Cold snap

When I woke up this morning, it was -22C, -29C with the windchill.  

People think I'm nuts because I love this weather. I'm outside all the time in it. I walk to and from work in it. I walk the dog in it. I even run in it. 

"Why on earth would you want to go out in that cold?!?" they say.

This is my answer:

These photos were snapped this morning at sunrise, while Fergus and I were wandering around the Arboretum at 7:00 am. There was no one else around. We had the place entirely to ourselves. All we could hear was the hard snow crunching under our feet (well, my feet and his paws...). Neither of us were bothered by the cold. I was bundled up in layers of merino wool and my Canada Goose parka, and Fergus has puffed out nicely in his winter coat (which means less dog hair all over my floor!)

It was fantastic.

I wish every morning could be this spectacular. 

Get out there and enjoy winter, folks!

Winter survival tips

Earlier this week, Ottawa earned the title of coldest capital on earth, when temperatures dipped down to -32C (-41C with the windchill). For my American friends, that is -24F (-42F).

Quel honneur!

The thing about this little deep freeze that I am finding particularly astonishing is that everyone is talking about it. As though it never, ever gets cold here. In Canada. The country known for its prowess at sports played entirely on ice. Which is frozen water. Which is what happens when it gets, you know, cold....

So why are my Facebook and Twitter feeds full of comments about the weather (a crime for which, by the way, I am also guilty)? And why is it that the first thing that anybody says to me - whether it's on the bus or at the office or in my local Starbucks - is something like "Man, it sure is cold out there today"? And why are the national media outlets leading with stories about winter every single day? Did we all collectively forget that last year, we went through winter as well? And the year before that? And the year before that? And the year before that? And the year... well, you get the point...

Why is the weather so newsworthy?

I just don't know the answer to that. But I do know that everyone - myself included - is getting tired and cranky of all of this cold. Particularly since the second most popular batch of comments on Facebook and Twitter are from those jerks I know friends who are vacationing on the beaches of the Caribbean, where it is approximately 70 degrees warmer than it is here and where we would all rather be.

Well, everyone, that is, except for the Beast.

Earlier this week, one of my friends posted this PSA about pets and winter on Facebook. Pet stores and vets across the city are reminding people that they should lessen their pets' exposure to the elements during frigid times like these. And other human companions I know keep telling me that their dogs don't want to set foot outside right now, not even to pee.

Fergus didn't get any of these memos. Not one. He still insists on spending 2+ hours outside every single day. This weather doesn't stop him. In fact, he seems even more energetic these days.

He may be an Aussie by breed, but that is surely Canadian blood - or ice - running through his canine veins.

So, faced with the plight of being the human companion to a dog who wants nothing more than to be outside running across icy rivers and rolling around in banks of snow, I have decided that I have no choice but to embrace this cold, barren, Canadian winterscape and make the best of it. And to do so, I am taking my cues from Fergus. Here are the top five winter survival tips that I have learned from my dog.

5. It is never too cold to run

I know what you are all thinking. Somebody, somewhere - probably at the Running Room - once told you that there are temperatures below which you just shouldn't run. "You'll develop ice crystals on your lungs," they say. Or "Ice is slippery," they say. And I admit it. I believed it too for awhile. I never ran outside if it was colder than -17C (1F). Instead, I'd go back to sleep. Because I wouldn't want to inadvertently freeze my lungs while making my way to the gym to run on a treadmill either...

This all changed when the F-Bomb became my running partner. Regardless of the bad news delivered to me by the local weatherman when my alarm goes off at 5:00am, Fergus is right by my bedside, licking my face and wagging his bum, urging me to do the exact opposite of staying warm, curling up, and going back to sleep. Up I must get, and outside I must go. And if you're going to be outside at -32C, you might as well run and get the exercise part over with sooner, right? Which is why, just this past week, I found myself running three times, in windchill temperatures of -28C, -41C, and -31C respectively. This is what I looked like coming back from a breezy run at -28C.

Frosty, n'est-ce pas? There are no pictures of me coming back from a run at -41C or -31C, by the way, because when I pulled my iPhone out, it seized up and died of hypothermia. So just picture this shot, with about three times more frost, blocking up all the air holes on my lovely neck gaiter.

I, however, did not suffer the ill effects of cold induced hypothermia. Neither did Fergus. And so, my friends, as long as you are appropriately covered, it is evidently never to cold to run. (Although admittedly, I hope that I never have to test out that theory in temperatures colder than -41C).

(And if you don't believe Fergus, you can check out this article as well)

2. Layers and anti-chafing products will increase your enjoyment of the outdoors in extreme weather

Fergus recommends that everyone needs at least two good layers - a nice soft undercoat that can easily be shed when it is too warm (and which is currently all over my floor), and a long, fuzzy overcoat that protects against the elements.

In his case, this 2-layer system seems to do the trick, no matter the weather. In my case, there are a few variables that need to be taken into consideration. How cold is it? What type of activity am I going to be doing? How much will I be exerting myself? How cold is it? It's taken me a bit of trial and error, but I've now got a flow chart to help me figure out what to wear when I go outside with the dog. And it works. Very well. Whether we are snowshoeing, running, or just going for a casual stroll downtown, we both stay good and warm.

As for chafing, there is a lot of salt out there on those sidewalks in the winter. And since Mr. Princess refuses to wear his dog booties, we've learned to protect delicate puppy paws in other ways. Vaseline, my friends. Make sure you have some Vaseline. Also works to prevent sweat-induced runner's chafing under that nasty sports bra. And, according to Fergus, it also tastes good. At least I assume it does. Why else would he walk around the house licking the Vaseline tracks that he leaves after I slather his feet with the stuff. He is so gross... 

3. Embrace snow. Because there is no such thing as too much of it.

Nothing has the power to cripple a city like a snow storm. School buses get cancelled. People call their bosses to say that they won't be in because it would be too dangerous to drive to work. Double Decker buses flip over and land in ditches.

You'd think Canadians had never seen snow the way we react to a few centimetres of the stuff.

And the whining about snow. My God. It's like the eighth plague that the Bible left out or something. Did we all forget how much fun we used to have as kids building snow forts?

Admittedly, I used to be a snow hater. A few years back, Ottawa was about 20cm shy of setting a new record for the greatest amount of snow accumulated over the course of the year (the record being 444.1cm). Local media went around interviewing people, asking them if they wanted us to get a bit more snow before the spring thaw so we could beat the record. At the time, I remember wanting to swing my snow shovel to the back of the happy-go-lucky heads of those people who kept saying "Ohhhhhh.... I hope we get a bit more snow so we can beat that record!"

But Fergus taught me that the best part about winter is snow. And nowadays, I love the white fluffy stuff. I love it so much that I went out and bought snow shoes just last year so that him and I could go hiking through the woods on the snowiest of snowy days.

I check the weather each and every day to see if we are going to get more snow. And when we do, I wake up early, throw on my snow pants and my snowshoes, grab Fergus' toys, and head out the door, with him bouncing along beside me. Sometimes, we play fetch:

Sometimes, we make snow angels:

And sometimes, we just run around like crazy:

And we always have fun. So if you want to survive winter, you'd better just learn to love snow!

2. Shovelling is not a chore. It is good fun and lots of exercise too.

Nobody likes to shovel, I know. It's hard work, especially when snow is heavy and wet. And then there is that snow plow jerk who comes by to clean the road, leaving that ridge at the end of your driveway. And if you leave it there too long, it freezes over, and is impossible to remove. And you can't justify buying a snow blower because your driveway is too short. And your wife won't let you hire someone to do the shovelling for you because you are able bodied, and it would thus be a ridiculous expense. So you just have to keep [expletive] shovelling all that [expletive] snow.

But then again, shovelling can be good exercise. And more importantly, it can be loads of fun.

Don't take my word for it. Watch these videos instead, and see how much Fergus enjoys shovelling!

1. Spend time outside with your best friends.

If misery loves company, and winter makes people miserable, than winter must love company too. (At least I think that's how I remember logic working from my first year philosophy class!) At any rate, spending time with Fergus outdoors in the winter is loads of fun. But it is loads more fun when our best buddies tag along. So if you want to survive winter, go grab some of your best friends and get out there. Fergus guarantees that it will put a smile on your face!

And with that, my friends, Fergus and I are off. It is -22 outside this Saturday morning, and it is promising to be a clear, sunny, albeit cold day. I think we will go find ourselves some woods to hike through.

Happy winter!

Snow day

Yesterday, almost everyone I know bitched and moaned as they watched the city get pounded with 15-20 cm of snow through the office window. All I heard all day long was, "Oh god, I hate shoveling," or "The drive home is going to be so looooong" or "I need winter to be over." I, on the other hand, felt as giddy as a school girl.

You see, it is utterly impossible to hate snow when you know the Beast.

To my dog, there is nothing in the world as miraculous as snow. It's fluffy, it's cold, it feels good under your paws, you can dive into it, you can capture snowflakes with your mouth as they fall, you can roll around in it, and you can eat it. What is not to love?!?

And it's been such an oddly precipitation-free winter, that the Beast just hasn't had a lot of opportunity to do all of the above. Not to mention that this is the winter that I decided to take up snowshoeing, and I have barely broken in my brand new shoes because, well, there's no powdery white stuff. So as the snow kept falling and cars kept skidding down slippery streets and pedestrians kept slipping on ungroomed sidewalks, I kept wishing for Saturday morning to arrive so that the Beast and I could hit the Arboretum for a snow-filled adventure.

The result of after-work shoveling is a 2-feet-high snowbank

The Beast must have been planning for a Saturday morning Arboretum romp as well, because he woke me up at 5:00 a.m. with his restless back-and-forth pacing, forcing me to get out of bed at 5:30 to let him outside. (Someone please tell this dog that it is the WEEKEND!). As soon as I was awake, he sprinted so quickly down the stairs that I thought for sure he was going to tumble down them in a ball of fur and paws. But he made it down in one piece, then practically concussed himself when he got to the back door and skidded along the hardwood and headfirst into the patio doors. When I let him out, he hurdled over the 2-foot-high snowbank at the end of our deck like he was Perdita Felicien herself. Then he leaped through the back yard like a deer through a meadow for a few moments before finally settling into his morning constitutional. On his way back into the house, he couldn't resist stopping to grab a snack of fresh snow from the top of the snowbank.

Breakfast!

And so the Beast's snow day began! But, being the mean human companion that I am, I made him wait until I facebooked a little, caught up on the blogs I follow, read some news, and got come caffeine and food into me, before I was finally ready to bundle myself up in winter layers and hit the Arboretum for a couple of hours.  (Consider it payback for waking me up at an ungodly weekend hour, Beasty...)

Hubby stayed home to clean (SCORE!) while the Beast and I hit the streets for the 20 minute walk to the Arboretum. Unlike most Saturday mornings, the park was practically deserted, and we had it all to ourselves. I guess the snow keeps the people and their dogs away. What wimps! (The Beast told me to write that...).

When we got there, I fastened on the snowshoes, let the Beast off of his leash, and off we went! And what better way to chronicle our morning than with pictures (even though I am the world's shittiest photographer).

My snowshoes were happy to be let out of the basement after four snowless weeks!

Playing fetch in the snow - bringing back his favourite toy

Breaking a new trail in the fresh snow. Off he goes!

Leaping through the snow! If only I had a good enough camera to catch a series of these!

Can you spot the Beast?

After running through the trees for 45 minutes, even the Beast needs to lie down and take a breather. And eat some snow...

Yummy snow!

Striking a pose!

The best stuff is at the bottom

Break's over! I'm off again!

Hustling back to me when I give him the command! Good boy!

One last leap through the deep snow before the leash comes back on!

We spent well over an hour in the Arboretum, covering about 4k together. And of course, no adventure with the Beast would be complete without a little drama, this time in the form of about 100 burrs - I wish I were exaggerating, but I really am not - entangling and matting themselves into the Beast's top- and under-coats. (I removed about 20 in the park and then hubby and I spent 45 minutes removing the rest of them when we got home, some of which were in, shall we say, very delicate places. Suffice it to say this was not the highlight of the snow day. Although I must admit that his coat does look stunning because of all that brushing...)

Running through 20 cm of fresh snow is hard work!

And then we came home, where after burr-removal surgery and a breakfast of something a little more substantial than snow,  the Beast settled down onto his bed, and fought to keep his eyes open for three or so minutes before finally surrendering to blissful sleep. (Of course he's tired - he woke up at 5:00 a.m.! And no, I will not let that go!)  So exhausted he clearly was after his Arboretum snow day romp that he did not even focus on the cat who is staying with us this weekend and who he has not left alone for more than 30 seconds since she arrived on Wednesday (blog post to come on this little adventure for sure).

And in this position he stayed, until...

...he heard Hubby open the back patio door to go out and shovel the deck. And so he somehow found the energy to go out and help...

Let me get that for you, Dad!

Look at the concentration!

Pouncing on snow!

Snow shower!

God I love this white stuff!

This dog even makes shoveling fun...

Ice-cold lungs

I was born in Winnipeg, in late November. According to the Farmer's Almanac, the temperature on my day of birth was -27C. In case I have any American fans, that is -17F. Freaking cold by any standard of measurement.

Incidentally, this was also the number around which the mercury hovered (give or take a degree or two) this morning when the Beast and I set out for our early run.

Yes. I run in -27C. I have to. I'm from Winnipeg. I'd be banned from ever returning - even for a visit - if I used the "it's too cold to be outside" excuse. I mean, when I grew up, school was never cancelled, even if there was a driving blizzard or if the windchill drove the temperature down towards the -40C mark (neither of which are rare phenomena on the wide open prairie). And Mom and Dad still made us play outside in the cold to burn off our unwanted energy, to the point where snot froze to our faces and we all sustained permanent frost-bite-induced skin damage. There were days when our toes were so cold that we thought they might actually break off of our feet if we removed our boots too quickly. And I'm pretty sure that a small bit of my sister's tongue is still stuck to our childhood swing set, the result of my brother and I daring her to lick the cold metal.

Ahhh... memories... Memories that I relive everytime I lace up for a frigid morning run.

Truthfully, I don't actually mind running in the cold. It's easier to dress up against an ice-cold windchill then it is to dress down against a fiery humidex. The trick is to get a good base (I prefer merino wool, and will give a gratuitous promotional nod to Icebreaker). After that, you just layer according to the temperature, and make sure that you can keep all extremities safe from the biting wind. This morning, all you could see of me were my eyes. And aside from the fact that I am quite sure that my eye lashes froze to my contact lenses which in turn froze to my eyeballs, I was snug as a bug in a very warm rug. Really!

(I know that you still don't believe me, but it's really, really, really, really true).

Whether you believe me or not is incidental to the fact that the Beast shares my stubbornness when it comes to braving the cold to get in his morning run. "Temperature be damned!" is his motto. He is always ready to get out there and tear up the sidewalk. He will brave freezing rain, driving snow, salty sidewalks, and dipping mercury to get a few fast kilometres under his leash. He is my little trooper.

There are some things, however, that he finds a wee bit annoying about winter running. Here they are, in no particular order.

"Why oh why does it take mommy so long to get ready"?
As soon as the Beast sees me make my way upstairs and into the spare bedroom where I keep my running clothes, he knows that he is about to be let loose. And so he follows me, and patiently sits down while I don my running gear. In the summer, it takes approximately 2 minutes to pull on my shorts, sports bra, t-shirt and socks. But in the winter, it takes F-O-R  F-R-E-A-K-I-N-G  E-V-E-R!!!!! And his reservoir of patience is somewhat low. He starts to whine and whimper right about the time when I have my sports bra and base layer on. I still have to put on socks, a second layer, a shell, shoes, a balaclava, an extra tuque, gloves, and mittens. Whereas he, being the all-weather-double-coated-fuzzy-arsed kind of dude that he is, doesn't need to waste precious seconds getting clothed. It annoys him. I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm a big wuss.

"You don't really want me to sit in that snowbank, do you?"
Whether we are running or walking together, one of the Beast's rules is that he must sit when we get to a stoplight, and he must wait patiently until we can cross the street. He's gotten really good at this, to the point where we have tricked almost all passers-by into believing that he is actually polite and well-behaved (insert evil laugh here). But in the winter time, he is such a baby about it. I'll have to tug up on his leash three or four times to get him to sit, and even then, he'll only "half-sit". And he'll make his big brown eyes as sad as he possibly can and look up at me as though to say, "Mommy, it's too cold/icy/salty/snowy/messy for me to sit. I know my bum is really fuzzy, but I don't want to get it all cold and messy. So I'll just stand, okay?" Often times, when he finally does sit (I know, I know... I'm a big jerk for making him sit down anyway...), he'll pitifully raise one of his paws up towards me as though to drive home the point that it is so cold/icy/salty/snowy/messy that he couldn't possibly leave his bum and all four legs on the ground. Well, dear Beasty, shall I remind you that I bought you booties for precisely this reason, and that it was your decision to shun them like the plague, not mine? So suck it up, kiddo! (I'm not really that cold hearted. I actually cave every time and warm his too-cold paw in my hand while we sit and wait. But I do so with a touch of bitterness over the failed bootie purchase).

"Pick up the pace already, will you lady?"
I may like to run during the winter, but I don't do so gracefully or quickly. A 7k run in the spring/summer/fall can easily be done in less than 40 minutes. Today, we ran 6.8k in over 45 minutes. Shameful, I know, but I have good reasons for this sub-par performance. Sidewalks that are covered in snow or ice are ridiculously difficult to navigate, making it extremely challenging to maintain the same pace that I would under "normal" conditions. I didn't learn this lesson last year when I was running full out, landed awkwardly on a lump of ice, and tore my hip flexor. But I did learn it when, a month later, I hit black ice and severely twisted my ankle (to the point where I was screaming and swearing like a lunatic) with 2k left to go before I got home. Now I purposely pay less attention to my pace and more attention to the few feet of sidewalk in front of me. The Beast, on the other hand, is used to walking on hardwood floors. So for him, icy sidewalks are a cinch! And a 6cm layer of fresh snow - likely hiding a layer of ice - is no reason to slack off and slow down. In fact, it is much more fun to run full speed through fresh snow, and perhaps try to gobble up a few mouthfuls along the way. How dare I force him to trot alongside of me at this snail's pace when we are both capable of so much more?

But despite all of this, the Beast faithfully braves the elements - and his annoyances - to keep me company three mornings a week on my run. And I am grateful for it. Because I confess, before he arrived, I would occassionally shun my Winnipeg pride and use the "too-cold" excuse, opting to sleep in rather than get up and run in the morning. I can't do that anymore. He needs his morning exercise no matter what, so I might as well run and get it over with faster, right? It's nice to know that he keeps me honest with his joie-de-cold-winter-running, and reminds me how important it is to take care of myself and achieve my goals, even on the coldest/iciest/saltiest/snowiest/messiest day of the year.

A Winnipeg girl really couldn't ask for a better companion.

Dog park altercations

The local dog park (the one that we are fighting to save in our neighbourhood), is a great place to be on a sunny Saturday, the morning after we got dumped on with 10-15 cm of snow. Especially at 9:00 a.m., which appears to be a peak hour. All bundled up to guard ourselves against the -30 windchill, we arrived this morning with the Beast in toe to find dogs, dogs and more dogs bounding along in the snow, chasing balls and other squeaky toys, and giving each other snowy face washes.

And so hubby and I played along, chasing the Beast around in circles, throwing his ball, play bowing and rolling around in the snow with him and his pals. It made me feel like a kid again.

All was going super well. All the dogs were getting along. The kids were having fun. The adults were shivering but smiling. The Beast was behaving like a prince. Picture perfect dog park snowy day.

When all of a sudden, the Beast's pal Jengo bolted off across the park towards a woman who was walking her dog down the street. His owner tried calling him back, but it was too late. He had already spotted the leashed-up dog and was proceeding to mount her. The next thing I knew, the woman was screaming, swearing (words that are too profane to put in writing) and venomously insulting both Jengo and his owner. Sensing the tension and the excitement, the rest of the dogs began to rush off towards the unfolding scene, making the woman swear even more profusely and threaten to call the city by-law officer to have all of our dogs "arrested" and put in the pound (even though we were all in the off-leash park). This of course caused all the humans in the dog park to rush towards the scene to extricate their dogs, which caused even more tension and more excitement, which caused all the dogs to start barking, which agitated all of the humans, which agitated the woman, which made her swear even more, which agitated her dog, which caused Jengo to get even more excited, which agitated his human, which agitated the other humans, which got the dogs all worked up, which got the humans all worked up, which caused the dogs to ignore the humans as the humans panicked more and more, which....

Well, you get the picture. This went on for no more than 3 minutes (although it felt like much longer), the time it took Jengo's owner to catch him and haul him away, which gave everyone else a chance to leash up their own dogs so that they could also take their leave, while the woman at the centre of the debacle continued walking down the street swearing like a sailor at the top of her lungs.

And the whole time, the Beast sat quietly at my side.

No seriously. I know it's hard to believe, but he sat by my side the whole time. He was the only dog that was behaved through this little ordeal.

Now, can I just tell you how good it felt to know that there was an altercation at the dog park that (a) my dog didn't start, (b) my dog didn't take part in; and (c) my dog didn't somehow make worse with his frenetic behaviour? Because it felt damn good. Like holy shit good!

And then it hit me. The Beast stayed calm and well-behaved because we stayed calm. While everyone else was panicking, hubby and I calmly reached out for the Beast, got him in a sit and stay, and didn't get agitated alongside everyone else. We stayed in control.

Holy shit! We're becoming calm and assertive pack leaders!!!

I'm probably getting a little too far ahead of myself. I'll need to navigate a few more dog park altercations before I can earn that title... But I'm going to savour this morning's little victory...

From shoe fetish to buyer's remorse

I love shoes.

I know, I know. A lot of women say that. But, I ask you, do a lot of women have a shoe rack in their office? Which is the very first thing that people notice when they walk in? Filled up with at least 14 pairs of shoes at any given time? None of which are the same colour?

Well, I do. And it is full of every conceivable kind of shoe in every conceivable colour: sandals, flats, pumps, boots, wedges, Mary Janes, and sneakers, in black, brown, camel, bone, turquoise, red, burgundy, metallic, silver, and even hot pink.

And I haven't even mentioned the pairs of shoes that are strewn throughout every room of my house at any given moment.

I told you. I love shoes.

Indeed, I am incapable of resisting a good shoe purchase. Sometimes the purchase is planned, like the time that I knew I wanted a pair of bone-coloured heels to go with my beautiful chocolate brown silk designer dress, and it took me two months and three cities to find the perfect pair.

Sometimes, I will go in looking for one thing and come out with something totally different. Like the time that I really needed a pair of black flats and walked out of the store with one pair of red wedges and another pair of metallic pumps. (I still haven't got a pair of black flats...)

And other times, the purchase is completely and utterly impulsive. Like the time that I was walking through the mall and spotted a pair of blue suede peep toe shoes and just had to have them, even though they were a half-size too big and I had to purchase inserts to make sure that they would not fall off of my feet as I walked.

All of these purchases, from the meticulously planned out to the spur of the moment, have one thing in common: never once have I felt buyer's remorse after buying a pair of shoes. Not once. It doesn't matter how expensive they are or how little I wear them. Shoes just always make me happy, and have never led to regret.

That is, until now...

Picture it. It's October, and the days are getting shorter, making it more and more difficult to play fetch outside with the Beast before or after work. So I leash him up and take off toward our favourite pet supply store to find a glow in the dark ball. As I am browsing through the toy aisle, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a doggie shoe display. Something innate and primal deep within me starts to stir, and I am drawn towards it...

Suddenly, there I am, standing in front of a rack of winter dog booties. And before I can stop myself from speaking, I call over to one of the girls working there and say, "Hey, I think I should get my dog some booties for the winter. Which ones should I get?"

"What a great idea!" she says enthusiastically as she pets the Beast's head, who is far too busy admiring the treat section to care about shoes (this, incidentally, should have been my first sign of impending catastrophe). "They will protect his little paws from snow and ice and salt!"

"Yeah, sure," I reply. "I like these ones!" I say as I point to a box of UltraPaws, which had caught my eye because (a) they were the most expensive, (b) they had two strips of velcro instead of just one like all the other booties so they were doubly cool, and (c) the Labrador Retriever featured on the package seemed to be having the time of his life while playing frisbee and wearing his set of UltraPaw booties, so these ones promised to deliver the most fun. (The second sign of impending catastrophe should have been that the dog on the box was not playing in snow...)

And this is how I spiralled down a very slippery (clearly unsalted) shopping slope and found myself standing at the cash register with a quartet of dog booties. (And also how I completely forgot to get a glow in the dark ball and ended up having to go back the next day).

Now when I bring home a new pair of shoes for myself, I can't wait to find an occasion to wear them and to show them off to all of my friends. So when it took so long for winter's snow and ice and salt to actually arrive, I was super disappointed for the poor little Beast. I mean, Mother Nature was conspiring to keep him from showing off his fabulous new booties! How was the Beast supposed to impress his girlfriend Ruby if he was still running around barefoot in the grass in mid-December?!?

And then finally, it snowed. I was so excited to get those booties on the Beast and get him out there to show off to all his doggy pals. Yes!

And that is when I discovered that the Beast hates his booties. And I mean H-A-T-E-S them. The first time we put his booties on, he cowered. My dominant, pushy, controlling, bossy dog actually cowered in a corner. Head down, spine curved up as though he was trying to make himself into a small, inconspicuous little ball, and if he had a tail, I am absolutely positive that it would have been between his legs. It was like he was afraid that I was going to come after him with a baseball bat and beat him senseless.

Despite his pitiful state, I persevered, telling myself that wearing the booties was for his own good and that it was my responsibility to protect him from the elements. And besides, getting his first pair of shoes was a big deal, so he should appreciate it. So one paw at a time, I put his booties on. And when we were done, he limped around the house like a foal learning to take his first steps, staring up at me as if to ask, "Mommy, why do you hate me so much?"

I figured that he just had to get the feel of his new shoes. You know, kind of like when you break in a new pair of human shoes and you walk around with blisters for a few days until you can stop putting a band-aid on every time you wear them. The Beast just needed to get used to feeling a shoe on his foot, and then he would be fine. So off we went.

Now the Beast loves to be outside and loves to go running or walking with hubby and I. Not today. Whereas his default position is usually right beside or even slightly ahead of me, he was trailing a good foot behind, even stopping every few blocks and refusing to go any further. I had to pull on the leash to urge him along more than once. It's like he was ashamed to be seen in public and just wanted to go home. I kept reassuring him that he looked fabulous in his new shoes, but he just couldn't be convinced. Even when he received compliments from more than one passerby, he just dropped his head and cast his eyes downward, letting out sigh after sigh after sigh, like the canine version of Eeyore.

But I am not a quitter, so we finished our walk that day with the booties on, and tried again the next day. And the next day. And the next day after that. And each and every time, it was the exact same sad story. Until I decided to take him to his favourite place on earth, the Arboretum.

I figured that if the Beast could have some fun while wearing his booties, he would form a positive association and get over this weird behaviour. And for a moment, there was even a glimmer of hope that this would actually work. He was super sad walking to the Arboretum, but as soon as we got there, he was back to being his old excitable, high-strung self, bounding through knee-high snow banks, peeing on every tree, and eating every stick he could find. "Success!" I thought to myself. "I am so brilliant!"

And then I looked down, and noticed that two of his four booties had disappeared. And I realized that they must have come off while he was leaping like a crazed deer through the snowbanks (so much for that second velcro strap that is supposed to prevent this very thing from happening). Only I had no idea how long he had been bounding along without them or where he might have lost them. And so I had to spend the next 20 minutes tracing his paw prints backwards until I finally found them buried about six inches deep in the snow. No wonder the little bugger was so happy! He'd found a way to take them off.

Mumbling under my breath about these stupid booties and my stupid dog who didn't realize that I was only trying to protect his stupid paws from the stupid snow and the stupid ice and the stupid salt, I reached for his paw so that I could put his getaway booties back on. And he started to whimper. And there, while we were standing in his favourite place in the whole wide world, my resolve began to crumble. Why on earth was I trying to ruin his fun by making him wear these stupid booties?

And then another thought struck me. Not one other dog we know - except for the little Boston Terrier-Pug we sometimes run into in the park - wears winter booties. They all go for their walks and go play in the park each and every day with nothing on their feet, and they seem fine. More importantly, none of them look depressed and forlorn. So again, why was I forcing the Beast to wear these stupid booties?

And so this was the precise moment when I decided to let him just be a dog and walk home barefoot. I took off his two remaining intact booties, stuffed them in his backpack, and let him feel the snow, the ice and the salt underneath his paws. Sure, I cringed a little as I looked down and saw him get big fat clumps of salty ice between his toes. And I worried when every now and then, he would lift one paw up while we were stopped at a stop light, presumably because it was too cold to put down on the sidewalk. But then again, his head was up, his ears were back, and most importantly, he was smiling all the way home.

So his booties are sitting in a box on top of his crate. We haven't touched them in at least two weeks. We've taken him out in freezing rain, in snow, and in temperatures plummeting to -30C, and he hasn't complained or shown any signs of bootie-less damage. Who knows if we're doing the "right" thing (although we did ask our vet and she told us not to worry so much about the booties). But at least the Beast is happier...

As for me, on the other hand... Well, I guess I'm processing my first case of shoe-related buyer's remorse. What a strange feeling...

But if any of you need a quartet of dog booties, you know where to find them...

"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...)