel a lot of stress. Which means that on weekends, I want nothing more than to relax. I don't want to have to think. I don't want to have to do. I just kind of want to be. Weekends, for me, should be all about lounging around.

They should be. But they aren't. Because I live with an energetic dog...

Now I have been a morning person most of my life. With the exception of my undergrad years - when I was known to stay out until 3:00 or 4:00 a.m. and wake up at 2:00 p.m. - I have always been an early riser. In my books, staying in bed until 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday equals sleeping in, and spoiling myself rotten.

Still, even if I am seldom in bed past 7:00 a.m., I like to lounge around. My preferred Saturday morning ritual looks something like this:

• Wake up sometime between 6:00 a.m. and 7:00 a.m.
• Stay in my pyjamas
• Retrieve the Saturday Globe & Mail
• Put on a pot of coffee
• Drink coffee and read every section of the Saturday Globe & Mail (except the business section - hubby just reads that and summarizes for me)
• Watch TSN Sportscentre 
• Fill out the Globe & Mail crossword
• Eat some breakfast
• Tell hubby to stop harassing me about getting up and doing groceries

And eventually, after what I deem to be a long enough period of lounging around (which could be from anywhere between two and four hours of good solid downtime), I hop in the shower, get dressed, and walk down to the grocery store with hubby.

Well, that is my preferred Saturday morning scenario. And I even got to put this wonderful do-nothing-plan into action on more than a few mornings in my life.

But not anymore...

Now, Saturday morning looks something like this:

• Wake up between 6:00 a.m. and 7:00 a.m.
• Immediately get dressed
• Let the Beast out of his crate and into the backyard
• Take the Beast out for at least an hour and a half. He gets his exercise (which can be a long walk, a bike ride or a run), followed by a drop in at one of a few doggy parks for socialization and fetch.
• Come back home
• Put on a pot of coffee
• Have breakfast
• Feed the dog
• Get on with the rest of the day.

Aside from reading the Globe & Mail and the pyjamas, can you see what is missing there? A whole lot of lounging around is missing there, that's what!

You might be thinking to yourselves that there is plenty of time for lounging around once the Beast and I return from our morning of fun and activity. And I suppose, on the one hand, you are right. Certainly, once the Beast is well fed and well exercised, he likes nothing better than to plunk himself down on his dog bed for a good chunk of the day. I, on the other hand, now find myself incapable of doing so. You see, the secret to lounging around and doing nothing is to do so before you get dressed. At least for me. Once I'm dressed, my brain sends a signal to the rest of my body to get up and at 'em. No more time for watching Sportscentre. No more time for reading the Globe & Mail. And no more time for filling out crossword puzzles. Time to clean, go for groceries, reconcile household expenses, or even to get some work done.

And it's not just lazy mornings that are gone. It's lazy afternoons. Like days when you want to watch back-to-back football games and enjoy a couple of beers, for example. Or days after big Thanksgiving dinners where you ate way too much food and the only thing you want to do is curl up with a good book and read off your turkey coma.

Well, those days are long gone too. Because right smack dab in the middle of an exciting fourth quarter, or just at the part of the book where things are getting really interesting, the Beast starts to get restless and needs to be let out for his afternoon walk. And don't think you can ignore his restlessness either until the game is over. No freaking way. He is relentless with his whining and his barking and his dancing all over the place and his dropping toys in your lap and his.... well, you get the picture.  When it is time to go for a walk, it is time to go for a walk!

Which is how I came to find myself, over the course of this Thanksgiving long weekend, putting in a 9k run, a 10k bike ride, a 2.5 hour doggy date in the Arboretum, a 5k round trip walk to the best dog park in town, and at least a couple of other walks and a couple of other romps in the park. Who said long weekends were for relaxing...

So my days of lounging around are seemingly over.

But here's the kicker. I thought I would mind. I thought I would mind that I can no longer stay in my p.j.'s until noon if I want to, or that I can no longer sit in the basement watching non-stop football all day on Sunday, or that I had to cancel my subscription to the Globe & Mail because I found it unopened until late Sunday evening. But the truth is that I kind of don't mind. Sure, there is that split second when I am lying in bed on Saturday morning and I think to myself, "Wouldn't it be nice if I could stay in my pyjamas all day long!" But that moment truly is fleeting. There is even, I admit, a tiny moment of resentment when I am lacing up my shoes and taking off on an early-Saturday-morning run or a middle-of-an-exciting-football-game walk. But as soon as I set foot outside with the Beast, and see how absolutely happy it makes him to be out in the great outdoors, I can't help but surrender to his enthusiasm and enjoy myself. And I can't help but become a little bit more energized because of it.

So I've altered my perspective a little. Weekends - whether long or regular-sized - are still all about coming down from the stresses of the work week. It's just that now I recharge my batteries by replacing my pyjamas with running shoes, and the Globe & Mail with a furry, excitable and adorable companion.

And I think I might actually be less stressed than I ever was before.

"Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night"**

As the dying days of Indian summer give way to the chilly breezes of autumn, more than just the leaves are falling. The hours of daylight are rapidly diminishing, making it more and more difficult to wake up in the morning. The mercury is beginning its slow descent towards winter, forcing me to switch out my summer and winter wardrobes. And, at least in these parts, the rain has not stopped coming down for days on end....

...Sigh... Goodbye summer...

Many things end with summer. We wrapped up our softball league a couple of weekends ago. Soon we'll dismantle the patio furniture, take down the gazebo, and move our bikes to the basement. We'll have less white wines chilling in our fridge and default more and more to reds. And the slow cooker will replace the barbeque as the cooking method of choice.

Many things also begin with the end of summer. The harvest begins in earnest, and hubby and I benefit from bountiful farmer's market stalls. New seasons of our favourite shows - this year it's The Good Wife - begin, giving our PVR a major workout. And of course, the fall coincides with the holy trifecta of sport - football, hockey and baseball - so that my t.v. is permanently bouncing between TSN and Sportsnet.

But one thing remains ever constant. The Beast's breeding demands exercise. No matter what Mother Nature is sending our way.

We take the Beast out twice a day. And not for 10 minute spins around the block either. He has way too much energy to release. He is out for about an hour in the morning and an hour in the early evening. Mornings are relegated to either a run, a bike ride (when weather permits) or a nice long romp through the arboretum, sometimes followed by a visit to the dog park. In the evening, we usually strap on his backpack and take off to discover new streets in the neighbourhood, always stopping in one of many parks for a rousing game of fetch. Our little athlete requires nothing less. The proof is in how happy, adjusted, and (for-the-most-part) well behaved he is in the home (until the doorbell rings, anyway, as evidenced by his most recent display just 10 minutes ago when a friend and her daughter stopped in for a visit...).

But back to his high exercise demands. We knew this would be the case when we chose to adopt a member of the Aussie clan, one of the more energetic dogs out there. Indeed, this is why we chose this breed, so that I could have a companion on my runs. I've also come to look very forward to our after-work walks. Hitting the road with the Beast helps me to reset my thoughts and switch from work mode to family mode, something I used to have so much trouble doing that I would find myself staying wide awake at night thinking about work. And there is nothing better than hitting a local dog park and watching the Beast having the time of his life out-pacing all of his best friends, wrestling with his favourite German shepherd, and leaping in the air to catch his ball. I really enjoy this new routine! (Of course, losing a few extra pounds as a result of my own increased activity doesn't hurt either...)

Yet...

...I can't deny that as the cold and wet autumn settles in, I am finding thoughts such as "Oh, we can take a shorter walk this morning" or "Surely if we just skip one walk it won't be the end of the world" or "We don't really have to stop in at the dog park today" creep into my head.

A big part of it is because I hate the rain. Like I mean, really, really hate the rain. Much as I love cities like Vancouver and London, I don't think I could live there without slitting my wrists. Grey skies are depressing! I hate the rain so much that I would take a day of minus 30 with clear blue skies and sunshine over a day of plus 15 with rain.

And for the last four days, it hasn't stopped raining. I have had to go for a run in the rain. I have had to go for evening walks in the rain. I have had to play fetch in the rain. I have had to do many, many things, for many, many days on end that involve standing outside in the rain getting soaked. (I've also spent a lot of time worrying about how dirty my house is as a result of wet, muddy dog...) Whereas if I didn't have a dog, I would forgo the run for another day. I would stay inside and read a book or watch t.v. after getting home from work. Or I would stay at work and get stuff done there since it wouldn't be worth being outside. In short, I would put my life on a hold for a little while and hide out.

But that's the thing. Unlike Major League Baseball, there are no rain delays when it comes to taking care of your pet. I can't just pull a tarp over our favourite walking paths in the morning and hope that the skies will clear up and the ground will be dry by the time I get home from work, with a promise that I will take the Beast for an extra long walk then. No way. He needs his twice-a-day exercise routine, and he needs his socialization. Pure and simple.

The Beast didn't have a choice in the matter of who he decided to come home with. He wasn't given a list of prospective dog owners to choose from. He couldn't interview a bunch of us and say, "Hey, I need someone who can live with a lot of erratic barking whenever someone comes near the front door, and someone who is willing to take me outside for at least two hours a day so that I can run around and burn off some craziness. No need to apply if you aren't able to deliver that, Mister!"

No, we chose him. We decided that we wanted to bring him into our home, because we felt confident that our lifestyles were suited to having a dog like him in our family. We can't renege on that promise when the skies turn a little grey, the sun hides for a little longer, or the temperature starts to drop. Having the Beast with us is a 365 day-a-year commitment, because he has 365 day-a-year (somewhat-high-maintenance-at-times) needs.   

So it's a good thing I bought those rain boots, but I'd better invest in a better rain jacket and probably a pair of rain pants, and while I'm thinking about it, a rain hat, because carrying an umbrella when walking a dog is a pain in the ass.

And I'd better brace myself for another long, dark Canadian winter, because he's gonna need his exercise then too...

... Gulp



**Inscription on the James Farley Post Office in New York City (and a good way to describe how I feel about my obligation to comply to the Beast's exercise regime...)

Forgiveness

A few days ago, the Beast and I were involved in a rousing game of fetch in the neighbourhood park when a man and his dog - a beautiful Rottweiler - came along. We'd seen them once or twice before, but the Rottie was the nervous sort, and didn't really engage in play with the always-energetic-and-sometimes-too-pushy Beast. So on we went with our game of fetch.

A few minutes later, the gentlemen approached me and said, "I think I just made a connection."

Um, huh?

He must have seen my puzzled look, and proceeded to ask me if (a) I have a husband/partner (b) who bikes down the path alongside the river with my dog. I told him that yes indeed, my husband does take him out biking every now and then. Perhaps he had seen them when he was out walking his own dog?

"Well, sort of," he said. "Did your husband tell you about a bike accident, by any chance?"

And then the light went on for me. So this was the guy who was walking his dog, who lunged at my dog, who went flying into the back tire of my husband's bike, which led to two weeks of cone-induced recovery, which led to (I must admit) a little bit (okay, a whole freaking lot) of resentment on the part of hubby and myself against this mystery dog and his mystery owner, both of whom were now standing here in front of me.

But I didn't have time to feel much anger or much resentment. Partly because he was clearly very upset. As he recounted the entire story of the accident in vivid detail, his voice was actually shaking a little. He told me that he had been so worried for the past few weeks that our dog had been seriously injured, especially since he hadn't seen us around the park for a while (the accident has now happened over a month and a half ago...). And he apologized profusely for his dog's behaviour, explaining that his Rottie is nervous and fearful and must have been caught off guard by both a bike and a dog running beside him.

But the real reason my anger quickly dissipated is because of the Beast, who I had spotted out of the corner of my eye, engaged in play bowing, wrestling, and chasing with the Rottie. Both dogs were having a blast, playing nicely with one another, panting and smiling as they galloped through the trees and over the small hill in the middle of the park.

And it hit me. Why should I be angry at this poor guy and his dog, when the being who was the most wronged by the whole accident, the Beast, had clearly forgiven the Rottie for scaring the shit out of him and causing him to go ass-backwards into the rear wheel of a bike? He was far more interested in living in the moment than in the past, and could see no reason in holding a grudge against a dog that was clearly satisfying his immediate need to play and be chased. If he could overlook the fact that this Rottweiler had sent him into cone-induced-exile for two weeks, why couldn't hubby and I?

So although I had always imagined that I would have very choice and colourful words for the owner of the dog who caused my Beast's accident, I just couldn't bring myself to say one harsh word. Instead, I reassured him that the Beast had sustained no more than a minor scrape and that he was back to being his usual crazy self. "They're dogs," I said. "It's not like your guy did it on purpose, so please don't worry about it, and I hope we see you around sometime."

And I slipped the Beast's leash back on and went home.

When we got there, hubby was puttering around the kitchen. I told him that I had met the dog who lunged at he and the Beast while they were out biking, and my husband's back stiffened a little. I told him to relax, and told him that the Beast had just spent 10 minutes or so running around and having fun with this dog. If he had gotten over whatever happened between them, so could we.

So there he goes again... The Beast is teaching me yet another lesson...

I think of all the grudges - big and small - that I have bore for people over the years. Like the fact that I still hold it over my sister's head that she ruined my absolute favourite pair of shoes in high school, after I had saved up all of my babysitting money to buy them. Or how I like to point out to my best friend that she once called me a "fat bitch" in university. Or how, even though he and I have since become friends, I still haven't quite forgiven this one guy for the way that he lamely ended our relationship over the telephone instead of in person...

And what's the point in harbouring all of this resentment? Has it brought me anything?

Absolutely not.

Perhaps I should just call all of these people whom I have not yet forgiven for their indiscretions and ask them if they want to come over and play fetch with me in my neighbourhood park... Certainly, it's way more fun that holding onto all this resentment...

Ode to the cone

At the gym this morning, one of my buddies asked me how our new puppy was doing. As we were chatting, I told him about the Beast's little accident and how he is wearing the cone of shame for a couple more days at least. His golden retriever is apparently going through a similar torture, having been condemned to the Elizabethan collar as a result of a hot spot that she can't stop biting and scratching at. The difference is that she has spent the last week languishing around the house, refusing to move or to go outside where her humiliation would be on full display. Whereas the Beast has decided that he will simply live his life the same way he always has - full of wild abandon and reckless energy - just with a big silly cone on his head.

You need to see what he has done to this cone in the 10 short days that he has been forced to wear it. Although he is a very intelligent dog and clues in to things rather quickly, he has not yet figured out that he needs to give himself more space to, say, turn corners, climb stairs or get into his crate while wearing the cone. As a result, he bumps into EVERYTHING. He was already a wee bit klutzy before, but the cone has turned him into the most awkward being I've ever seen. I have to admit that it is slightly amusing. Well actually, it's downright hilarious, which makes me a bad person laughing at the expense of my cone-ridden dog. But it doesn't seem to phase him and even after some of the worse bumps so far, he just resets himself, tries the corner again, and eventually comes around the other side with a big silly smile on his face. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was doing it on purpose to make us laugh.

Then there is watching him try to get in his crate. If he knows that we are going to put his food puzzle in there so that he can chow down, he can't wait to get in there. And inevitably, every single time, in his crazed excitement, he forgets that the cone is only slightly more narrow than the door to his crate. So he bangs into the left side of the door. Then he readjusts, misses, and bangs into the right side of the door. Readjusts, misses, bangs into the top of the door. Readjusts, misses, bangs into the top again.... Until one of us picks ourselves up off the floor and stops this Abbott and Costello routine by gently guiding him and his cone into the crate.

And of course, the cone takes a serious beating on walks. When he gets his sniff and pee breaks, he rubs that thing up against trees and posts, drags it through wet grass, dirt and rock, and sometimes just trips on it as he is trying to climb back up onto the curb.

Yes, the cone is an ugly mess of dents, dirt and grass stains that won't come out no matter how hard I've tried, and duct tape to hold bits of it that are coming apart together. It is a very white trash look for Mr. Beasty, but he is wearing it remarkably well.

The only real problem is that he can't do his favourite thing in the whole wide world as long as that cone is on. He can't run. :( Hubby and I hate it too. Because as long as he can't run, he can't fully release his energy. And if he can't fully release his energy, he resumes some of his more neurotic tendencies and habits. Like spinning around in a cyclone dance every time we go near his food dish. Or jumping up at us at the door. Or jumping on us when we're on the couch. Or chasing insects. We've tried adding extra walks into his day to help relieve some of this energy. Just yesterday, he totalled 14k over three walks. But it's not enough for him. He looks at up at us every time as if to say, "Hey you two - walking is for chumps! Let's kick this thing into high gear, and then hit the dog park on the way back! Yeah!"

Yep - all three of us can't wait for that cone to come off.

Although... there is one thing that I am really going to miss about that cone.

As a result of wearing it, the Beast is unable to use his paws to hold things to his mouth. This means that he can't hold a bone or a toy in place in order to chew on it. It didn't occur to me how frustrating this must be for him until I was in the basement doing laundry and I just kept hearing this loud clunk on the floor above me. I came up to investigate, and there was the Beast with his deer antler, engaged in the futile exercise of trying to settle down for a good chew. He would drop it on the floor, get his mouth around it, lie down, chew for a few seconds by using the cone to leverage it in his mouth, and then drop it. Whenever he'd drop it, he'd try to move it back over to his mouth with his paws, but no matter what he tried, that pesky shield of a cone stood between his mouth and his paws, and he could not get that deer antler back in. So he'd stand up again, put it in his mouth, chew for a second, drop it, try to use his paws... and over and over again.

While I admit that it was amusing to watch him try to figure this one out, it was also clearly starting to stress him out a little bit. So I put the laundry basket down, looked at him and said, "Hey buddy. Do you need some help?" I sat down on the floor beside him, got him to lie down, and held the deer antler for him for 20 minutes while he chewed and chewed and chewed and chewed and chewed and chewed some more. He was the vision of happiness: ears fully down and back (which means relaxed); pupils fully dilated so that his eyes were these two big brown pools of chocolate love; rolling his eyes toward the back of his head every so often in some kind of orgasmic expression of deer antler bliss; panting slightly as he enjoyed his prize. Ever since, I have settled in with him for a good chew at the end of every day, both of us sitting on the floor, him gnawing away while I watch TSN. Our little moment of bonding.

When the cone comes off, he'll resume the use of his paws, rediscover his independence, and enjoy his antler all on his own.

He won't need me anymore...

I guess the cone isn't all bad.

My little athlete

I used to be fat.

Harsh, I know. But it's true. I tipped the scales at 200 lbs. To put it into perspective, I'm 5'4". The quarterback for my favourite football team is 6' and weighs 210lbs.

I definitely used to be fat.

Over the years, I've shed 60lbs, primarily by eating better and adopting a more active lifestyle. And with this lifestyle has come a veritable bevy of injuries. Let's see... There have been 3 groin pulls, 1 from sprinting and 2 from dead-lifting (I didn't even know that girls had a groin until I pulled it and required extensive - and painful - physiotherapy to recover). There was one nasty bout of tennis elbow, even though I have never held a tennis racket in my life. I've sprained both my peroneal tendon and my Achilles tendon from running on overly tight calves. I've sprained by ankle by tripping on an ice-filled pot hole while running in the dark. And most recently, I tore my TFL muscle in my hip, an injury sustained in some mysterious fashion that neither myself nor my sports doctor can decipher.

This is what happens when you get your ass off of the couch and you get a little physical. Yep. The life of an athlete - even a not-so-great amateur one like me - is fraught with injury. (It is also an expensive lifestyle once insurance coverage for physiotherapy, massage therapy, and chiropractic run out...)

I had never really thought about the potential toll that an active lifestyle could take on a dog. That is I hadn't really thought about this until recently, when my husband called me, while I am out West visiting with my family, to tell me that he and the Beast were in a little accident and had to pay an unexpected visit to the vet.

The Beast met our vet for the first time in June, shortly after he came to live with us. Hubby and I wanted to be sure that he was in good shape from head to toe. We also wanted some of our most pressing questions answered - the ones that we couldn't figure out on Google. Questions like, "Should I be stopping him from eating sticks and leaves?" or "Is it weird that he obsessively tracks and tries to eat insects?" (Answers. Chewing on sticks is perfectly normal dog behaviour, but eating them is not such a good idea because he may lodge a twig in his throat, which would require a 600$ surgery. Tracking insects - yep, that's just weird, and likely a demonstration of some kind of obsessive compulsive behaviour that we may want to have checked with a dog behaviourist...)

Obsessive compulsive behaviours aside, the Beast passed his physical examination with flying colours. Then the vet asked us what we knew about his breed. She wanted to make sure that we understood that Aussies and border collies are not lounge-around kind of dogs, and that they will need a lot of exercise in order to be fulfilled. "Not to worry," I told her. "I'm a runner, and the Beast and I are already running together almost every day." (Although at this point he was still dragging me so we were really just running back and forth down the same street together). Then I listed off all of the other activities that we would do with him: we had plans to teach him to run alongside our bikes, AND to put him in an agility course, AND to take him to a herding farm, AND to take him hiking with us, AND to roller blade with him, AND to take him swimming, AND AND AND....

The vet looked pleased. "Your dog is an athlete," she said, "and it sounds to me like he ended up with the right people."

I swelled with pride when I heard those words "your dog is an athlete." He might be pushy, bossy, obsessive compulsive, and slightly neurotic, but he is an ATHLETE. Right then and there I swore - in the same way that soccer moms and hockey moms across this great country of ours do - that I would do everything in my power to nurture the Beast's athletic prowess so that he would be the fastest, most agile dog in the dog park. Even if he was the worst behaved...

And nurture our little athlete we do. He gets at least 2 hours of physical activity every single day. (Someone should remind me of this in the dead of winter...) Aside from our three-times-a-week runs, we've indeed taught him to run alongside our bikes, an activity that he dreaded at first but that he lives for now. We take him swimming. We play agility games with him in the dog park. And we go for nice long walks with him through our neighbourhood. He gets so much exercise that I've lost another 5lbs since adopting him (which is great because I can now justify having ice cream every single day)!

Which brings us to his recent and unexpected visit to the vet, a visit we had honestly hoped we could postpone until next year's check-up....

Being 2,500 km away at present time, I am fuzzy on the details and can only go by what my husband told me over a hurried cell phone conversation. But my understanding is this. Hubby and the Beast were off for their early morning bike ride together. They had to pull out and pass a pedestrian and his dog. This other dog, for reasons unknown, decided that he did not like the Beast, and lunged at him. The Beast leaped a few feet into the air, and rather than moving AWAY from hubby's bike, dove straight into the rear wheel where he got tangled up. Thankfully, hubby was able to maintain control of the bike, because it could have been a lot worse had he and the bike fallen on top of the Beast. He pulled over and immediately examined the panting Beast, who showed absolutely no signs of having just been run over by the rear wheel of a bike. In fact, like any self-respecting athlete, the Beast seemed impatient to keep going. In his wisdom, hubby cut the bike ride short, brought the Beast home, and conducted a second examination, which again revealed nothing. So off to work he went.

It wasn't until hubby came home from work that the true nature of the Beast's injury came to light. Having spent the day doing what animals do - that is lick, bite at, and "clean" the sore spot - hubby came home to what appeared to be a fresh and very raw wound which until that point had been camouflaged by fur. He immediately brought the Beast to the vet. No stitches required, but a round of antibiotics was administered, and the Beast was instructed not to run for 2 weeks. To make matters worse, he must wear the cone of shame for 7-10 days while his wound heals. Hubby was also warned that, because he is an athlete, the Beast may become anxious and upset if he can not run, so the vet gave him a prescription for sedatives.

(Sedatives? Really? For a dog? I'm not sure I can bring myself to dope up my dog...)

Now whenever I get injured and get told that I can't do something for an extended period of time, I throw myself a little pity party and mope around. I also eat a lot of chocolate. Then I disregard medical advice and go and do that something I'm not supposed to anyway, which usually only results in a longer recovery time and a more injured me. This, of course, only prolongs the moping, the self-pity, and the chocolate eating. But at least I don't have to wear the cone of shame.

So I'm imagining the Beast lying on his dog bed, looking up at hubby with those beautiful (and now sad) brown eyes as if to say, "Why do you hate me so much? Why won't you take me out for a bike ride? I can run! I swear I can! I'll show you if you just take me to the park to play fetch and chase other dogs! And why are you making me wear this stupid freaking cone?"

I'll find out tonight when I get home from my trip the exact extent of the Beast's disillusion. I'll lay with him on the floor and let him know that I understand what he is going through. I might even give him an extra bison bone to make him feel better.

And when the time comes to take off that cone and get back out there, I will spend an entire day doing all of his favourite athletic things with him.

Get better soon, Beasty!