Let the kids play!

I hate being around other people when I sweat.

Perhaps you remember my rant about running. The only sentient being I want to be around when I run is my dog.

When I lift weights, I won't even ask for a spot when I am bench pressing my body weight because that would involve another person being near me. (This may have once or many times resulted in me dropping a fully loaded bar on my chest so that I could be patronizingly lectured about the importance of a spotter to a "wee thing like me" by the big dude who came to my rescue).

When I do yoga, I work extra hard to ignore all those supremely annoying loud breathers around me so that I can be "present on my own mat" (whatever the hell that means) where, incidentally, I am the only person.

You see, I am a sport loner. With the exception of softball, the only team sport I've ever played. And that is only because (a) I am an ass-kickingly good first-base-woman so it is good for my ego, and (b) there is a lot of beer at all of the games. (DISCLAIMER: I also curled competitively for years, which involves 3 other teammates. But let's stop kidding ourselves. Curling is not a sport, no matter what the IOC says.)

Yet a couple of weeks ago, I got suckered into playing dodgeball. It was a moment of weakness. My friends - who unbeknownst to me were in a competitive dodgeball league - needed me cause they were a (wo)man short. And since it is nice to be needed, I said yes.

I will spare you the play by play call of the games. There are only really two important details. The first is that we were playing against a team of assholes, who take this game WAY too seriously. I mean, they had formations and strategies and knee pads and shit. Either they were really, really unhappy in their jobs (perhaps not a surprise in a town full of bureaucrats), or they just really, really, really needed to get laid.

The second important detail is that the team on which I was subbing was not serious. Not even a little bit, really. There were no formations. And our most complex strategy was "try not to get hit with the ball", followed by "try to hit the other guys with the ball".

So it should come as no surprise to know that we were getting our asses kicked. But what the hell. At least I was burning off a few calories...

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the guys on the other team in full wind-up mode, and that ball was going to come straight at me. With cat-like reflexes, thinking only of my survival, I pivoted to face him, held the ball that I was holding up, and...

The good news is that I blocked the shot, preserving myself for a few moments longer.

The bad news is that my left thumb jammed straight back at an unnatural and indescribable angle.

(Have I ever mentioned that I am left-handed)

I immediately dropped the ball I was holding and let loose a string of profane words that should never, ever, ever be uttered in an elementary school gym. A second or two later, I was mercifully hit by an opponent's ball so that I could retreat to the bench, where I rocked back and forth, trying desperately not to (a) vomit or (b) cry in front of a room full of strangers. Not wanting anyone to know how very much pain I was in, I even tried to play again, only to find that my left hand, which was growing ever larger, ever more colourful, and ever more grotesque with each passing minute, was rendered completely useless, because, evidently, thumbs are fundamentally necessary to pick up and throw balls.

I wish that I had taken a picture of my hand to show you just how bad it really was. But I couldn't stand to look at it myself, much less have photographic evidence of its frankenstein-esque existence at the end of my left arm. Suffice it to say that it was bruised, swollen, and extremely painful. And after visits to a walk-in clinic, my physiotherapist, my family doctor, a plastic surgeon, and an x-ray clinic (do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to tell so many health care professionals that you injured yourself playing freaking dodgeball?!?), we determined that it is not broken (Yay!), but it is a level 3 sprain (Booooo!). Which means that the ligament is torn.

I don't actually know what gamekeeper's thumb is...

Like me, you probably take the ulnar collateral ligament for granted. Well, don't. It's what makes us human! (Or raccoons... Raccoons probably have this ligament too, since they also have opposable thumbs...) It's why you can make a fist, make shadow puppets, use scissors, open a ziplock bag, give a thumbs-up or thumbs-down, open a jar, grasp a pen and write, apply make-up, button up a shirt, do up - or undo - a bra, zip up your coat, tie your shoelaces, pull on your knee-high boots, hold on to anything that weighs more than one pound, use a smartphone... I think you get the picture. Suffice it to say that when this ligament is torn, you can't do any of the above-mentioned. At least not without swearing, crying, or vomiting...

This is a thumb spica

And so, I must spend the next six weeks wearing a thumb spica - a rather difficult-to-find (I had to go to about 17 different pharmacies and/or medical supply stores before I found one) splint that immobilizes your thumb so that the ligament will hopefully reattach itself on its own. If it does not, then the plastic surgeon will operate. In the meantime, my insurance coverage for physiotherapy, which I like to use on real injuries (like groin pulls, torn TFLs, knee pain) sustained while playing real sports (like weight-lifting, running, softball) is slowly dwindling so that I can rehab my freaking thumb. But what choice do I have? I am left-handed, and as we have clearly established, I can't function without this extremely important digit!

There is a point to all of this. The point is that Vince Vaughan and Ben Stiller have done a great disservice to us all by making that damn movie. There were no adult dodgeball leagues before 2004. And do you know why? Because there is a remarkable difference between a ball being thrown at another human being with all the force of a fun-loving, grade-five child behind it, and one thrown by a 6'2", 220lb, sexually-frustrated, knee-pad wearing, disillusioned-with-his-job, never-been-really-good-at-anything-in-his-life-so-he-spends-way-too-much-time-perfecting-his-dodgeball-throw adult. Also, children are far more flexible and resilient than 30- and 40-somethings. Oh yeah, and less frail...

And so, let me depart this wisdom, lest you are ever asked to sub in on - or join - an adult dodgeball team...

DON'T!

Instead, just let the kids play.

Updating the experiment

Okay. So after 3 days of sleeping in the same bed as Hubby and I, it was time to take Monkey out of hiding and present him to the Beast.

Quick refresher. Monkey is a stuffed, green... er... monkey. We bought him for Fergus, to replace his beloved Henrietta Hedgehog, who recently met her demise after a particularly rousing game of tug. Before handing Monkey over to the Beast, we stuffed him in our bed and under piles of our clothes so that he would take on our scent. The premise being that if Monkey smells like Hubby and I, Fergus will be less inclined to destroy him, as he has disposed of every other toy before this one. Because of course, he would not want to, say, rip our arms off.

Well, this is what happened.

First, I presented Monkey to Fergus.

Look at that smile of utter excitement....

 And how much he just wants to caress his new best friend...

And how patient he is being while he waits for me to relinquish Monkey into his tender, loving care...

And so, after a few minutes of introduction, it was finally time to put Monkey's fate in Fergus' paws.

And this is what happened...

I don't quite know what to say... Does this mean that Fergus shows his love and affection through destructive behaviour? Or does it mean that he really wants to take me by the arm and whip me around too until all of my stuffing falls out?

I don't know. But I do know that I don't give Monkey very good odds. I'll keep you posted on how long it takes before he joins the others in Dog Toy Heaven. For now, after an hour of play, this is what he looks like. No seams ripped open yet...

Oh, and yes, I am trying to evolve this blog into non-dog things, and no, I have not posted anything non-dog since saying that I would do so. But I will get there, curious reader(s). I promise.

An experiment

This is Monkey.

You might be asking yourself a couple of questions. Like, "Can't you come up with a better name for a stuffed monkey?" Or "Why is he sticking his hands up?" Or most likely, "What the hell is a grown woman doing with a stuffed, green monkey in her bed?" (Yes, that is my unmade bed. Nice sheet set, n'est-ce pas?)

All perfectly reasonable questions. With answers.
- No, I can not come up with a better name than Monkey, but feel free to give me some suggestions.
- Perhaps he is trying to jump out at me in surprise. Or he is dancing. Or he is being robbed.
- I am conducting an experiment.

Let me elaborate on this final point lest you think that it is a little weird for a grown woman to have a stuffed, green monkey in her bed for the purposes of conducting an experiment...

Monkey is not mine. He belongs to Fergus. Or at least he will once I take those pesky price tags off of him, take him out of the bed, and give him to the dog.

You see, Fergus LOVES his toys. A little too much. You may remember the tragic demise of his beloved Rochester Q. Squirrel. More recently, I bought him what I thought would be the ultimate, indestructible, stuffed dog bone, with a so-called "Tuffy rating" of 9 out of 10. Which he promptly destroyed in less than 4 hours. After tiring of tossing it around and playing tug, he attacked the corner seam with meticulous precision until he could wriggle his snout all the way inside, pulling out reams and reams of stuffing. Which he then ate. Which led to some, er, unpleasant digestive issues...

So I was a little nervous when, after spending the day with Auntie K, he came home with...

...Ms. Hedgehog. Also known as Henrietta. A stuffed animal with lots and lots of vulnerable seams to rip open, felt toes to rip off, and chalk full of stuffing. This could not end well - not for Henrietta, and certainly not for the Beast's digestive system...

But oh my how he loved Henrietta... I mean, I know I said that about the squirrel, but this was different. His eyes lit up with excitement every time he heard "Where's Hedgehog?" We'd hide her in every closet and under every pile of clothes in the house, and he would sniff his way all over the place until he rescued her. We would throw her up and down the stairs and down the hall, and he would chase after her like an Olympic sprinter. When we would tire of playing with her, we would put her on a shelf just above his reach, and he would whine until we would take her down again. He carried her everywhere around the house with him. Whenever it was time to have a rest, he'd lie down with her. I even caught him carrying her upstairs for bedtime, and found him using her as a pillow when I woke up the next morning. No toy has ever captured his heart like Henrietta did.

I started to think that maybe he was over his need to destroy his toys at all cost. Maybe the promise of stuffing was nothing compared to the love and companionship of this squeaky hedgehog. I mean, it had been two weeks, and she was still in tact. Not once did he try to rip off a limb or go after a seam. Maybe he was finally learning to be gentle with the things that he loves!

And then, one morning, while my father was visiting, he and Fergus were playing fetch with Henrietta. Fetch turned into a particularly rousing game of tug. And then we all heard it.  RRR-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-PPPPPPPPP!

Followed by a collective "GGG-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-S-S-S-S-S-PPPPP!!!"

I rushed to the scene to survey the damage. And there it was. Just behind Henrietta's hind left leg. A small hole. And a clear path to fluffy white stuffing.

I knew immediately that it was over for Henrietta. As soon as Fergus got a whiff of her insides, he would not be able to control himself. Still, I held out a faint hope that he would not destroy his beloved hedgehog. And so, I tossed her up the stairs, and he ran after her as fast as he could. He brought her back to me, lay down at my feet, and began to gnaw on her injured leg.

I took her away from him, and threw her again. Like a lightening bolt, he flashed across the hallway to retrieve her. He brought her back to me, dropped her at my feet, and just as I bent down to throw her again, he picked her up and trotted off to his favourite spot on the stairs, and proceeded to work at undoing the seams.

It was a solemn affair, having to take her away from him, but I knew that it had to be done. And so I walked over to him, picked her up, and carried her away to her resting place... in the garbage under our kitchen sink. Confused and hurt, the Beast looked up at me with his saddest brown eyes, whined sullenly a few times, then let out a great big sigh of despair.

It was terribly sad.

We tried enticing him to play with other, unstuffed toys. Like his squeaky rubber ball or his braided tug rope. But they could not hold his attention for very long. Hide and seek just isn't the same without Henrietta.

Which brings us back to Monkey. Hubby and I were visiting our favourite pet food store to replenish the Beast's food stocks over the weekend, when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the stuffed animal section. "Do you really think that is a good idea, Jay?" Hubby asked. "He's just going to destroy it anyway. Maybe it's time we gave up on stuffed animals."

"But they make him so happy!" I exclaimed! "I want to see him having fun with his toys again. He's been so pathetic since Henrietta has been gone. It's breaking my heart!"

As we argued back and forth about whether or not to replace dear Ms. Hedgehog, a store attendant overheard us and stepped forward. First, she pointed out the "more durable" (a term I use rather loosely given our track record) stuffed toys. Then she offered this advice: "If you take this toy home right now and give it to your dog right away, all it will represent to him is excitement. But if you hang on to it for a couple of days, and bury it in your bed or your clothes hamper, so that it picks up your smell, your dog will associate it with you. And he wouldn't want to rip your arms off, would he? I bet you he will be more gentle with it once he picks up your scent all over it."

Politely, I nodded my head and gave her a heartfelt, "Wow, what a great idea! I can't believe I didn't think about that!" But in reality, my inside voice was saying, "Yeah right, lady. You've never met my dog. Jaws-'o-death over there is not likely to stop himself from destroying something that smells like me...." Still, I figured it was worth a try. I am, after all, a trained social scientist, and I can't resist this opportunity to decipher the behaviour of another sentient being.

So, we brought Monkey home. And since Sunday, he has been hidden in our bed, or underneath that big pile of clothes that always seems to be on my bedroom floor. And in a few more days, when he is doused in "eau-de-Jay-and-Hubby", we'll give him to Fergus.

...And see just how long it takes for him to destroy something that reminds him of his two favourite people on earth....

Why do I have a feeling that this will not end well...

Stay tuned...

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?