Listen!!!!

One of my challenges this past year was learning how to listen. On second thought, ignore the “learning how to” part; I should just say “listening.” I’ve always tried to be a good listener but now I’m not so sure I am. My need to be heard sometimes overrides the politesse of listening to others. Funny how I see one thing as a need, the other as a duty.

In typical conversation, one person talks, the other listens. Then in due course, the listener may comment or add or query or encourage but to do so, the listener momentarily becomes the speaker while the former talker becomes the listener. And so it goes, typically like a game of tennis, serve, bounce, return, bounce, return. It is an enjoyable thing, this exchange.

In my experience, many people no longer know how or want to play this conversational “tennis”. They simply want to be heard: “Listen to ME!!!” Sometimes, it’s recounting an experience, sometimes it’s a long-winded complaint, sometimes it’s a rant against some perceived injustice or fault or event from the past which must be rehashed, and sometimes it’s just verbal diarrhea along the lines of my life is more interesting than yours or allow smart ME to inform ignorant YOU! As Milton Wright wrote: “A monologue is not a conversation.”

But as a listener, do I share the blame of a monologuist conversation? Am I too busy trying to put forth a solution to the problem? Have I been there, done that? Have I not given the speaker enough time? Have I read the body language? Perhaps the speaker simply needs a listener, needs to “vent” as we like to call it today. Or maybe I, as listener, am bored and can no longer track the so-called conversation. Am I patient enough? Am I reading a pause as a finish and thus jumping in before the other's done? I’ve been guilty of the all the above.

What to do? I’ll discuss this in upcoming blogs.

Return on investment

Here's SPENCER!!







In government and business circles, there’s a phrase “return on investment,” which means in simplistic terms, the return or profit after having “invested” resources, money or time in something. I can’t help but think of the return on investment I've experienced from knowing Spencer and his people.

Every day, Spencer makes me laugh out loud, encourages me to exercise, makes me think and prompts me to learn. I experience nature in a more direct way. Every day, my walks with Spencer help me see and better appreciate my surroundings and how it changes, in big or small ways. I consider how to positively affect Spencer's behaviour, how to help him be a more socially acceptable little being in our small community and with his folks. He provides some routine in my otherwise routine-free day. I feel good about helping his Mister and Missus in this small way since they’re not currently able to exercise him as much as they’d like. Plus we’re building a friendship based on our mutual interest – their dog, Spencer! I’m learning how to train a dog and gaining some little insight into how one particular doggy brain works.

I get so many benefits from this little furry friend and he asks nothing in return but my commitment to spend some time with him. In a way, it’s like being a grandparent: I get all the joy and none of the responsibility (although I do care for his wellbeing while he’s in my care). In doing what others think of as a good deed, I’ve been the happy recipient of so much: unconditional affection, loads of fun and laughter, freely offered friendship, the loss of a few excess calories - bonus! - and a new attitude towards the wonder that is epitomized by this dog!

Deer Me!

Living in the country as we do, it goes without saying there’s lot of wildlife around even if they aren't always evident. One neighbour even reported seeing a bear ambling along our shoreline! We haven’t encountered that lumbering stranger yet, thank God but Spencer and I have encountered numerous skunks and he seems intuitively (that wonderful nose again) to know not to go after them.

One day, we had an unexpected bonus after a walk to the General Store. We strolled back past the Waba Cottage and Museum, then made a sharp left hand turn around an apple tree at Riopelle’s laneway and lo and behold, ran smack into two young deer who’d been feeding on fallen apples. One look at us and they flew effortlessly over the fence, across the road (I held my breath no cars would come), across the ditch, the other fence, then stood in Terry’s field opposite to stare back at us who had startled them. Spencer went crazy. He had a whiff of deer and was determined to get under the fence and give chase! Crazy nut…what chance? It must be the smell of “wild game” that drove him wild. What a walk that one was!

Spencer's First Love

My oldest sister was going away and we agreed to dog-sit her lhaso-apso'ish dog, Maggie. No problem. Our cat Dolly was relatively used to dogs, having had to endure many canine visitors over her 19 years of life. So long as they quickly grasped that she was the ruler of the roost all would be well, and it was so.

My youngest sister happened to be visiting us that same weekend and was agreeable to helping walk the dogs. She’d walk Maggie and I’d walk Spencer. But how would Maggie and Spencer take to each other? Well, it was love at first sight. Or maybe lust is a better word! Spencer wasn’t above making the sudden unexpected sexual advance despite his being spayed but Maggie’s snaps, barks and elusive manoeuvres managed to deter him. She didn’t hold his passion against him, however. Once past the sexual overtures, the two walked as though they’d been a pair all their lives; she, lively in her short, grey/black coat; he, in his woolly white. Spencer, of course, always tried to keep one step ahead of Maggie. Being male and dominant dog, perhaps this was typical dog behaviour. The walks were comical, amusing and interesting as both dogs sallied forth; Spencer showing Maggie his terrain, and Maggie enjoying her new surroundings, my sister and I doing the occasional waltz-like step around each other to untangle leashes. This idyllic arrangement lasted for 3 wonderful days until Maggie's folks came back and took her home.

It was almost heartbreaking to see Spencer’s anticipation as I harnessed him for his first Maggie-less walk. He thought she was waiting in the garage (which we pass through on our way to the street) as usual with my sister as had been the routine the last 3 days. He leapt from the doorway, flying over three steps and reaching the door in a single bound! No Maggie. He stood on hind feet looking out the window of the garage door. Maggie? Maggie? Out in the driveway, he frantically looked up, down, all around, sniffing at the same time. “Where’s my friend, where’s my friend?’

The good thing about dogs is they appear to accept newcomers with ease but also get over their disappointments more quickly than we humans do. Dejected, Spencer continued to look for her for much of the walk but by the time we headed home, he had accepted her disappearance with equanimity and was back to normal.

Maggie hasn’t visited again but I’m sure she will in the New Year, and when she does, will Spencer remember his first love? Stay tuned...

Mr. Mole

One wintry day with the land foot-deep in fluffy snow, my husband accompanies Spencer and I on our daily constitutional. Spence is doing his usual thing…burying his head in the snow, smelling what? Mice, moles, voles, frogs? Who knows. Next thing we know, there’s a little browny-black mole scurrying along the road. Somehow he exited but can’t find his entrance back under the snow!

Spencer is oblivious. I start to track the mole who now decides it must be safer under the arch of my husband’s boot! Now Spencer’s taken note and takes his froggy stance with the mole. As the inevitable chase begins, the mole repeatedly squeaks in terror “Eek, eek, eek!” This is not fun! This is life or death in his small world. We hold a very excited Spencer back until the mole finds an entrance to the sub-snow world and scurried safely on his way. Spencer gives us a look as if to say “You guys are no fun!”

Peace, Hope, Love and Joy to All

Merry Christmas, reader. Joyeux noël! Dollycat aka Miss Marmalade awoke us at 7:30 am (she allowed us an extra hour of sleep since it's Christmas), the prezzies from those whom love us have been opened, and exclaimed upon. The first mandarin orange eaten! As we hot-tubbed, the blue jays, finches, chickadees and woodpeckers entertained us, bobbing amongst the leafless trees, chattering amongst themselves, and swooping down on our feeders for their christmas breakfast. The snow sparkles like crystal diamonds in the sun. Before we head off to spend the day with our family, I reflect on the spirit of this particular day, and the key messages of peace, hope, love and joy.

I am blessed to live in a peaceful place, amongst peaceful people even as our own and others are engaged in battle elsewhere. If only the world could be at peace. I will try to remember "peace" when I am faced with personal conflict.

I hope for us all, that we in Canada and elsewhere in the world, will find a way to live in harmony. I hope we can control ourselves to keep our world pristine and safe for those who follow in our footsteps. I hope for those who have no hope. I will continue to hope.

I love and am grateful for my country, my life, my family and friends. I love my surroundings, the bounty Nature daily bestows upon us all. I appreciate the small things in life: the pale pink bloom of an over-wintering geranium, the unveiling of the moon by wispy clouds, the susurring of the wind in the pines, the warmth of the fireplace. But most of all, I'm grateful for the love that comes my way, that I can pass on to others for it is limitless.

I try to find joy in every day, for mine is a joyful existence. Regaling you with my dog walking snippets and poems allows me to share with you the joy a dog epitomizes, the joy of friendship and caring, and the joy of writing which allows me to reflect on all that is wonderful around me. The utter joy of taking a breath of crisp winter air as snow creaks underfoot. May you too find joy in your life, your friends, your surroundings.

Das Bootz

The Missus has bought Spencer dog boots – an early Christmas present! They pretty basic: black, felt-like material with vinyl pads on the bottom and elasticized Velcro to hold ‘em on. We introduce them slowly trying just the front paws for starters. Spencer stands patiently while I attach them. He takes big steps, lifting his front paws almost past his ears. He looks like some kind of prancing mini-horse. His tail is at half mast, never a good sign. “This can’t be good,” his body language says.

I entice him out to the snowy lane with a treat then take off running, “C’mon, Spencer. Let’s go!!!!” Usually the excitement in my voice incites excitement in him. He takes off in a flash, running to beat the band, front legs trying to meet back legs in an arch over his back...with poor old menopausal me on the other end of the leash gamely trying to keep up without doing a faceplant in front of the neighbours! Once away from the street light, all I can see are two little black dots against the snow as the rest of him blends in. I laugh myself silly as we slide around the first corner. Maybe this is the way to start jogging! Spencer has enough muscle to make a good sled dog! And the best thing is: he’s forgotten about the boots!

The next day is the full trial: I put the second set of boots on his hind pattes. This time he forgets about the front boots, he’s doing a serious high-step with his back paws, kind of like a four-legged can can dancer. His people and I laugh uproariously at his combination high-stepping and dejected body language. “I’m definitely NOT liking these boots!” he signals with his tail again at half mast. Yet again, never under-estimate the power of a treat and the excitement of the run. We’re off! Spencer’s approach to tolerating the boots is to try to run them off! Our “walks” are the fastest in our community! We go by in a flash! “Was that Santa?” People ask seeing the blur go by. “No, just that crazy lady and Spencer!”

At this rate, I’ll be running marathons by spring. But the best part is, no matter how fast we go, he can’t out-run those boots!

Let it Snow, Let it Snow!

The wonderfully warm and long lasting autumn turned instantly to winter with the first big snowfall. Snow!! Can there be anything better? Not from a dog’s perspective. Spencer jumped in, rolled in, scruffled along with his nose buried like some kind of weird little snowplow…he was all in! How he doesn’t inhale and choke on the soft, fluffy stuff is beyond me! He picks up on trails left by Heaven's knows what (I'm not proficient enough to read tracks but I'd guess deer, rabbit and perhaps, other dogs).

The Missus has left his coat long as extra protection from the cold and the groomer only trimmed him around his eyes and, of course, his bum for aesthetic reasons. He now looks more more poodle-like, and is creamy instead of white when contrasted to the pristine snow. His big curly afro is almost alarming towering like broccoli over his little brown eyes!

While the roads in our community aren’t salted - which is a blessing - the snow accumulating between Spencer’s toes created hard little snowballs that eventually hurt him and impede our walk. He stops frequently to chew them out; I interfere to help remove them but I think it hurts as I pull the “snowballs” from the fur between his toes. The Missus says she’ll get him some doggy boots so we have another new adventure to look forward to.

Joy of the Roll

What walk is complete without a roll or two? Now, chicken, we're not talkin' bread roll here! No, this is Spencer's all out assault on the grass. Spencer can’t make it around our full walk route without stopping periodically to throw his entire self, upside, downside, headside, tailside for a good old rub on the grass or snow! There is ecstasy in his roll; there is joy! His body goes into paroxysm of pleasure. Fastidiously (for I’d hate to take him home all smelly) I double-check the site just to ensure he’s not rolling in excrement or a dead fish. Nope. He’s a with-it kinda guy…he likes “eau de gazon”! Somehow his leash never tangles. He uprights like a spring-loaded kangaroo and once again, we’re off!

Hide and Seek

Fall arrived and with it new excitement as the ankle-deep carpet of maple and oak leaves made strange noises as we walked. At first, that noise startled Spencer but he quickly learned to dash through them with wild abandon, making them fly! Occasionally, a leaf in the wind would fool him into thinking he’d found another frog and the chase was on! As the summer park people had battened down the hatches on their mobiles and gone away, I took the liberty of freeing Spencer from his leash….ahhhhhh, the utter freedom of it. The utter joy. There is nothing so good for the soul as to watch a dog take to flight, front paws, back paws extended, out-stretched, back arched in the exuberance of free run, and tail wagging like a flag in a storm!

Spencer can run like the wind, turn, pelt hellbent for leather straight at me, then turn on a dime…there was no catching him but I pretend to try just to give him more reason to run. Not a spring chicken, I’m winded by these efforts!

One day I wondered what he’d do if anything happened to me? I watched while he was on a tear then stepped behind a large oak. It took a few seconds for him to realize there were no steady, leafy, schur-schurring steps behind him. He stopped, turned, looked intently, cocking his head this way and that. I thought he’d discern my peeking but no. Spencer advanced a few steps, still happy, still cocky; suddenly, his whole body seemed to deflate, his tail drooped. His self-confidence was seeping away at an alarming rate! “Where is she??!!!”

I hadn’t the heart to continue but called out “Come!” as I stepped out from behind the tree. What a welcome! If ever I wondered whether he was aware of his old dog-walker trudging along behind, that little test put the question to bed. His confidence returned, his swagger said, “We’re in this walk together – and don’t you forget it!”

Now hide and seek has become another good game for us to play. No more fooling that cracker-jack, Spencer!

Some are toads

One uneventful night…no frogs, no skunks, no friends…we encounter a large squat toad hunkered down in the middle of the road artfully lit by the street light. Spencer is oblivious. Sometimes he mistakes leaves for frogs and sometimes he mistakes toads for leaves. To his mind, if it’s not moving, it doesn't warrant his attention. No doubt, the toad is drawn to the bugs being drawn to the street light overhead. It’s probably Toad's dinner hour. I point Toad out to Spencer anyway; after all, a toad is a new experience. “Toad, Spencer, toad!” I goad, hoping the excitement in my voice will egg him on. It does. He sniffs. Backs away. Seems revolted. “This is no ordinary frog,” I imagine him thinking, “What the hell is it? I’m not interested in this one. It doesn’t even jump!”

I pick it up, knowing full well it’ll pee defensively on me, feeling its soft fullness despite its warty skin. Legend says human warts can be cured by toad pee. Or is it that warts are caused by toad pee? I believe neither is the case. I place it gently in the roadside grass where it’ll be safer. Spencer ignores it; after all, it’s no fun.

The next night, same route, same road, there’s the toad…well, what’s left of the toad. He’s now a flattened leather image of his former self, having been mummified by some truck tire and a day spent in hot sun. Spencer sniffs the remains. Does he smell death? He moves on. Well, at least we tried to save poor old Toad.

A Froggin' we will go!

Summer was in full swing and White Lake showed its health in a plethora of frogs. Now frogs are something Spencer’s never encountered before. I introduce him to numerous frogs sunning on the grasses by the lake. Sometimes we come across the same trio of frogs who routinely bask near a culvert on Lakeside Lane. See, Spencer; see??!! Get ‘em, boy. Get ‘em! (Now, I don’t want him to actually get them, but I do want to pique his interest in something other than the walk.)

At first he was oblivious to both the frogs and my entreaties but once he caught on, he was fascinated! I’m not sure he can really see them; they're masters of camouflage! Sometimes he’s almost on top of them before he actually notices them, but he must be able to smell them. He has no interest in taking them into his mouth or to paw at them; he just loves to jump when they jump! Sideways, backwards, forwards, up…whatever direction is needed. He’s never yet landed on one or hurt one; he just loves the jumping chases across the grass until they lose him in the water, of course. He still refuses to wade in even if those interesting little jumpers do head there. He stares dejectedly after the disappeared frog for a second or two before heading off to find another.

Occasionally he encountered a larger, more experienced frog. This type had a different survival tactic: simply sit still. It seemed to know if it didn't move, the danger passed. Spencer pawed at the ground an inch from the frog. No go. He tried it from the frog’s rear. No go. From the side. No go. I myself was amazed at this frog's behaviour. Spencer lay down, head resting on his paws, nose a mere inch from the frog and stared intently, after all, the smell was spot on! “C’mon, Spence,” I said, chuckling at his persistence “This one’s no fun.”

One evening there was an exception. It was just after dusk, really getting dark (I was late taking him out.) We proceeded on our usual route, around the park, into the summer park, past the drinking hole and along the lakeshore, his favourite frogging place. “A frog, a frog; I’ve found a frog!” his excitement and enervated body language made me laugh out loud as he cavorted looking froglike himself in answering his target’s jumps with jumps of his own. But then the unthinkable happened. He jumped right into the lake! Obviously he hadn’t realized where land ended and water began. With the leash, I reeled him in, hand over hand, like a big old flopping carp. He couldn’t seem to figure out what had gone wrong. But he’s never made that mistake again. Maybe we’ll work on swimming next summer.

Nothing like Lake Water!

Don’t get me wrong. Spencer knows full well how to drink. But until we walked with Maggy and her missus, it had never occurred to him to drink from the lake! He watched cute little Maggy race to the shoreline, wade in, then drink deeply. He followed tentatively, not exactly wading in, but standing with his front paws in the water, trying it a few laps at a time. You could almost hear him think: "Not bad."

It quickly became a must-stop place on our route as the strenuous running enabled by the retractable leash made him pretty thirsty! But he never wades in like Maggy does.

Here she comes!

“Spencer likes you, he really likes you” the Mister keeps telling me kind of paraphrasing Sally Field's famous Oscar comment. I’m not so sure. He only acknowledges me when I arrive to take him out or when I'm treating him. Otherwise on our walks, his nonchalance would make it appear, from his perspective at least, there is no one at the other end of his leash. He ignores me visually for most of walk; seldom looking back as he's hell-bent on discovering the dog version of "wassup?" Of course the world is just a much more interesting place than I am, I guess. How can I a mere human compete with odour of skunk, stray cat, mouse or turtle? In his own home, he grants me as much attention as anyone else in the room, even going so far as to sit in my lap or beside me, but outdoors, I’m persona non grata: leash holder or worse: someone to be dragged along.

The Missus tells me Spencer starts barking as soon as I round the corner at the head of their street! She thinks he knows I'm coming. It makes me feel good to know that just maybe he senses, hears or knows my step. How nice! But I'm still not sure I believe it.

Bribery

Even cat-lovers know a dog will do just about anything for a treat. I can hardly believe I’m walking a dog yet alone now buying him treats! The local pet store very helpfully recommended a “natural” treat -- turkey, beef, blueberries, carrots, etc., - this dog eats better than I do! --to help me get his attention and if all goes as planned, to have him obey me. So much for people thinking Spencer was untrained…at the first whiff of a treat, he came to “Come!”, sat up, back ramrod straight, well-balanced and making very good eye contact with, no, not me...the treat! Obviously the Mister and Missus had done some good work with him! Untrained, my eye!

Getting his harness on is always a bit of a trial as the excitement of the pending walk still overwhelms him. I resolved to train him to lie down and be quiet. This training paid off handsomely…on the street, even in pouring rain but he still ignores it when we try to harness him. Spencer is getting more responsive every day so there is hope.

Man! Can I run!

Now, I figure walking on a six-foot leash is really no treat unless you’re an old slow dog. And even though the new chest harness enabled Spencer to pull comfortably, he soon learned he didn’t like walking on his hind feet, so we were able to proceed at a fairly comfortable pace with him glued to the earth on all fours. But, hey! we were WALKING! Speed walking, but walking.

We’d seen other dogs on retractable leashes race ahead of their owners, and race back, RUNNING! Lots more exercise, that! Mister and Missus obliged their boy and soon Spencer too was happily running about at the end of a retractable, more or less under control, having quickly learned exactly how far “out” the leash would permit him to go. But this presented another problem: how to get him back to me and safely close by when other dogs, people or cars were about? Plus he still had the bad rep for leg-shredding to try to correct.

Hi Ho Silver Away!

(As I missed blogging yesterday, this entry will suffice for both that day and Thursday). Spencer, I've learned, welcomes everyone as if you're his long lost mother. Including me. It was though he knew I was there do do some kind of good and I just had to be a friend, hadn't I? Now I have to admit I've never been welcomed like this by a cat; they just are, let us say, a little more refined.

This welcome has been unchanging in all the days I've shown up at his door. To say he's consistant in his unconditional "Hello-hello-hello-we-goin'-walkin'?" is to say the sun always rises. His people tell me now he sometimes sits just facing the door as though willing me (or someone else just as interesting) to appear. His optimism knows no bounds. If he's in the chair at the window, sometimes I hear him barking as I turn the corner and at that point I can't even see him nor him me but there it is. His people say he knows I'm coming!


As soon as Spencer knows he's going for a walk, his enthusiasm knows no bounds. The excitement can barely be contained in his muscular little body. And so we started out hit and miss routine: the missus managed to get a hold of his wriggling, ecstatic little body and clipped the six-foot leather leash to his neck collar and away we …er…flew!

With Spencer, there's simply no time to be wasted! The faster, the better. So much ground to cover, so many enticing smells, so many pitstops to make, so many friends to greet, so much to see, hear, smell, feel. So much joy to unload in the world. Enough to make one’s head spin.

Hanging onto his leash is akin to hanging onto a tow rope. You're on the move whether you're ready or not. To say he pulled me along is an understatement. It soon became evident, despite my best efforts to keep up with him, it wasn’t enough. His determination and energy combined with the restraint of the collar only served to choke and gag him. He was literally hanging himself horizontally! The gagging soon turned to hacking and the hacking to upchucking. Um. This dog-walking wasn’t working out the way I thought. What if I ended up asphyxiating him?!

There’s gotta be a better way, I thought, researching “dog pulling” in the web. Righto! Stop walking as soon as he pulls. Restart only when the dog realizes we go nowhere if there is tension on the leash. Implementing this on our first effort meant more stop than go; not much of a walk. But good old Spencer’s a quick learner! He caught on right away! We were more or less able to have a half decent walk without the drama of gagging except when other dogs (his friends Molly, Maggy or Ruffles) would show up and the excitement would overwhelm his self discipline!

Another web solution was to use a harness to encompass his chest with the happy result of standing him up on his hind legs every time he “pulled”. No more puking! I relayed this to his people and the local pet store graciously sold them a lovely blue harness, and thereafter our walks became far more fun for both of us.

Walking Spencer – in the beginning...

When Spencer first caught my eye, he was jumping up and down on a wooden chair, scratching frenetically at the pane of his owners’ kitchen window. He was in full bark mode..quite the sight! Obviously this dog was trying to say hello. Every time I walked by his house, there he was – although I didn’t know his name at that time – a brown-eyed, white-coated, mid-sized dog going crazy at the window. Enquiring about him, here’s what I heard:

“Don’t let him get near you; he’ll shred your legs to ribbons!”
“Oh, is he mean?”
“Oh no. Just a little wild. His people can no longer walk him so he watches the world go by from his window, poor thing. His name is Spencer.”

Spencer, hmmm. Now, I’m not a big fan of dogs despite having lived with many while growing up. I prefer the calm of a cat over the boisterousness of a dog. Yet for some reason, I felt bad each time I walked past Spencer, watching him so frantically signal his hello. It occurred to me, since I’d vowed to take a daily walk, that walking a dog - him! - might actually help keep me on track. (In hindsight, I think Spencer already knew this!)

At a social event, I had the chance to meet his owners and to learn more about their dog. According to the Missus, Spencer is a four year old Bichon Frisé-poodle mix (which explained his lovely white curls and his size). Initially, she said, getting a dog had been her idea; the Mister hadn’t wanted him but now he was the apple of his eye: “Quite the boy, our Spencer!” Recovering from a recent surgery, the Mister wasn’t too steady on his pins so he’d take Spencer out regularly to trot alongside his motorized scooter. I asked if they’d allow me to walk him too.

“Of course!” enthused the Missus, “You come by any time!”

Well, any time took another year for I hadn't yet retired, and my weekend walks were sporadic at best. My big walking plan was to start when I retired which, finally, I did. I'm sorry now I didn't start walking him sooner. So begins my relationship with Spencer.

Our Baby's First Christmas

January 1970 saw me reluctantly drop out of high school, just turned 18. Pregnant, I'd traded shame in my hometown for anonymity in Ottawa. Not one to give up easily, my sweetheart pursued me. To our elders, our differences (he French Catholic, me English Protestant) and our youth were marks against us. But our naivité, love and his insistence we marry, soon saw us newlyweds. Our beautiful little girl arrived safely soon after.

Anxious to support us, this new husband and father found a job to assure his little family's survival: washing floors at night for the aptly yet whimsically named Star-Lite Building Cleaners. His co-workers were draft dodgers and transients. The work and $1.65/hour wage meant high employee turnover. Having lasted the longest, he was soon named foreman.

Alone nights with our baby, I couldn't sleep hearing every creak as the aged foundations of our Crichton Street house shifted and settled. Spookily, the wind found every nook and cranny to make moan and whistle. Yet one snowy night I thought I heard..it couldn't be! Faintly at first, then ever louder, the rhythmic "chinga, chinga, chinga" of bells!

Like the man in the poem, "away to the window I flew like a flash." I had not a shutter but I "threw up the sash." There, gliding down the street was a sleigh, empty but for the driver. Bundled up against the cold and the snow, he sat tall on his bench, his mittened hands slapped reins on horses - HORSES! - harnessed with bells. Chinga! Chinga! Chinga! Chinga! They pranced by below my window, their frosty noses streaming steam in the frozen air. It was magic. So unexpected, so out of place, such a wonder! Their hooves puffed fluffs of snow as I watched the sleigh swing gently 'round the corner. Fainter now...chinga, chinga...heads high, they danced proudly across St. Patrick Street Bridge and out of sight. Through a veil of snowflakes, the corner light illuminated my silent street, empty but for the trace of runners.

With my nightie billowing and my full weight on the sash, I slammed shut the window. Chin cupped in hand, I squeezed my eyes shut and knowing there were stars out there somewhere whispered a childhood chant: "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight."

My husband, the youngest in a family of 14, and I the fifth of seven didn't talk of how much we missed our families. Nor did we mention the season's festivities we'd be missing. Travel to our hometown by bus or train on his salary was out of the question. When the radio played songs like "I'll be home for Christmas", we changed stations. Wearing happy faces and determined to make the best of our first Christmas as a family, we found joy in our baby's fascination with the sights, sounds and smells of the season.

Just before Christmas one bright wintery morning, my love awakened me with an enthusiastic bearhug, a tender sweet kiss and the best Christmas present ever. "We're going HOME for Christmas!" Star-Lite's manager, Mr. Baldwin, had generously offered us the company station wagon to get home.

Wherever you are today, Mr. Baldwin, God bless you. Wishes do come true and Christmas angels aren't only little decorations perched on top of fir trees; they're everyday people like you and me.

Making Whoopee

Anne-Marie, a co-worker, lived in the west end so we often offered her a ride home from work as it was also on our way home. One particularly snowy night, she accepted with alacrity since using our local transit system instead would’ve meant a long wait in freezing cold and snow not to mention a very long ride.

As my husband drove slowly and carefully in the snow and congested traffic, the radio played in the background as we chatted. On came a snappy version of “Makin’ Whoopee” to which we hummed along. Suddenly, out of the blue, my husband said, “That’s what I’ll be doing when I get home!”

Stunned that he’d be so forthright in front of a co-worker yet a little titillated at his inference, I turned my red face to the window. Anne-Marie commented quietly from the back seat, “Too much information.”

It was then I realized what my husband meant. He was referring to the activity of the people in Anne-Marie's neighbourhood, all busily shovelling snow from their driveways as we passed by!

The Illusory Porcupine

With all the brouhaha over The Secret and its Law of Attraction, I can’t help but recall my own experience in this vein. At the time, about 20 years ago, I was reading Richard Bach’s Illusions after having enjoyed his Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Illusions contains some similarities to the Secret, one being: our true nature is not bound by space or time.

I read Illusions as my family and I drove the cross-Canada highway from Ottawa to Iron Bridge, a tiny wee town found in western Ontario, to visit my sister and her young family.

The whole gang of us soon took advantage of the snow to cross-country ski in the bush on a wonderful trail groomed by local enthusiasts. We too were enthusiastic and enjoying the day until one of the youngest, Amy, tired of the adventure. She had fallen over, was tired out, and having a stubborn nature, now adamantly refused to get up. Despite our entreaties, she screwed up her face and started to cry, more in frustration than from cold. She had just had enough!

I wondered what it would take to get Amy going again. She was too big for us to carry. She had to get up and ski home under her own steam. But how to get her past this “end of her rope” moment? Suddently inspired, I pointed to a stand of conifers facing us across the meadow. “Look, Amy! Look! There’s a porcupine! See it? C’mon, get up. Let’s take a look!!”

Everyone else was asking “Where, where??!!” as I worked at getting Amy back on her pins without falling on my own nether parts. Then I heard “There it is!” “I see it!” “I see it too!” and the excitement in everyone’s voices including Amy’s: “I see it, I see it!!” as she stood up, wobbling.

I was dumbfounded. I had to ask “Where is it?” feeling a little foolish since I had been the one to point it out. Everyone pointed. Sure enough, there was a porcupine clinging halfway up a tree facing us.

Now the miracle of this story is not that we got Amy going again although that is certainly one small miracle. No, the miracle is that I hadn’t seen a porcupine at all; I had faked the whole scenario…yet there it was: a porcupine! I had only wracked my brain for anything to motivate Amy to get up and get going. It's logical a porcupine might be in the woods but my thinking was, if that idea got her up and then she couldn’t see it (because really, it wasn’t there), why I’d just fudge things a little and say he’d moved over to the other side of the tree, and now we can’t see him. I’d never anticipated a real live porcupine!

The others were incredulous when I told them I’d dreamed up the porcupine.

“Aww, you must have seen it and didn’t realize you’d seen it…”

“Yeah, right. You did so see it…who are you trying to kid?”

Their responses ran the gamut from scepticism to derision. But the truth remains: I had never in my life (16 years of having lived in a bush town in Northern Ontario) seen a porcupine in the bush until the day one "appeared".

In the years since this incident I’ve only seen two more: one in Sudbury’s Science North exhibit (one put there on purpose for display) and another one we happened to see without any forecasting involved) in a tree on the edge of a field in Quebec.

I don’t often share this story because, of course, people don't believe it and it never fails to puzzle me. Coincidental? Yes. Law of Attraction? Had I unconsciously seen it but not consciously noted it? Who knows? But I’ve always wondered what part I played in that porcupine showing up just in time….

Woodpecker and Birch

Woodpecker caresses the Birch with his beak.
It’s a language long spoken, this language they speak.
Is he like a doctor with message forlorn?
Does he query her symptoms?
Is her skin taut or torn?
Is she infested? It’s his job to know.
Will he tap her being?
Wormhole her creamy skin?

Redheaded, he drills her,
Tap-tapping semaphore
(long legend, long lore).
And others hear too or see and alight
For their share of her treasure
Her lifeblood’s sweet syrup.

And she feeds them unflinchingly
generous in her decline:
wasps, moths, bees and flutter-bys,
hummingbirds exotiques,
squirrels who can fly.

Yet it is only her suitor, her physician Woodpecker
Who consistently, diligently attends her.
He excises her loose flakey skin with his beak.

She allows him this liberty…what choice, she?
this patient patient: her skin’s gripped by his feet!
Around and round he works, his surgery begun.
His precision exact; his work ethic strong.
Her being is bored. He mines her unmercifully.

The scar? A necklace. A choker of love and need.
A destructive yet beautiful gift.
His tattoo gives succour to himself and to others.
Her piercings weep.

Yet greedily, always gently licked away.

Birch will live to see many more a sunny day but…
there is no cure.
Her death knell’s been heard
In his rat-ta-ta-tap.