Fulfilling his genetic destiny

There is something about me that you need to know...

I am a city girl.

It's true that I was born and raised in the country, and that for most of my life, my address was "P.O. Box 2" instead of an actual street name. It's true that I am no stranger to the smell of manure wafting from the barn. It's true that I can identify the grain being grown in a field by sight alone. And it's true that I thought overalls were highly fashionable until my 3rd year of university. (It might also be true that I accidentally dated my 2nd cousin in junior high, but that's the topic for a whole other blog...).

Equally true, however, is the fact that I left behind my humble bumpkin self 18 years ago when I moved to the city. And I haven't exactly felt the urge to move back. Once you've tasted Michael Kors, you can't go back to the General Store on Main Street, you know what I mean?

Yet there I was last Sunday morning, searching for Concession Road #10 in the middle of Glengarry-Prescott-Russell, when I would usually be sipping an over-priced coffee, made by some spoiled-brat-of-a-high-school-barrista at the neighbourhood Starbucks. What gives?

The Beast gives, that's what.

You see, I got it into my head quite a long time ago that Fergus would be an excellent sheep dog. How could he not be? His momma was a border collie, and his poppa was an Australian shepherd. Or maybe it was the other around, I don't really know. The point is, his lineage screams of herding. And sheep live in, well, herds.

All it took was a quick Google search to find Ewenique Farms. Not only is this a sheep farm - a mere 75km outside of Ottawa - but the owner breeds border collies as livestock dogs AND offers both herding evaluations and lessons. Hot-diggity-dawg! Sign me up!

So I sent her an e-mail, which went something like this:

"Hi! I notice that you offer herding evaluations. I have a 2-year old Aussie shepherd/border collie mix, and I'm always looking for new things to do to keep his mind busy so that he doesn't drive us crazy. And since he seems to like to herd all the dogs at the dog park, I thought we could give sheep-herding a try. Do you offer lessons on weekends?"

Part of me wonders if she rolled her eyes as she read it and thought to herself, "Oh great, another one of these spoiled, undisciplined city dogs and its silly human companion who doesn't know a thing about raising animals...." Well, maybe she did think that, but an evaluation is an extra $45 dollars in her pocket, regardless of the dog's ability (or lack thereof), so she very gracefully told me that she would love to meet my boy, and to bring him by on Sunday at 10:00 a.m.

And so on Sunday morning, I found myself loading the Beast into the car so that we could embark upon a little family outing at a sheep farm.

Now Fergus loves, and I mean LOVES, going for a car ride. I mean, look at this face? Doesn't that face say "There is no place that I would rather be than in the backseat of this car RIGHT NOW!!!!" He quite happily jumped into the car, and spent an hour panting, drooling, sniffing the fresh country air, and just being generally happy to be alive as we drove down winding roads to Concession Road #10. 

As we got closer and closer to the farm, some innate sense kicked in within the Beast, because he started whimpering and barking in his "I'm so excited that we're almost where ever it is that you are taking me and I can't wait until you stop this car and let me out RIGHT NOW" voice that words simply cannot describe. 

Of course, I interpreted this excitement as the Beast instinctively knowing that he was about to do what he was bred to do - kick some lamb ass! "Look honey," I said to Hubby. "He just knows where we are. I mean, he's never even seen a sheep and he is super excited to get out there and show us what he is made of!"

(Of course, the Beast makes the exact same noises and shows the exact same level of excitement when we pull into a gas station to fill up, but anyway...)

When we did pull into the driveway, Fergus was ready to bound out of the backseat like a rocket. Further proof that he instinctively knew that he was about to fulfill his genetic destiny by becoming the world's greatest city-dog-sheep-herder, I say. He barely even noticed the trainer when she came out of the house to meet us. He was simply too thrilled to notice anything other than the sheep-farm smells. Plus he was too busy peeing everywhere to mark this new place as his turf.

As we walked over to the sheep pen with the trainer, she sized the Beast up a little bit by asking us all about him. How old is he? How long have we had him? What's his history? Where does he come from? Why did we want to try sheep herding? We chatted for a few minutes, and then she said, "Okay then. Let's see what this boy can do."

She opened the gate, and there stood 7 or 8 ewes, all huddled together in the middle of the pen, being held there by the intense stare of her 4-year old Border collie, Nan. "Nan is here to help us," she explained. "If Fergus can't handle the sheep, or if he disperses the flock, you'll see Nan bring them all back together. Then you'll be able to see how it works with a fully trained working dog."

"As if Fergus isn't going to be able to do this," I thought to myself. 

And so off came the Beast's leash. As soon as I gave him the "Break!" command to release him from his sit, he went tearing off, straight towards the...

... other dog. To play and herd her. Like he was in a freaking dog park.

So the trainer called him towards the sheep. "Fergus, come." He actually listened, and came running toward her, until he got distracted by a great big pile of sheep shit, which he decided that he should taste before deciding to roll around in it. And he just went to the groomer's last week...

For about 2-3 minutes, the trainer tried to get him to focus on the sheep. But there were too many other things to do. Pee on the thorn bush. Try to get Nan to play again. Chew on a stick that he found in the middle of the pen. He was interested in everything except the sheep.

My heart actually began to sink a little. I leaned into Hubby and whispered, "What if our boy isn't any good at this?"

And then the trainer went into the flock, grabbed one of the ewes by the hind leg, and dragged her out. This caught Fergus' attention, and he tentatively came forward to take a sniff. But when the trainer dropped the ewe's leg so that she could go back to the others, the Beast resumed eating sheep shit. So the trainer grabbed at another ewe, and tried again. Only this time, when she let the sheep go, Fergus took off after it at top speed, directing her back to the flock.

And I let out a big "Whoop!!!!" 

As soon as Fergus realized that he was allowed to be interested in the sheep, nothing else mattered. He could not get enough of running circles around the flock, making sure that they all stayed together and, more importantly, that they all went wherever he wanted them to go. This was like the dog park on steroids, because unlike other dogs, these things completely followed his direction. The Beast just couldn't get enough of it!

After about five minutes of watching him run circles around the flock, we called him off for a break, and he literally collapsed in a gigantic, panting heap on the ground. Like this (although this picture wasn't actually taken at the sheep farm, this is exactly what he looked like):

As he rested and caught his breath, the trainer began to explain to us that Fergus definitely had the herding drive. In fact, he had already figured out that his main role was to "balance" the flock by keeping them all together. Many dogs simply went running straight into the middle of the flock to disperse them, but Fergus seemed to know that his job was to keep them together. The next step would be for him to do that without running circles around them, but simply by weaving back and forth behind them. "This," she said, "is the hardest part for most dogs. So watch me use this paddle to stop him from going around the flock and to get him to weave in the opposite direction."

Sure enough, as soon as Fergus was released from the down position, he immediately resumed his clock-wise circle around the sheep. Until the trainer redirected him with the paddle. The first couple of times, the Beast simple tore a wider circle and went around the paddle. But the third time, she tapped him lightly on the shoulder. He looked stunned for all of 2 seconds before he simply took off in the other direction. Just as he was about to circle the flock again, she put her paddle down in front of him, and without even a touch, Fergus weaved in the opposite direction. Within a couple of minutes, he had learned to weave back and forth behind the flock, without running laps around them, and without being redirected by the paddle.

It was incredible.

And I was viciously proud. "Baby!" I said to Hubby. "Look at our boy!!!  Look at how fast he is figuring this out!!! I just knew he was going to be good at this! I just knew it!!!"

(There might have been a tear glistening in the corner of my eye...)

Fergus got another break - and downed about half a litre of water - while the trainer gave us her assessment. "No doubt about it, you've got a good little herder there. When I first saw him, I could have sworn he was more Border collie than Aussie, but he herds like an Aussie. Notice how he runs upright, and how he uses his voice to move the sheep? Border collies slink down low and use their eyes. Whatever he is, he's going to be really good at this. We will work him a little bit more today, but we can definitely give him some lessons if you guys are interested."

So. Very. Proud.

She spent the next fifteen minutes or so teaching Hubby and I how to direct the Beast in the sheep pen. Suffice it to say that Fergus may be a natural, but this city girl is a little rusty when it comes to communing with the livestock. I probably need the lessons more than the Beast does...

And when the hour was over, Hubby and I had one exhausted sheepdog on our hands. Exhausted but completely exhilarated to have been given a "job" to do. So exhilarated that it would be cruel not to bring him back for another round.

So this city girl is probably going to find herself heading out to the country a little bit more often. To breathe in that fresh country air, and to give her dog the chance to satisfy his need to herd. And most importantly, to cheer him on like a ridiculously proud soccer mom.

That's love, baby!

In the meantime, a few snapshots of the Beast.

Not so interested in the sheep just yet. But there is some fresh sheep shit just over there...

Hey... When I get close, they move out of the way...

Woooohoooo! I love this job!!!

Trying desperately to stay awake during the car ride back home after a hard day at the office...

...and failing miserably

Why I won't train for a marathon

It's that time of the year again...

Everyone is training for some kind of race.

Everyone.

Half marathon... Full marathon... Ultra marathon... 5k...10k... 16k... The Fall Classic... The Fall Colours... The Army Run... The Run for the Cure... The Terry Fox Run... Name the distance and the event, and I know at least 10 people getting ready for it.

And they are all asking me the same question.

...

"Why aren't you training for something? You're a runner!"

It's true. I run. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Rain, snow or shine. With or without daylight. Frigid, temperate or hot and humid. Here at home or away on vacation. I have an iPhone app to keep track of every kilometer and every route. I post about my runs on Facebook. I read running blogs. I spend enormous amounts of time and money in Bushtukah, and get weirdly excited when I hear that they have a sale on. Indeed, the fullest drawer in my closet is the one that holds all of the various layers of running wear that a Canuck girl needs to practice her sport year round in this varied climate. And that says a lot for someone like me who is a seasoned shopper of all sorts of apparel and accessories...

Yet I have never trained for or run a race. In fact, I've never even been tempted to do it. Well, except for that one time I went out to see some friends run the Winterman half marathon, and I got all inspired and shit. But that lasted about fifteen minutes, long enough to see how stiff and sore they became as soon as they stopped running. No, I'm the kind of girl that likes to sit on the sidelines and cheer people on as they cross that race-day finish line, but I don't ever want to wear a number on my back.

My hardcore running friends - the ones that train for these races - kind of don't get it. I hear a lot of this: "We could totally train together!" Or this: "If you can run 12k on a Wednesday morning, you can run a half marathon!" Or my personal favourite, this: "Look, you are already running 25k a week anyway. What's another 20k!"

The truth of the matter is that I hate the idea of racing.

Mainly, I hate it because it has become too mainstream. Everyone is doing it these days. Everyone. And not just the people who love to run. People who hate running, have always hated running, and will always hate running, but who have just got the idea stuck in their heads that everyone is doing it, and if my co-worker Tom can run a marathon, well then dammit, so can I! If I took an informal poll, I would not be surprised to find that "running a marathon" is on a whole bunch of bucket lists.

Now don't get me wrong. I think everyone should challenge themselves. Hell, I'm the girl that took up bodybuilding. Which I can say, with an abundance of confidence, is the most physically and mentally draining (not to mention psychotic) sport out there. So I get it. But why does everyone have to pick running as the challenge-du-jour? The non-conformist in me can't take it!

And then there is the fact that I am, by my very nature, a fiercely independent person. I don't need the energy of a crowd to propel me forward. I need my headphones and my iPhone app reminding me that I am seconds away from beating my own PB - set last Monday morning at 5:45am - to motivate me. Other people just kind of get in my way, and ultimately, on my nerves...

And I need alone time. Which is what running is all about for me. It's time to think through crunchy work or personal life problems. It's time to blow off some steam after a bad week at work. It's time to clear my mind and concentrate on nothing other than the feeling of a strong breeze on my face. And for me to truly enjoy all of these things, I have to be alone.

Well, not quite alone.

The Beast, of course, runs with me these days. Running, after all, is why I chose such a high energy breed. Because while I don't want human companionship with me when I'm out there pounding the pavement, even I can admit that it's nice to have four-legged company. And a little protection on cold, dark mornings.

And therein lies the real reason that I will not train for a race. Because of the Beast. Odd as that may sound to my running friends.

Here's the thing. The Beast has gotten used to our 3-x-a-week run dates. Dare I even say that he likes our run dates. Running is, after all, a much funner pace than boring old walking. More importantly, he needs these runs. I am firmly convinced that one of the main reasons that Hubby and I have turned most of his behavioural issues around is because of all of the physical and mental exercise that we give him, and running is a huge part of that. It calms and soothes him.

Now if I started training for a race, the Beast could run with me for a time, but eventually, I'd have to start leaving him behind. Like when we start creeping up to distances beyond 10-12km. Which means he'd start losing out on his run time with me. And frankly, I'd start losing out on my run time with him. Which at times is the happiest part of my day.

And then there is the increased likelihood of injury. The more kilometers that I run each week, the more likely it is that I injure myself. This isn't hypochondria talking. This is experience. I am one messed up and injury prone lady. From my hip flexers, to my groin, to my hamstrings, to my IT bands, to my calves, to my Achilles... My lower-body is more than a little messed up. I don't want to mess it up more. Because messing it up more means that I have to take time off running. And taking time off running means that the Beast has to take time off of running. And neither of us is ever happy about that.

The fact is that I want to be able to run when I am 40, 45, 50, 55... So I don't want to burn my body out now by training for race after race after race. And Fergus doesn't want me to either. Because he wants to be running by my side for as long as his joints will allow it.

I know this to be true. You would too if you saw the smile that breaks out on his handsome little face whenever he sees me tie up my running shoes and strap on my water belt. Or if you heard his excited panting as he patiently sits by the door and waits for me to get going on our run. Or if, midway through a run, you saw how he looks up at me with his big brown eyes full of love, waiting to see where our adventure will take us and just genuinely happy to be out with his Mom.

I didn't fully appreciate just how much Fergus loves to run with me until yesterday. After spending two weeks at the border's while Hubby and I were on vacation, Mr. Beast was literally exploding with excitement when I was getting ready to take him out for our first post-holiday jaunt. Like a Mexican jumping bean, he was incapable of sitting still while I put his leash on. When we got outside, he nearly pulled me over as he took off at top speed down the street, ready to feel the breeze on his face. As we approached the Arboretum, he started to bark excitedly, practically drooling as I let him off his leash to run free through his favourite place on earth. And when we got home, he drained his water dish and contentedly flopped over onto his side on the cool, ceramic floor, basking in a post-run glow.

Who am I to take that away from him?

More importantly, why would I want to take that away from myself?

Introducing Fergus B. Haynes

One year ago yesterday, Hubby and I brought the Beast home to live with us.

The road to bringing him home started about two months earlier, when I filled in an adoption application with the Eastern Ontario chapter of the Aussie Rescue and Placement Helpline (ARPH). About a week after that, I was interviewed by the coordinator over the phone. I did everything I could to plug myself as the perfect dog owner.

"I grew up with dogs, you know. My whole life!"

"I am super active. Like super active. I run, I bike, I hike. I'm perfect for an Aussie!"

"My two references adopted Aussies from you. They'll tell you that I'm a really great person!"

"Oh, I have no kids. And no other pets. So you don't have to worry about giving me a dog with a strong herding drive!"

"Oh yeah, and did I mention that I run. A LOT. And that my two references are Aussie owners, who adopted dogs from you?"

After 40 minutes of gratuitous self-promotion, she said told me that I sounded like a good candidate for adoption, but that she had no dogs right now. "No problem!" I said. "My husband and I are on our way to Europe, and we wouldn't want to get a dog until after we get back at the end of May anyway. So let's talk when I get back!"

We left it at that. I expected that I wouldn't hear back from her until June at the earliest. But then, only a few days later, she sent me an email with this picture:

Before I even read the email, I thought to myself, "That is the goofiest looking dog I have ever seen in my life! And that camera angle is doing nothing for his ass!!!"

"This is Bob," the email said. "We found him in at the Humane Society in Kingston. I think he'd be perfect for you! He's got lots of energy for your runs, and he's fully house trained. And he's about 1 year old. Wanna meet him?"

I honestly didn't know what to say. I mean, I wasn't expecting to hear from them so soon. And, er, well, this dog was just so, well, goofy looking! And how could something with an ass that size be a good runner?

So I called her and reminded her that I was leaving for Europe, and that I didn't want to rush into meeting a dog, so she should feel free to show him to other prospective families. "Oh no, " she said. "You're too perfect for this dog. I just know it! Meet him now, and if you like him, you can take him when you get back!" (Those rescue organizers really do mean well, but they can be overly enthusiastic....) She wouldn't accept my hesitation - or a no - for an answer. "Call his foster Mom. She'll tell you all about him!"

A few days later, I found myself talking on the phone with Bob's foster mom.

She really talked him up. "I don't know much about his history. All I know is that he was dropped off at the Humane Society by a couple going through a divorce. So sad, because he's such a joy to have around the house! He's a velcro dog - follows me everywhere that I go! It's so cute. Anyway, he is perfectly healthy, and the Humane Society said that he showed a little bit of food aggression, but I have never seen it. I feed him with my two other dogs and there are no problems. He does eat fast though. And he has lots of energy. They told me that you like to run, so my daughter has taken him for a few runs to see how he does, and he is AMAZING. Walking, well, he pulls a little bit, but he just needs a little bit of training. And he and I are working on his manners, so that he stops counter-surfing and jumping up on people. But he is so wonderful. He can play for hours and hours and hours, and he loves other dogs. Not sure how he is around children. You don't have children, do you? And yes, he is crate trained, although we really don't leave him in a crate because I work from home. But I'm sure you'd have no trouble crating him! Oh, and he's super smart and very trainable. He already knows 'sit' and 'paw' and we're working on 'down' next! And did I mention that he loves to run? And I'm going send you pictures! You'll fall in love with him when you see his face! When do you want to come and meet him?"

So... very... overwhelming...

I told her that I didn't want to rush into adopting since I was going away to Europe in a couple of weeks and couldn't take him until I got back. "Don't worry about any of that," she said. "The ARPH rep told me that you are just perfect for him so I'm willing to keep him as long as I have to until you get back! In the meantime, I'll send you those pictures. And when did you say you were coming to meet him?"

Within 5 minutes, I got these:

My first look at this face - those devil eyes should have been my first clue...

Looking a little cuter - Bob and his foster brother

Bob like water - that could be fun!

Tuckered out after a long day of play

I admit it - these pictures started to change my mind about this dog a little. So I showed them to Hubby. "Well, whaddaya think?" I asked him. "He looks really peaceful when he's sleeping. And I think it's kind of cool that he likes the water. And he has really sweet ears. And from this angle, his ass doesn't look so big. And everyone thinks that I am perfect for him (even though they haven't met me...) Do you think we should meet him?"

"Sure," said Hubby, lifting his head up from the paper just long enough to acknowledge that I was talking. (At that time, he was not so enamored yet with the idea of getting a dog...)

And that is how we found ourselves driving down the highway to Kingston. To meet a fuzzy dog. Named Bob. With a big ass. (From certain angles, anyway...)

He had us before we even walked in the door. I was completely sucked in by his obvious enthusiasm for every single second of his life. And Hubby was drowning in his big, gorgeous brown eyes. We were in love. And after spending half an hour with him, we just knew that he was our dog.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Well, almost the rest. There is one more piece of the story to tell...

Bob is a great name for a human, but there is no way in hell that I am ever going to be caught dead in the middle of a crowded dog park calling out "B-O-B!!!! Here B-O-B!!!!" We hadn't even pulled out of his foster Mom's driveway when I turned to my husband and said, "That name has to go."

"I agree," he said.

"I know! Let's give him a Scottish name!" I said.

"Why Scottish?" said Hubby.

"Cause you're Scottish, dummy!"

"Um, but you're not, and isn't he your dog?"

"He's OUR dog," I reminded him. "And besides, he's a red head with freckles. Obviously Scottish!"

We (and by we, I mean I) spent the next few days trying to figure out the perfect name for this soon-to-be dog of ours. Then one day, I was out with a friend having an after-work drink, showing her the few pictures I had of Bob.  When it hit me.

"FERGUS!" I yelled out.

"Who's Fergus?" she asked.

"That's his name! Fergus!!!  Look at him. He is such a Fergus!!!!"

She studied the pictures a little more closely. "You know what? He is a Fergus! It's perfect!"

And with that, we re-christened Bob. And to seal the deal, while in the UK a few weeks later, we bought him this:

A Scottish name needs a Scottish flag as a dog tag

Personalized with his brand new name

Fergus B. Haynes. (Yes, we kept the B, as an homage to his original name.)

(A name like that needs a title, don't you think? Personally, I like the ring of The Honourable Fergus B. Haynes.)

Also affectionately know to readers of this blog as "The Beast".

And even more affectionately called a variety of other nicknames by friends and family who have met him over the past 367 days (it was a Leap year, so one year + 1 day = 367 this year, not 366. I am paying attention!). Here are just a few:

• FBH (it's short and sweet and easy to type out on my blackberry);
• Fer-gust of wind;
• the F-Bomb (my personal favourite); and 
• the Fuzzy Terrorist.

What can I say. Our boy leaves an impression, everywhere he goes.

And he has certainly left an impression on our hearts over the past year that he has been with us.

Happy anniversary, Fergus B. Haynes. We're so glad that someone thought that we were the perfect home for you.

Some of our fave pictures from the past year, coming up!

His first night in his new home.

Our first official outing together - this is the guy that didn't want a dog.

I can prick my ears forward....

Or I can make them stand STRAIGHT up!

A little less of a fuzzy-terrorist after my first haircut. This is also when my people discovered that I don't actually have a fat ass. I just had a really, really furry one!

Me and my pal Toby hanging on Uncle B.'s back deck

I have to lie on this bed like a good boy and not beg for food when my people are eating. They can't stop me from looking cute though! And maybe that will make them give me some food!

Chasing my tug rope up and down the stairs is hard work.

I don't know what this black thing is, but I love it!

Snow is the best!

Sitting nice for my people so they give me a cookie

Look how tired he looks. That's why we stopped at Starbucks for a coffee during our walk!

Her coffee kicked in already!

Sometimes I run around too much at the park, and my tongue hangs out of the side of my mouth, so I have to take a break!

Trying to convince Aunty K to play with me.

Waiting patiently for my Mom while she gets a coffee. She drinks a lot of that stuff!

Playing tug with my girlfriend, Bella. She's not that blurry in real life!

The dog days of summer

Summer is here, ladies and gentlemen!  And it arrived with a BANG! Three straight days of sunshine and heat and beer!! (probably a little too much of the latter...)

Ahhh, May long weekend. Or May 2-4 as we call it back home. (I haven't figured out if that is in honour of Queen Vicki's actual birthday, or the fact that many a 2-4 of beer are consumed at many a campground on this hallowed weekend.) The official kick off to summer is always an exciting time. Gone is the long, dark Canadian winter, to be replaced by the all-too-short dog days of summer. It's the time of year where people get the gardens ready, take out their bikes, open up the cottage, and fire up the bbq, while silently praying to the summer gods that they will have plenty of opportunities to enjoy these activities long past the ushering in of the fall equinox. 

To be melodramatic about it, it is a weekend of hope and promise.

(Is that a little too much???)

At any rate, we have had a pretty lazy May long weekend. We're not gardeners (even though we say to each other - Every. Single. Year. - "Hey, let's get a landscaper in and figure out what to do with our front flower bed that we built a couple of years ago and that is still empty,") so we're not outside digging in dirt. Our bikes have been out for weeks now, so we didn't have to yank them up from the basement. We'd already fired up the bbq a few weeks ago, although we did give the rotisserie a try (with great success, thank you very much Moroccan chicken). And we don't have a cottage. So all we really had to do this weekend was set up our gazebo, where we have been firmly planted ever since usually with a beer in hand.

In fact, the only time we've left said gazebo is to go get some grub for the bbq. Or to go replenish our dwindling beer stocks. Or to go drink beer on the neighbour's back deck. Or to shower.

Or, of course, to take the Beast out for his morning and afternoon exercise.

And what a busy weekend of fun in the sun our little guy has had.

First there was a trip to a tract of NCC land - scrub brush, really - with his new friend Rufus, where the two explored together for a couple of hours. Rufus ran through muddy swamps while the Beast rolled around in rotting plant material. Both dogs came out of that brush stinky, exhausted, and happy.

Then there was the bike ride to the Farmer's market, which requires that we cut through his favourite place on earth - the Arboretum - where we even let him run off leash at top speed beside the bikes.

And of course, there were endless hours of fetch, with balls, sticks and squeak toys, wherever it is that we ended up.

It's no wonder he's at my feet right now, crashed out in the shade, dreaming of something, no doubt, because his hind leg is twitching.

But by far, the bestest, most fabulous, most wonderful part of this long weekend has been all of the swimming that the Beast has done.

And why not!!  With afternoon temperatures soaring up to 32C, a girl and her dog have to find something to do that won't induce heat stroke, right? What better way to beat the heat than to take a dip in the river!

Which is exactly why we found ourselves heading over to the Lemieux Island dog park on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. Fetching first sticks, and then cheap tennis balls, from the Ottawa River, all while honing the Beast's swimming skills.

And for a land dog, I gotta say that his swimming has vastly improved. See for yourself:

 

Okay, so he didn't get the stick that time. But when I replaced the stick with a bright yellow tennis ball, he got much, much better at the retrieving part. He only let two balls get swept out of his reach by the current, one of which was ultimately tracked and retrieved by a water dog. So our net loss for the weekend was only 1 tennis ball. Not bad, when you consider that over five days, there were probably at least 60 fetch reps! Even less bad when you consider that last summer, there was no retrieving at all. Only goofy loping along through the water while the labs swam laps around him.

Oh, and he gets an honourable mention for saving John Ibbitson's dog's ball from floating off down the river. In fact, John (I call him that now, even though I didn't introduce myself) told me that the Beast was his hero for retrieving this rather expensive chuck it ball, which his own dog was lazily ignoring. Atta boy, Beastie!!! Coming to the rescue of your Mom's favourite political columnist!!

So we clocked a good many hours at the water dog park this May long weekend. Alternating between playing fetch on land or in the water, and between hanging out in the blazing sun or finding a cool spot on a blanket in the shade. We played with other dogs, we chatted with other humans. I even sipped on an ice cold Margarita cooler while I threw the ball back and forth to the Beast and one of his best dog pals, Willy. 

All the while, I kept thinking to myself, "Summer can't get much better than this..."

In fact, what the heck did I do before I had a dog!!!  

Here's to more hot days down by the water.

Bringing back a stick

He always heads for that bush when he comes out

I got it!

Now let's head back to shore!

What a beautiful summer day!

Here I come!

Throw it one more time, Mom!!!

Warning! - This post involves a soap box

I am interrupting work on my soon-to-be-published (I hope) post on this year's fabulous start to summer for this public service announcement - from atop my soap box.

Yesterday, the Beast, my husband, my sister-in-law and I took a short 1.5k bike ride out to a local dog park along the river so that the Beast could cool off with a few laps. (And if I ever finish the other post that I have been working on for a ridiculous amount of hours now, you will see that he spent a whole lot of time there this week).

This particular dog park is actually an island. A water processing plant occupies the north half of the island. The rest belongs to the dogs. And on this particularly hot, sunny and humid day, there were a tonne of dogs. Like, easily 30 of them. Which always makes me a little nervous because the Beast is easily over-stimulated and in such cases, entirely unpredictable when he is faced with soooooooo maaaaannnnnnnyyyyyyyy playmates. Indeed, there was more than one dog fight yesterday as unevenly-matched-energy-wise dogs got on each other's nerves. But miraculously, the Beast was very well behaved. All he wanted to do was jump in the river and retrieve his tennis ball.

And he had help in doing so from a good-natured American bull dog (ABD). Despite said dog's very stout and stocky appearance, he was a pretty good swimmer. Since his owners were sun-bathing on a blanket up above the shoreline, he wiggled his way into my little game of fetch with the Beast. Which was fine with both of us. The Beast certainly seemed to enjoy letting someone else retrieve his ball when he thought that the current had taken it just a little bit too far.

And so ABD, the Beast and I played fetch for about 10 minutes together. Eventually, ABD got tired and ran off to play with another dog on land, while the Beast and I resumed our twosome of fetch.

And then, about 20 minutes later, I heard a man walking up and down the shore calling out for ABD. But ABD wasn't coming. And although the guy looked pretty calm, his girlfriend was not as she frantically approached me to ask if I had seen the American bull dog that my dog had been playing with earlier.

I got a huge knot in the bottom of my stomach.

Because not even one day earlier, someone had said to me that every single year, a dog drowns in this dog park, swept away by the Ottawa River current because it just isn't strong enough to swim. Which is of course the very first thought that entered my head when ABD went missing.

"Honey," I said to my husband. "There's a dog missing. You stay here and watch the Beast. I am going to go and help them look for him."

There are only two ways off the island: you either walk across the bridge that joins it to the mainland, or you swim across. I agreed to walk up and down the shoreline, while the couple headed off toward the bridge.

And so off I went, yelling out "ABD!" up and down the shoreline, hoping that I would find him cooling off under the shade of a tree. But he was nowhere to be found. And the knot in my tummy just got bigger and bigger and bigger.

I walked back toward the main area to check up on the Beast and hubby. By now, people were starting to realize that there was a dog missing, and there was a lot of whispering going on.  Just as I was about to set out again, I saw ABD's owner walking toward me. Without ABD. I thought I was going to cry.

But when she got to me, she had good news. They had found him. He was wedged under the back tire of a car in the parking lot, spooked by something that drove him to hide. In fact, the car he was wedged under was about to leave, and could have run over the poor guy. But they found him before that happened, coaxed him out, and were bringing him home.

"Thank you so much for your help," she said, as she began walking away. Then she added, "My god! They're just like kids! You can't turn your back for one second!!!"

Well ain't that the truth....

Seriously though, it's entirely commendable to want to include your dog in your plans for enjoying a beautiful summer day by choosing to hang out at a dog park for an afternoon. I mean really, there are a million more enjoyable places for a human to be, I am sure. But to sit on a blanket and sun-bathe while your dog plays in a fast-flowing river, among 30 or so other dogs, and to not really pay attention to him? Well, that doesn't rank up there as the best life decision.

Which gets me to one of my fastest-developing pet peeves - dog owners who bring their dogs to a dog park and then decide to ignore them completely. Because it's enough just to bring them, isn't it? Surely they'll get all the exercise they need running around with other dogs? Why pay attention to them when there are other important things to do, like check Facebook, chat with other humans, or suck back a Starbucks latté? Besides, nothing bad could ever happen in a dog park. Especially not in a dog park with a fast flowing river and 30+ dogs running around....

Grrrrrrr....

To ABD, I'm glad that you did not drown, and I'm glad that you were found. To your owners, I'm so, so, so relieved that you found him, and I'm glad to have been able to help you look. But most of all, I really, really, really hope this teaches you to smarten the f&#k up the next time you bring him out to the island. Cause a really great tan is not going to replace Man's Best Friend.

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...

My bodyguard

There's a freak running around the city right now, sexually assaulting women.

The attacks started in my neighbourhood, early in the morning. But they have since moved out along the Transitway: Alta Vista, Lincoln Fields, Hurdman. The jerk must have a bus pass.

His M.O. is to sneak up behind a woman and try to pull her pants down or grope her. Then he walks away.

Since April, the police have been trying to find this guy. Every local radio station talks about it every morning, reminding women to be vigilant. The police have released his description: white, five foot six, short dark hair, and wearing a grey hoodie (which is so normal as to be nondescript). So they've also released a sketch to local newspapers, urging citizens to keep an eye out for him and to call in any tips. They've received 100 tips so far, but still haven't caught him.

You'd have to live under a rock not to know that this guy is on the loose and that you have to be careful out there.

And yet... I still find myself slipping into complacency about it - into that "it won't happen to me so I don't need to worry about it" attitude. And every morning, despite listening the radio and reading the newspapers, I leave the house without really thinking twice about it.

And then this morning, the Beast and I went for a run. He was full of energy, uncharacteristically pulling like a sled dog most of the way, so we headed for downtown where he can use the Spark Street pedestrian mall as a mini-obstacle course. Weaving through posts and jumping over benches and onto tree planters always tires him out more than a regular run. But he was still super pumped up, so we ran down by the locks and behind Parliament Hill, where I let him run off leash so that he could sprint ahead of me and explore the riverbed. By the time I leashed him back up, I thought he'd be tuckered out, but nope, not even a little bit. So I brought him to the park just a couple of blocks from the house, hoping that his girlfriend Ruby would be there. She wasn't. So instead, I found a big 'ole stick and threw it back and forth to him while I did my post-run stretches by the park bench.

After tossing the stick 3 or 4 times, the Beast caught the scent of something far more exciting and lost interest in me. As he was off exploring, I spotted a man walking into the park from the northeast corner. All of a sudden, I stiffened. He had his hands in his pockets and his head down. He was about 5'6". He had short dark hair. And we was moving closer and closer to me.

I tried so hard to be nonchalant. At the same time that I held a quad stretch, I yelled out to the Beast. I wanted to make sure that this guy would see that I had a big dog with me. "Find your stick. Bring me your stick." The Beast looked up at me, then went back to sniffing around. "Beastie," I said again, my voice a little higher this time. "Find your stick! Where's your stick?" He still didn't seem interested in me. "BEASTIE, HUSTLE!" I said, yelling out the one command that I know he will always respond to. He looked up, looked straight at me, and then looked at the guy walking toward me...

I don't know if he sensed something in my voice that sounded a little more desperate than usual, but he came bolting down the hill and placed himself between me and the man. Then he let out a low growl, followed by a bark that sounded kind of like he was clearing his throat. A warning. "Back off, Mister. That's my mom, and she's not feeling all that great about the situation right now," is what I am sure he was saying.

The guy jumped back a little, looked up at me, and said, "Nice dog. Protective, huh?" By then, he was close enough that I could see that he was wearing glasses, was actually closer to 5'8" or 5'9", and that I had seen him walk through the park many times before. (I'm going for laser eye surgery on Friday so I can't wear my contact lenses right now, and wasn't wearing my glasses either. My vision from a distance is not to be relied on.) I brushed off the comment and said, "No, that's just his way of saying that he wants to play with you. Sorry if he scared you." Then I called him over, leashed him up, and left the park. With my heart beating somewhere around my throat, I ran home as fast as I could.

This morning's episode left me with a few emotions. The first is anger. I'm not very good at being a victim, and I don't like that, even in a completely innocent situation, I feel like I am in some kind of danger because of another jackass running around the city assaulting women. This is my city, dammit, and he has no right to make me feel scared of every man I see walking in my general direction.

The second is sympathy for all the normal men of Ottawa who are going to be mistaken as would-be assailants by women like me.

But the strongest emotion that I'm left with this morning is gratefulness. I am thankful for the Beast, and for him reminding me that even though I may be angry, and even though I feel bad about mistaking an innocent guy for a nut-job, I can't continue to be so complacent. I'm even more thankful for the fact that the Beast is keeping me safe. Maybe he really was just trying to play with the guy when he came running down the hill toward them. Or maybe he did sense that I was scared and wanted the guy to back the 'eff off. But it doesn't really matter. Because when I needed him to be beside me to make me feel safer, he was there. And I'm so grateful for that.

So is hubby. Because when I told him this story over breakfast, with a little tear in my eye, he reached down, rubbed the Beast's head, and said, "You're a good boy, Beastie. Thank you."

Be safe out there.