Injury time

It happens to the best of us.

A tweaked muscle here... A pulled tendon there... A pinched nerve somewhere else...

Injuries. Those of us who are physically active know that it is only a matter of time before we sustain one. God knows that I have had my fair share. Ankle sprains, muscle tears, strained tendons, popping kneecaps, and my personal favourite, groin pulls (nothing like icing the entre-jambes area, I say...). Years and years of living the sedentary life without one freaking injury. 10 years of keeping fit and active and POW! I run out of massage therapy and physiotherapy insurance coverage by February. Every. single. year.

My most infamous injury is indicative of what a jerk I am when it comes to taking proper care of myself. Picture it: a snowy, icy Sunday morning in small-town New Brunswick, where I have been visiting my in-laws for the past 36 hours. I'm starting to, quite frankly, get a little squirrely. (Try as we do, we just can't seem to stop getting on one another's nerves...) So I decide to go for a 5k run. After 5k, I'm still feeling too stressed to go back, so I decide to do another 5k. About halfway through the second loop, I slip on ice. Innocuous, really - I don't even hit the ground. Just lose balance for half a second before I regain my stride. But after five more minutes, I feel my right glute stiffen. Another 5 minutes later and, with every single strike of my right foot, I feel a stabbing pain rip through my ass cheek. But I've got less than 2k to go, and it's too cold to walk, so I "rimp" (a cross between a run and a limp) all the way back. 

By the time I arrive, I'm in too much pain to be stressed about having another 24 hours to spend with my in-laws. I spend the rest of the day alternating between ice and heat, desperately trying to stop the ass spasms that are preventing me from lying down, sitting, or standing without screaming in pain.

Forty-eight hours later, I'm home. And I'm no longer spasming. Obviously, I'm feeling better. So I go for a run. And running feels great. But then I get home, and my right glute seizes up again, causing me to spend the rest of the day limping around the office. 

But do I stop running and seek professional help? Of course not! What am I? Some kind of wuss? Every other day, I run, and the same scenario plays out. Until Hubby, who is tired of me (a) not taking his advice to rest for a few days and (b) whining about how much post-run pain I am in, insists that I call the doctor. So I drag myself to the sports therapy clinic at the nearby university, get sent for a bone scan (to rule out a fracture) and an ultrasound (when the bone scan reveals nothing), and am finally diagnosed (four months after the original injury) with a torn hip flexor. 

I have been running, every other day, on a torn hip flexor. For four months. Even I know how 'effin dumb that is. 

Dumb enough to make me listen to the doctor, the physiotherapist, the ART specialist, and the massage therapist that I was seeing to rehab me through this injury. Which meant absolutely, unequivocally, without question, NO RUNNING. For at least two weeks. And when I questioned that length of recovery time, I got this: "Well, if you would have taken care of this when it happened, you wouldn't be in this situation," or "It could be worse. If it were a bone fracture, you'd be out for at least 8 weeks." Like patronizing me is going to make me feel better at a time like this...

But I listened. I went to physio/RMT/ART sessions religiously. I started stretching more. I started doing yoga (and you know I am taking it seriously when I do yoga, which I kind-of-sort-of-hate). I did all of my rehab exercises. And most importantly, I did not run once.

Instead, I moped around the house. I felt miserable, unfulfilled, and empty. I filled that empty no-running-void with food. I gained a couple of pounds. I snapped at everyone around me. And I drove everyone mad with my bad attitude. 

I am officially the world's worse rehab patient.

Strike that. I was officially the world's worse rehab patient. The Beast recently lifted that title from me.

It was a small thing, really. As you will surely recall, we recently took Fergus sheep herding. The thing about sheep herding is that you don't do it on nice, level, perfectly groomed landscape. You do it in a pasture. Where there are groundhog holes and uneven turf. Unsurprisingly, mis-steps are possible. And indeed, on the way out of the sheep pen, the trainer asked us if Fergus was limping.  All three of us checked him out thoroughly, looking at all of his paws, poking and prodding him a little to see if anything was tender, but all he did was happily pant. So off we went. And when we got home, he seemed perfectly normal. No limp in sight. 

The following morning, we resumed our regular weekday exercise routine: Monday a.m. run with Mom (we did about 7k), Tuesday a.m. bike ride with Dad (they did about 6k), Wednesday a.m. run with Mom (we did 11k because it was one of those ridiculously beautiful summer mornings), Thursday a.m. bike ri.... Hold the phone. Uncharacteristically, the Beast didn't want to go for a bike ride. After 1k, he stopped dead in his tracks, and refused to go any further. Hubby had to very slowly pedal home. With a very unmotivated dog alongside him. Which we simply chalked up to him being tired from all the physical activity that he does.

That evening, I took Fergus for a walk. And that's when I noticed it. He was limping. Very definitely limping along slowly beside me. And when I picked up one paw at a time to see what was wrong, he pulled away from me when I touched the rear right one. 

Great. So he had done something to himself at the sheep farm after all. But just like his Mom, he faked his way through it for a couple of days, cramming run after run and wrestling-match after wrestling-match into his routine, unwilling to show that something was hurting and that it was time for a break.

Well, a break is just want we knew we had to give him. And on the advice of a friend, Hubby and I agreed that there would be no running for a few days, no off-leash walks, and no dog park. Only slow, controlled walks on a leash, and maybe a little bit of swimming. Until we were sure that he was limp free, for real this time.

Well, Fergus just freaked out. After just one day of not running, I was reminded of why I nicknamed him the Beast. He resumed his frenetic, I-have-too-much-unreleased-energy-pent-up-inside-of-me state almost immediately after our Friday morning walk. As though he was trying to say to me, "WTF, Mom? What's with this slow pace. It's our day to run, lady. Pick up the damn pace, will you?!?!" By the time we got back from work on Friday evening, he was a veritable gong show. Jumping all over us when we walked through the door (which he never does anymore), pacing back and forth until we took him outside, pulling on the leash as though his sole purpose in life was to yank my arm out of its socket, and whimpering and howling when we did not turn into the dog park during our walk. And despite walking him for over an hour on Friday night, he spent the rest of the evening staring at his toy box, demanding that we take something out and throw it around the house for him. Which of course, we would not do, because he could not run.

This went on and on and on for the whole weekend. Constant whining, begging, whimpering, and glancing up at us with his poor-me eyes. 

By Sunday morning, I was desperate to take him out for a roller-blade adventure with me and the girls to let him use up some of his crazy energy. Desperate because he was driving me freaking crazy, and I couldn't take it anymore. But I knew I couldn't. Even though he wasn't limping anymore, I couldn't do to him what I always do to myself: push him to get active too soon and set back his recovery by days and weeks. 

Don't mistake this seemingly altruistic statement for anything other than selfishness. If Fergus would have re-injured himself and required a longer rehab period, I was likely to move out and leave Hubby to deal with this neurotic behaviour. Nope - not taking him was actually all about me. 

But it worked. By Tuesday morning, after being limp-free for over 48 hours, we set off for a leisurely 5k. We took lots of stops to make sure that we weren't rushing it too soon, and I poked and prodded him the whole way through to make sure that he was truly okay and not just faking it. We were even able to go for a bike ride last night along the river, and a run through the Arboretum this morning. And thankfully, he has resumed his calm-as-Fergus-knows-how-to-be state. Peace (or our version of it, at least) has returned to our household.

And now that I know just how overbearing, whiny, and desperately attention-seeking I can be when I am injured and can't do what I love to do, I promise that I will stretch after every single run and listen to my body. Because I don't want to put Hubby through dealing with two injury divas. 

Loyalty

I have a tendency to go overboard. With just about everything in my life.

Take the Beast's recent herding evaluation as a perfect example. We spent one hour testing his ability to herd sheep, made no firm decisions as to when or how often we will come back for lessons, and I've already gone out and ordered the following book: Herding Dogs: Progressive Training. A full-on manual on how to teach dogs to herd. For people whose livelihoods depend on raising livestock.

In other words, not really necessary for the weekend herder/handler combo that is me and the Beast.

The book came in the mail yesterday, and I started flipping through the very intimidating 7-page table of contents to see if I could just find a chapter on "City girls who get the idea in their heads that their dog could be a casual herder". I didn't find that chapter, but I did land upon the following excerpt entitled "Loyalty". I can take no credit for this excerpt. In fact the author is quoted as 'unknown'. But I found it to be a touching description of our beloved pets (minus the slave reference, perhaps). I thought others might too. Enjoy!

God summoned a beast from the fields and He said, "Behold people created in my image. Therefore, adore them. You shall protect them in the wilderness, shepherd their flocks, watch over their children, accompany them wherever they may go - even into civilization.  You shall be a companion, an ally, a slave. 

"To do these things," God said, "I endow you with instincts uncommon to other beasts: faithfulness, devotion and understanding surpassing that of people. Lest it impair your courage you shall never foresee your death. Lest it impair your loyalty, you shall be blind to the faults of people. Lest it impair your understanding, you are denied the power of words. Let no fault of language cleave an accord beyond that of people with any other beast - or even people with other people. Speak to your people only with your mind and through your honest eyes. 

"Walk by their sides; sleep in their doorways; forage for them; ward off their enemies; carry their burdens; share their afflictions; love them and comfort them. And it return for this, people will fulfill your needs and wants - which shall be only food, shelter and affection. 

"So be silent, and be a friend to people. Guide them along the way to this land that I have promised them. This shall be your destiny and your immortality." So spoke the Lord. 

And the dog heard and was content.

- excerpt from Vergil Holland's Herding Dogs 

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.