Evolution

Do you know what is missing on the Internet?

Blogs about couples who don't have kids. And by this, I don't mean couples who have tried unsuccessfully to have children. I mean couples who have made the conscious choice not to have kids. Couples who are happy in a family that does not include little people. Couples who enjoy doing lots of fun stuff with other adults. Couples like Hubby and me.

I never really realized it until I ended up a passenger in the same car as Erica Ehm (yeah, that's right... I hang out with B-List Canadian celebrities.... You know you are jealous!). And what does a former MuchMusic V.J. do now, you ask? Well, click on her name and find out for yourself! She writes a blog about being a Mom. A "yummy mummy", no less! Offering piles and piles of advice to women who raise children. If you're a mom, you should check it out! It's a pretty good website!

And it is far from being the only one. Go ahead and Google any derivative of the word "mom" and "blog" and you will be bombarded with hits from almost every corner of the globe. Even dads are active in the blogosphere. Parents the world over want to talk to each other - and to the rest of us - about how wonderful it is to raise children. They give advice. They tell funny/sad/happy/infuriating stories. They give product reviews. They solve one another's child-rearing dilemmas. They debate issues like private vs. public education. They share pictures. They... Well, you get the point. There is no lack of blog authors out there talking about parenthood.

Which is totally great! If you are a parent and you are looking for advice, stories, debates, pictures, product reviews, etc... on kid stuff.

But what if you are, say, a couple like Hubby and I who choose not to have children? You might not care so much about where to find the most stylish maternity clothes. Or what the best running stroller is. Or that toys made from recycled materials instill social responsibility in children at a young age. Instead, you might want to share experiences with other like-minded people. For instance, you might want to chat with other people who spent the summer travelling across the northeastern US to see Springsteen in concert because they don't have to sock money away for their children's university education. Or you might want to post photos of your not-one-Disney-character-in-sight family vacation through the wineries of Provence and Bordeaux. Or maybe the words "mini" and "van" don't exist in your vocabulary, and you would rather read about how the sporty BMW Z4 Roadster handles on the highway.

Where do you go?

Sadly, there are very little places. I know. I Googled. And I found very few. And I don't even really follow any because they are, well, really bitter. Bitter because of all the moms and dads out there and the pressure that they feel to, well, breed.

The fact of the matter is that, although the concept of family continues to evolve, our collective psyche cannot shake the image of children standing at its centre. Take Modern Family (hilarious - I know. Who doesn't LOVE Phil!!!!) as an example. Three very different families, all of them with... yep... kids. Paunchy, middle-aged man marries a smokin' hot wife a couple of years younger than his own kids, and finds himself raising a step-son. His gay son is in a loving partnership, where something was missing until they adopted a child. And his daughter goes the more traditional route, marrying her high-school sweetheart and becoming a stay-at-home mom to 3 children.

... Maybe Modern Family would be more modern if there was a third adult child who gets a dog instead of a kid, and who travels across the continent with her husband - who she waited 7 years to marry - watching football games and Springsteen concerts...

Anyway, you are probably asking yourselves what this has to do with, well, anything. More importantly, what does it have to do Mr. Fergus.

Well, nothing, actually. And that is the point. I have decided that, as inspiring of a muse as Mr. Fergus has turned out to be, I have other, non-dog experiences that I want to share. And the monologue about family is because I realize that many of these experiences and stories are shaped by the life that I have chosen to live. And a key feature of that life is my family. Which includes no children. And which, quite frankly, allows me to do a whole bunch of fun things that would lead to hilarious stories if my blog wasn't entirely devoted to my furriest friend.

So it is time for the blog to evolve. I am carving out a space for other stories that I want to share. Some stories will involve the Beast. Others will not. But dog lovers, fear not. If you are only interested in puppy antics, look for the label "Fergus". If you don't find it, read anyway. You might be presently surprised that funny things happen to me when the Beast isn't around.

But be warned. The chances are good that I will be talking about Bruce Springsteen. Or football.

Thanks

I left work after 6:00 pm the Friday before Canadian Thanksgiving long weekend feeling more than a little bruised and battered. It's been a tough week at work. Hell, it's been a tough month at work. I'm stressed. Too stressed. And I'm not sleeping enough... Life never feels quite right when you aren't sleeping enough. Worse of all, I'm not spending enough time with my family and friends.

And so, on this Thanksgiving weekend, I was bound and determined to right this wrong. No working this weekend (aside from the casual monitoring of my berry). Just time well spent with myself, with my friends, and of course, with my family.

Hubby was out at his weekend French class, leaving Saturday morning to me. I don't usually run on weekends, but in this case, I knew I was going to pig out on a Thanksgiving feast later on - to which I would be contributing more than a few calories in the form of homemade ice cream, sausage and sage stuffing, and cranberry sauce. So, despite the rainy and wet climate, preemptive guilt took over. Besides, I had to take Fergus to the groomer's anyway. I leashed him up and took off for a run along the canal, where 6k later, I dropped him off at the puppy salon for a 3 hour pampering session. This left me all by myself - frankly, a glorious feeling. I decided to run another 3k to Starbucks, grab the biggest no-room Americano I could get my sleep-deprived hands on, and walk the last 1.5k home while sipping on my fuel. By this time, the clouds were clearing away just enough to let the sun poke through, and my stress headache, which has been a feature of daily life for the past 10 days, was finally starting to ease.

For the rest of the morning, I had the house entirely to myself. I must admit that it feels a little odd when Hubby and the Beast are not around. Particularly in the case of the latter, I have grown very used to the sound of his nails on our hardwood floors, his big brown eyes looking up at me whenever I go near the kitchen, and more or less just constantly having him under my feet. The house feels empty when he is not following me everywhere. Still, I enjoy these precious moments of alone time. So I changed out of my sweaty run clothes, cranked some Springsteen tunes, and went to work on my Thanksgiving stuffing, dancing around the kitchen and singing at the top of my lungs, occasionally using my knife as a microphone without fear that Hubby would walk in and catch me pretending to be a member of the E-Street Band.

Around noon, Hubby came home with a resplendent Mr. Fergus, who always looks so handsome after a morning at the groomer's. See for yourself!

I am so handsome when I am clean!

My boys came home just in time for me to hit the shower so that I could get over to my friend's house to finish putting together our Thanksgiving feast. And when I came out of the shower, this is what was waiting for me:

Just chillin'

Smiling for the camera

I LOVE belly rubs!!!!

Yep. This is the same husband who resisted getting a dog for 9 years. The one who told me that he doesn't like dogs. That one....

Much as I would have loved to stay and cuddle with these two goofballs, I had a day to spend in the kitchen ahead of me, so that I could honour my second weekend promise: time with friends. And not just any friends. My baseball team - the most fun-loving and non-judgemental group of people that you will ever meet. Stress is never an option when you are hanging out with this crew.  And laughter is always on the menu. Is there a better bunch of people to spend Thanksgiving dinner with? Especially when it involves copious amounts of delicious food, more than a few bottles of wine, and a dance party lasting long into the wee hours of the night?

With time for myself and friends filling up Saturday, today - Thanksgiving Sunday - was saved for my family, this year, on a smaller scale. With my parents and in-laws a province or two away in either direction, family this year equals me, Hubby and Fergus. Just the three of us. Which, as far as I am concerned, is a pretty fantastic family.

But today didn't exactly start out great. Despite honouring my promise of me-time and friend-time on Saturday, work stress still seems to creep in whenever the lights go out and my head hits the pillow, and I did not sleep very well again last night. Which means that I woke up a little grouchier than one should be on Thanksgiving Sunday, and with a headache to boot. Admittedly, as I was rolling out of bed, I noticed that Hubby was no longer there, and I thought to myself, "I would be very thankful today if Hubby has already taken the Beast out for his morning walk so that I don't have to get out of these pyjamas." But when I stumbled down the stairs, there were my boys, in the kitchen, one of them still in his own p.j.'s. At least he was making coffee, and I was thankful for that.

After a quick breakfast, I found the motivation to tell Hubby that I was going to take Fergus to the Arboretum. Normally, this is an activity that Fergus and I do together - just the two of us. But every now and then, Hubby comes with us. So I asked him if he wanted to come with us on this particular morning, half expecting him to say no, as his nose was already buried in the Sunday edition of the New York Times. But he surprised me with a "Yes! That sounds like a nice way to spend our morning!" And so, half an our later, the three of us fed and two of us caffeinated, off we went.

Having not slept very well, I was uncharacteristically quiet as we walked through the streets of Little Italy. To the point where my husband wondered aloud what was wrong with me. "Nothing," I said. "I just didn't sleep last night and I have a headache. That's all." "Is it work?" he asked. "Yes, I said. But I don't really want to talk about it. Let's just try to enjoy the day."

Not a very ringing endorsement of the day ahead, is it...

We continued on in silence until we got to the Arboretum, where we let the Beast off of his leash so that he could roam to his heart's content. Sensing that I might need a little bit of space, Hubby ran off with Fergus. The two of them found the biggest stick that they could possibly find, and spent the next 10 minutes playing fetch, tug-o-war, and the Beast's all-time favourite game, chase-me. I stood back and watched. And took some pictures.

"Give me that stick!"

Hubby dragging Fergus around by the stick...

"No, really! I said give me that stick!"

Chewing on a stick. Mmmmmmmm...

I'm not giving it back, Dad!

Want me to throw this stick?

Maybe I'll chase you instead!

Come and get me!

More chasing!

And more being chased!

Hiding from my Dad, who won't stop chasing me!

And as I watched my two crazy boys run after one another, sometimes with sticks, sometimes without, I started to feel a little bit better. My headache was dissipating. The caffeine was kicking in. And I was smiling.

And as I stood in the middle of Fergus' favourite spot in the whole wide world, I could not help but turn a little contemplative as I began to realize just how lucky I am to have this little life of mine.

I admit it. I don't usually spend a whole lot of time on Thanksgiving thinking about everything that I have to be thankful for. Mostly, I look at it as an opportunity to stuff my face with turkey. But this morning, while I watched my grown man of a husband run around the Arboretum like a kid with his dog, I made a little list in my head of all the things that I want to say thank you for:

I am thankful for this beautiful city that I call my home, where I can spend incredible mornings like this one with the people and creatures that I love most.

The most beautiful green space in the city

Beautiful Parliament Hill

My street

I am thankful for my incredible friends, who make me laugh, sometimes until I cry.

Winning the B-side trophy with the craziest bunch of people I will ever know!

I am thankful that I have the means to do fun and crazy things, like meeting CFL legends when we travel to Grey Cup every year:

Pinball Clemons

Or visiting 400 year old wine cellars in southeastern France:

A wine cave in St. Emilion, Bordeaux, France

Or following Springsteen on tour around the North-eastern U.S. and finally getting this close to him:

If only he would have picked me to dance with him...

But most of all, I am thankful for the two very special boys in my life, who make sure that I smile at least once every day, and both of whom, in their own special ways, make me feel like I am the most important person in the whole world.

Love

Watching a football game and chewing on a deer antler

Taking a coffee break

Work stress aside. I am a lucky girl. Mostly for one furry and one not-so-furry reason.

An ode to Auntie K

(As told by the Beast)

**********

My Auntie K smells great.

Well, at least my girl human thinks so. Personally, I prefer the smell of rotting plant material and dog pee, which I like to roll in when no one is looking. But Auntie K smells okay too, I guess. And every time I see her, I end up smelling like her. Because she gives me great big human hugs and kisses, and her smell lingers in the fur behind my ears for days. Then my girl human comes and gives me great big ear scratches and says things like, "You smell great, Fergus. Just like your Auntie K!" Followed by, "Hmm... I wonder what perfume she wears?"

I don't know what kind of perfume she wears... I don't really know what perfume is. Does it taste good?

Well, I do know this. My Auntie K is the greatest person I ever met. Well, the greatest person after my girl and boy humans, of course. But she is right after them!

There are SOOOOO MANY REASONS why Auntie K is the (almost) greatest! First of all, whenever she comes over and girl and boy human try to stop me from jumping all over her, she says, "It's okay, Fergus! Come on!" And then she lets me jump all over her and kiss her and lick her and bark in her ear! She's the only person who doesn't get all freaked out whenever I come barrelling towards the door to say hi. All she does is giggle and smile and give me lots of love. No one else in the whole world does that.

AND... she knows that when she is scratching my bum, and I turn and look up at her and show my teeth, I am really just smiling. Everybody else gets scared and thinks that I am going to snap. Which makes me nervous, so I start to bark, and then they get even more scared! But not Auntie K! She is so smart, and she knows that this is how Aussies smile!

AND... she has a car. I love my girl and boy humans, but they don't have a car. And I LOVE car rides! They are the BEST! Well, after running around in the Arboretum and wrestling with my favourite dog pals, anyway... Whenever she pulls into the driveway in her car, and opens the door, I hop right in! And she doesn't even mind that there's no blanket on the seat! Sometimes, she even takes me for rides in her car, and the whole time, she looks back at me as I sit nicely in the backseat and says things like, "You are such a good boy, Fergus."

AND... sometimes, when my girl and boy humans are gone, she takes me to her place for a few days. And do you know what she has at her place? She has CATS!!!!!!!!  And I love cats!!!!! All I ever want to do is play with the cats!!!!! Well, after running around in the Arboretum, wrestling with my dog pals, and going for car rides... Then all I want to do is play with cats. So I spend hours trying to figure out where the little one is hiding (obviously, hide and seek is her favourite game...). And I keep trying to sneak up on the big one so that I can get close to him just once, but he's too fast for me. So I end up running up and down the stairs all day long, looking for and chasing cats. It's so much fun!

AND... she has another dog! With no tail, just like me! So him and I spend hours hip checking each other. It's my signature move. I think I must have taught it to him cause now he does it really well. Anyway, he also has WAY more toys than me! (My girl and boy humans say that Auntie K spoils him a lot!) And do you know what?!?! He doesn't even play with them!!!! They all just sit there in his toy box while he carries around the same frog all day long!!! So I get to play with them. And I do. I take every single toy out of the toy box, and run around the house with it while I am hip checking the dog and chasing the cats, and then, at the end of my visit, Auntie K always stuffs a couple in my bag so that I can take them home with me! No one else has ever given me so many great toys! Not even my girl and boy human!

AND... when I stay with Auntie K, she even takes me out running. I know this doesn't sound like a big deal, but I heard my girl human say to my boy human once that Auntie K hates running. Now I don't understand how anyone could hate running. I mean, the wind feels so good blowing through the fur behind my ears, and I love lifting my snout up to breath in all the great smells around me. Maybe it's because Auntie K doesn't have a big nose or ear fur. I don't really get it, but I do know that she is the greatest (after my girl and boy humans) for taking me out running when my girl human can't. No one else has ever done that for me!!!!!

AND... Auntie K mixes wet cat food in with my dinner! She does this when I won't eat everything in my bowl. My girl and boy humans don't do this. They just take my food away if I don't eat it and won't give it back to me until the next meal time. Maybe they don't realize that I am not eating because I am waiting for something better. Like WET CAT FOOD!!!!!  Auntie K is so good to me!!!

AND....  she lets me sit on her couch!!!!  I have never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, never, never, never, ever, ever, never been allowed to sit on the couch at girl and boy humans' house. I tried to sneak up there once when boy and girl human were falling asleep watching t.v., but that didn't work. They made me get right back down on the floor. I mean, don't get me wrong. I like the floor, especially in the summer when it is so hot outside and the hardwood feels so cool against my belly. And I especially like that sometimes, boy or girl human will come sit with me on the floor and scratch my belly or rub my ears while they watch tv. But I gotta tell you, Auntie K's couch is w-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-y-y-y-y-y-y-y more comfortable than my dog bed! And it's fun to curl up with her and rest my head in her lap. Until one of the cats tries to come by. Then I bolt up and chase it up and down the stairs!

Sometimes, I think that living at Auntie K's all the time would just be the greatest. Well, the greatest after running through the Arboretum, wrestling with my doggie pals, going for a car ride, and chasing cats. It would be the fifth greatest thing in the whole world. No, the sixth. Because living with my girl and boy human is the super greatest thing of all time, and I would miss them so much if they were gone. But if anything ever happened to my girl and boy human, I would want to be with my Auntie K. She just loves me so much! I know she does because she lets me do so many fun things! And....

WAIT.... What's that noise? There are kids playing out in MY street! I think they are going to try to attack the house! I'd better get over there and warn girl and boy human!!!!

"Wooooffffffff, wwwwooooooooffffffff, baaaaaaarrrrrrrrkkkkkkkkk!!!!!"

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

(As told by girl human)

"Fergus! OUT!"

...Sorry about that, Auntie K. I think what Fergus was trying to say before he got distracted by children who have the nerve to play outside on his street is that you are very special to him. Lots of people meet our little Beast for the first time and wonder why he can't be nicer, quieter, and more polite. You know, like so-and-so's dog. But you have never once wondered that. You have always accepted him for who he is, even during his loudest, most beastly moments.

I admit that sometimes, I think that you spoil him a little too much, that you let him get away with things that he should not be allowed to get away with (ahem... that would be allowing him to get up on your couch, young lady....), and that you are too much of a pushover with him. But then, when I see how excited he gets every time you come over, I know that he is so lucky to have such a great Auntie K who loves him unconditionally.

So thank you for being ready and willing to take him on a few days notice when Hubby and I need to get away for a few days. Thank you for being so understanding about all of his foibles. Thank you for reminding me to be patient with him because he is just a puppy. Thank you for listening to the million Fergus stories that I tell. Thank you for spoiling him rotten, like all good aunties should. And most of all, thank you for being the only person who has ever met him to call him an angel.

Fergus loves you, Auntie K. And so does girl human.

The meaning of life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or this one:

Or this one:

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

The zookeeper

Many people don't know this about Winnipeg, but it has a zoo.

Yes. That's right. Winnipeg. The coldest place on earth. Has a zoo. With penguins and polar bears. But also with elephants and monkeys and lions and zebras. It's a pretty awesome place.

I haven't been in decades, but man, did I ever love that zoo. Mostly because penguins and monkeys are single-handedly the funniest and most entertaining creatures on earth. But also because I used to think that the coolest job in the world was to be a zookeeper. I mean, look. You get to hug cheetahs! How awesome is that!

(My 9-year-old self didn't fully appreciate that you also have to shovel elephant shit...)

Alas, I did not grow up to be a zookeeper. Instead, I grew up to be a bureaucrat. (Although there is most certainly a joke about shoveling shit buried in this career choice somewhere...). But this past weekend, I got to fulfill my childhood dream of playing the role of zookeeper. Because I had a house full of critters.

Okay, so they weren't exactly exotic animals. And there wasn't exactly a whole bunch of them. We're talking one cat and one dog, alongside my own Beastie. But it felt like a wild kingdom in here at times. And I did have to feed them all and pick up after them and make sure that they didn't kill one another. Which is not as easy as it sounds...

Critter #1 is Princess Kitty (or PK for short). You may remember her from this heart-wrenching tale of unrequited love. This is officially her 4th visit to the Hubby-and-me-menagerie. And since Fergus LOVES LOVES LOVES LOVES LOVES her, and since she LOVES LOVES LOVES LOVES LOVES to lead him on, every visit is guaranteed to deliver laughs.

The difference this time is that the two of them invented a new game. The let's-chase-each-other-around-the-bedroom-sometime-between-2:00-and-4:00-a.m.-until-a-human-locks-us-out game. Here are the rules:

• The dog, who sleeps on the floor at the foot of the bed, is alerted to the presence of the cat, who tries to sneak into the bedroom and onto the bed sometime between 2:00 and 4:00 in the morning.
• The dog leaps up and starts chasing the cat around the bedroom. 
• The cat leaps up onto the bed, and snuggles down low in between the two humans, making sure to be extra cute so that they won't mind that she is there.
• The dog, who wants to give the cat a goodnight kiss, stands alongside the bed and stares longingly at her. This usually involves panting and other signs of excitement, like ears dipped forward and tailless bum wagging. The latter, when done hard enough against the side of the bed, gives the impression of a 4.3-on-the-Richter-scale-level-earthquake.
• The cat, who loves to torment the dog, decides to have some fun with this dumb creature, and approaches him alluringly. She gives him a few loving licks. And then just as the dog moves forward to reciprocate with a great big slurpy kiss, WHACK! The cat smacks him across the nose.
• The dog, who can't read these mixed signals, tries again to plant a canine kiss on the cat's nose.
• The cat swats at him again, only this time, with claws out, the smack lands on the human's leg, waking her up from a dream about being back stage at a Bruce Springsteen concert.
• The human tries to ignore the cat so that she can slip back into her dream. But she is unsuccessful because the cat and the dog keep playing the "I'll let you lick me, no I won't, I'll swat you" game.
• The human finally wakes up, grabs the cat, and carries her into the hallway. The dog naturally follows. The human shuts the bedroom door. She then has to try to go back to sleep while listening to the sound of the dog whimpering to get back into the room, interspersed with the sound of animals running up and down the stairs at breakneck speeds to continue tormenting one another.

Yeah, I may have wanted to be a zookeeper growing up, but I didn't want to work the night shift. Just sayin'...

Things got even more wild when Critter #2 showed up. Bella is an almost-two-year-old Husky-German-shepherd-mix, with a sweet and gentle disposition. But she also has a rather strong prey drive, which at least one squirrel - R.I.P. my furry friend - has learned the hard way. But just because PK is small and black and furry, and from a distance kind of looks like a squirrel, nothing bad could happen, right?

GULP...

The good news is that in the end, nothing bad happened. But that was not without some significant zoo-keeping on my part. Which involved, for the most part, keeping PK and Bella separate. At first this was not too hard. PK just went and hid. In fact, she hid herself so good for a few hours that Hubby and I started to fear that she actually somehow slipped out of the house to escape the crazy mutts. When she finally did start to come out, Bella was sooooo excited that she would run up and down the stairs, sprint circles around the island, and even jump on furniture (a big doggie no-no in this house) in her attempts to corner the kitty. I didn't even really know that cats could growl until I started to hear a blackberry-vibration-like noise coming from poor PK. I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't a little stressed about the situation.

But after about 24 hours, the two of them settled into some kind of understanding. PK would tolerate Bella getting within a few feet of her without growling, and Bella satisfied herself with keeping her distance but barking, whimpering, and play-bowing to Sadie instead of chasing her all over like a crazed monkey. Within 48 hours, they were even able to sit calmly in one another's presence. And by the time she left us, Bella wasn't even all that interested in PK anymore.

Phew. Crisis averted. I'd be a bad zookeeper if someone got hurt on my watch!

And I haven't even mentioned the Fergus-Bella dynamic yet. Which, frankly, despite knowing one another, did not start out on the right foot.

It's entirely my fault, really. I know that the Beast is one territorial little bugger when he wants to be (which is all the freaking time) and that he is, shall we say, sensitive to other creatures coming into his domain. With humans, this translates into wild barking and jumping up and down. With other dogs, this translates into an instant attempt to dominate. Which means growling, barking, lunging and attempts to pin the other dog. Which all looks very attack-like. In short, it is a decidedly unpleasant way to be greeted. Which is why, when I normally have a friend bring a dog over for a date, I ask them to meet me about a block from the house, go for a little walk with me and Fergus, and then bring the dog into the house. But Bella was coming over late on a school night, and I was tired, and I figured that they knew each other already and that it wouldn't be a big deal to cheat a little just this once, and...

Fergus attacked Bella. At least that's what it looked like. And if I were Bella's owner, I may have been sorely tempted to call my dog a psycho and beat a fast retreat. Thankfully, my friends are all familiar with my dog's sometimes beastly behaviour, and are a loving and forgiving bunch. Also thankfully, as soon as I took Bella and the Beast for a walk (which I should have done BEFORE entering the house), they remembered that they were actually best friends. From that moment on, they became inseparable - barking at each other, wrestling, playing tug, and tag-teaming the cat to give her a dose of torment for a change.

Of course, "got along great" still means that there was A LOT of zoo-keeping to be done. Particularly in the exercise department. I know this doesn't sound like a big deal - if you are already walking one, you can walk two, right? Well, not exactly. Especially not when one is bred to pull. Which is exactly what Bella did to me when the three of us went on an 8k run on Friday morning. 40+ minutes of being pulled along the Ottawa river pathway like a rag doll, being ridiculed by cyclists who passed us by, and genuinely fearing for my spinal alignment whenever a small furry animal crossed our path. I suppose that's what you get for tying a sled dog around your waist. On the upside, my time was much faster than it normally is!

But all good things, even childhood dreams, must come to an end. On Sunday night, Bella went home, and tomorrow, PK leaves us too. We will resume our normal, one-animal life. Boring, I know. And while I hope that they all come back to visit us, I now know that being a zookeeper on anything more than a temporary basis is just too exhausting for me!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to vacuum my house from top to bottom. In the meantime, enjoy some pictures of our weekend menagerie.

PK didn't like Saturday vacuuming, so she hid in the wine cellar. Who can blame her? That's the first place I go when I have a bad day!!!

Playing hide-and-seek with the Beast

Found you!!!!

Taking a break from tormenting each other and looking cute for the camera.

"Hey PK! Let's blow this joint! We can make it out there on our own!"

Back from our run. I am smiling because I made it back alive and in one piece. It was dicey there for awhile.

Back from our run, standing up this time.

Up close and personal. And tongues hanging out after a good solid 15-minutes of wrestling.

Tug has always been Fergus' favourite game. But he kept getting his ass kicked by a girl. Bella is the tug-o-war champ!

PK safely perched up on the stairs, watching Dumb and Dumber wrestle down below.

Cuddling

I just want to sniff you. Just once. Please, please, please, please, please?!?!

More post-wrestling cuteness!

"Ummm... Could you let us in please? The cat is inside and we are outside..."

"Mwahahahaha, suckers," PK says. "You can't get me from out there!"

But Bella will try anyway!

All 3 of them in the same room, quiet, for the first time. (PK is hard to see but she is there on the couch)

And then there were only two. PK and Fergus helping Hubby get some work done.

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