First Day At The Beach

It was a big day for two people on Thursday afternoon.
When I phoned my friend Jane to see if Abby and I could join her and Sam for their after-work walk in town, she said,"I have a better idea. Why don't I pick you up and we go for a walk on the beach?"
I wasn't about to say no to that; I would have said yes if it had been snowing hard all day. For years, I haven't been able to walk with my dog at the beach because she is dog-aggressive and a failure at recall (when I call, she takes a messageand gets back to me later). Abby is a different dog and the beginning of a new kind of freedom for me. I might even make some friends now.
So this was my five-month-old puppy's first time ever at the beach. She and Sam had their usual good time chasing each other around but it only got better when we found a "lost" floater Kong with a rope on it bobbing by the shore. Abby is not afraid of the water at all so she tasted salty whenever I kissed her the rest of the evening.
While we were there, a woman charged down the sand towards the water, stripping off clothes as she went until she wading into the water wearing only a bathing suit. A friend took her picture then she ran back to shore, hooting. I know what she wanted: to be able to say she went swimming on March 22 when it was sunny and 25 degrees.
I said to my friend Jane that I should take a picture for the newspaper then realized I didn't have a pen and paper on which to record her name and the names of her friends.Oops. Too excited about going to the beach for the first time to remember the essentials. Jane has her Beach Survival Kit (towel, water, extra clothes) so I need mine: notebook, pens, camera, book, snacks, a bottle of wine.
What? It's how I do the beach. Actually, that's the survival kit I pack for anything. Yeah, you want to be stuck in a snowstorm on the Cobequid Pass with me.

In This Week's Issue of The Oxford Journal

When you are writing a regular column, you learn to recognize the jolt of a column idea, and you go with it because that deadline is always looming. 

This week in the newspaper, Field Notes explores the idea of socializing a puppy when you live in the country. How do you find other dogs and other people and other places to expose your dog to? I think the answer is obedience classes but my husband disagrees...

My friend Jane says if you only teach your dog one command, make it the recall one. A dog that comes when it is called, or better yet, freezes when it hears its name then knows it has to return to you immediately when it hears the word "Come", is going to be safer, happier and more trustworthy (and more full of treats, in our case). She reminded me that walking in woods around my home makes it particularly essential that my dogs have total recall - hello, coyotes! - so I'm to stop thinking about columns while the dogs run wild and instead, recognize that every moment is a training moment when you are with a dog. 

In a choice between two photos, this one didn't make the cut because it needed more space to do it justice. 

Abby performs perfect recall. With ears like that, she obviously hears me calling her. The promise of peanut butter flavoured treats helps, too.

Walking In A Winter Wonderland

What great days we're having for walking, whether in the woods, in town, or along the old rail bed trail. There is no excuse for not being active in the wintertime although those of us with puppies that have reached that age when they could run and play for ten hours a day without stopping, we love it whether we want to or not.
I once worked at a summer camp with a woman who claimed she was immune to mosquito bites because years earlier, she'd allowed them to swarm her and bite her all over. Whether it's true or not, the theory is kind of the same for weather. I've always found that being forced to be out in whatever the weather makes you more immune to it. Living in Vancouver, where it rains A LOT, you not only accept rain as a near-daily part of your life, you also appreciate that spending $400 on a Gortex jacket is more than worth the money.
Right now in northern Nova Scotia, we are enjoying fresh snow that isn't too deep for walking. My friend Jane and I also are enjoying a new discovery: the trail that once was the old train tracks through south Oxford. It's a new discovery only in that we realized it's the perfect place to walk the dogs, thanks in great part to the snowmobilers who have tramped the snow down, making for excellent walking conditions. With the woods on either side, we were protected from the chilling wind; we actually had to loosen zippers and remove gloves. On a beautiful day like Sunday, it was hard to believe we didn't encounter anyone else out with their dogs, reveling in a perfect winter's day.
It's what we learn from living with dogs: Carpe Diem!

Puppy Love

First published in The Oxford Journal in the January 25 issue, by Sara Mattinson.

Ever since I moved to rural Nova Scotia almost five years ago, I’ve been hounding my husband for another dog. 

“Can we now?”

“No.”

“Can we now?”

“No.”

And so on for the past 1800 days (like a dog wanting breakfast, I don’t give up). As our dog Stella aged, my arguments for why we needed a second dog became more insistent. 

“We have 72 acres,” I said to my husband. “We have lots of room for another dog.”

“Yeah, but the house is only 42 feet long,” he countered, “and that’s where the dogs will be all the time.”

The alpha male had to accept the inevitability of the second dog when my co-worker, Jane, got a puppy last September. Truly, he was never going to win against my fervent desire to walk through the fields and woods with two dogs playing and running ahead of me. 

(I always forget the part where a dog eats something rotten and throws it up at three in the morning. Two dogs means double that fun.)

Two months ago today, we brought home a puppy and what a busy two months it’s been. In and out a hundred times day and night, cheering for every piddle and poop done outside, teaching her not to gobble her food, or the cat’s, or the other dog’s. It’s exhausting, it’s chaotic but with the extra help we’ve had, it’s rewarding. 

Our eight-year-old dog, Stella, has been a lifesaver. We knew she’d accept the new dog since she had an older sister when she was a pup, but we didn’t expect such complete tolerance from her. She puts up with not only the constant biting and demands to play but the sharing of bones and the total invasion of her personal space. Wherever Stella is, the pup is stuck to her like a remora on a shark. 

Sounds ideal so why are we so shocked? Because it’s happening to a dog who was such a monster as a puppy, she earned the nickname “Frankenstella”. Her reputation was legendary. I once chased her around the streets of the town where we lived in Ontario because she’d run off with a banana I’d set down on the bumper of the car in anticipation of heading out for a drive with her. Shortly before we moved, a neighbour said to me, “We’re going to miss you. Watching you try and train your dog has kept us entertained these past few years.”  

Stella was a nightmare of energy and intelligence and mischief; her breed’s “lifelong puppy-like quality” was going to be the death of me. It  wasn’t until we moved here that both of us could enjoy more freedom together; we calmed down together, and Stella aged like a fine red wine into a mellow body we could enjoy for her slightly fruity aftertaste. 

“You know, Stel,” I said to the old girl as we fetched the paper on Sunday morning, “the upside of all this chaos and incontinence is that it has given me a deeper appreciation for you.”

Stella has done the impossible: she has transcended her reputation. Watching her mentor this new pup has erased all the memories of mischief and mayhem from her early years. No matter how this new dog turns out, Stella will be remembered not as that terrible little monster but as a wonderful big sister. 

Why Old Dogs Rock

We're trying to house-train a nine-week-old puppy and "weather bombs" like the one we experienced this morning are not helpful. She seems to be reluctant to poop outside when it is dark and cold and/or wet.
That's northern Nova Scotia in December! And January, and February...sometimes even May.
It's just one of several adjustments being made to having a puppy in the house. We're so used the old dog, who is almost nine and is well-established in her routine and reliable for doing it sight unseen that the continuous excursions to the yard for piddles and poops are a shock to the system.
I'm not so keen on standing around outside in the dark and cold and wet either. Makes it a little harder to be enthusiastic when someone finally poops.

Morning Meditation

Just returned from a long walk with my older dog, an hour up to Carrington Road and back. It's raw out, the sky steel grey, the air damp. Definitely a day to keep the throat wrapped warmly but I can't tell if it feels like December yet; last weekend, as the snow melted away and the sun came out, the day felt like March. I get so few chances to go for a good, long walk with the dog now that I'm grateful for this mild start to winter. 
My colleague, Jane, has a puppy who is five months old and recently, Jane discovered the joys of the morning walk. She's enjoying the quiet time not only on the streets but also with herself. IWhile I'm happy that she has found something that brings her happiness, it pains my heart to hear her talk. For the first time in 15 years, I'm not starting out my days with a morning walk with the dog. It's partly circumstances - a regular job schedule now - but also the downside to living rurally: no street lights or sidewalks, and coyotes in the woods.
There is something very special about that time alone, with only a dog for companionship, early in the morning when traffic is scarce, the air is fresh, and the light is spreading slowly across the sky, low and burnished, gentle on the eyes. It's a lovely way to wake up and I believe by breathing in that atmosphere, we carry it inside ourselves all day.
For now, I must be satisfied with breathing in Jane's words.

Neither Snow Nor Sleet...

No matter how much snow falls, a dog can always find her bone...

Happy Ending

Living in the country has been an experience in rescuing strays. Before our recent renovation, there was a sun porch off one end of the house with a space underneath that we came to refer to as "Stray Cat Hotel" since in 12 months, we rescued THREE cats who were trying to live there. The first two males we found homes for and the third one, a female, we kept. She's delightful.
When we ripped off the porch and put on the addition, however, we thought our days as rescuers were over. Until this past Tuesday night, when my husband cracked open the sliding door to the front deck and said, "Put the dog in the bedroom and come outside."
I stepped outside to find a young, thin, and desperately friendly dog with a porcupine quill in her top lip. Her hip bones and ribs were visible, she limped on her front left paw, and she smelled terrible. I fed her a small portion of soft dog food but we were unable to remove the quill; she didn't snap or make a noise when we tried, but she struggled too much for me to hold on to. I made a bed in a box for her in the garage and I would imagine with a bit of food in her stomach, she slept properly for the first time in months. For breakfast, I gave her a scrambled egg and some cooked oatmeal.

It was obvious this dog had been someone's pet. She was friendly with us and wanting to be touched, and she hopped into my mother's car without hesitation. Since I had to go to work, Mum took the dog to the vet where she was written down as "Homeless". We planned to take responsibility for her, and had someone interested in taking her, but she found a home with the woman the vet called to clean her up.
Jane Jorgenson, who runs Paws At Wallace Bay Grooming and Boarding, wasn't just prepared to wash the dog and remove all the ticks attached to her; she wanted to keep her. Jane told me her dog had died a few months ago so they were looking for a new dog.
"She's such a sweetie," Jane said. Yeah, I know. I wanted to keep her myself.
How great is that for a stray dog who was almost starved to death to find herself going from no home at all to three homes? So we're four-for-four in the animal rescuing business but it's hard on the heart, you know, not being able to save everyone.

Dear Sir, I Borrowed Your Dog

"You won't need that," my boss said as I grabbed the plastic bag I'd brought my walking shoes to work in. He didn't think I'd need to use a poop bag while walking his dog...or did he mean, I didn't need to bother cleaning up after the dog?
I did need the bag and after ten years of city living, I'm too well-trained about picking up after my dog - or the boss's dog - to even consider leaving poop behind on the edge of someone's lawn, even if it's hidden by leaves. So I guess you can tell the city people: they're the ones swinging a plastic bag tied in a knot in one hand while walking.
Six months after I started this job, I'm comfortable enough now with my responsibilities to not have to work through lunch so I've started walking around Oxford on my lunch. It's the best thing I've done in years. It's smart to get out of my chair and stretch my legs and back. We're experiencing a remarkable month of sunshine so I'm stocking up on Vitamin D for the winter and getting to see Oxford from the sidewalk instead of the car. I'm not familiar with this town at all so what better way to learn the lay of the land than by going on walkabout two days a week?
The second best thing I've ever done? Ask Bailey if he wants to go for a walk.

The Morning Walk

Growing up, in Ontario, my father was the dog walker in the family. It was his dog and his morning ritual. The dog came with me only when I was heading out for a walk with a boy; she even once chaperoned a date to the drive-in movies...where she proceeded to let out a fart every ten minutes. 

When I got my own dog at the age of 26, I began my own walking rituals. We lived in Vancouver then, in an apartment, so we walked three times a day, long walks that took us through different neighbourhoods or to the beach or up into the mountains. Later, having moved back east, we still walked two and three times a day, down the road and along the beach when we were in Pugwash, around town or out in the woods if we were in Ontario. A new dog by then, with too much energy and no back yard. I’ve walked around the world a couple of times with her. 

In any kind of weather. Days of heavy rain in Vancouver or stinging snow whipping off Lake Ontario. The dregs of hurricanes or October snow in northern Nova Scotia.  

Now we live in the country so our walks are limited to daytime, to the road -- no woods walking during hunting season or after seeing coyote or bear tracks on the old dirt road behind the house; without streetlights to keep us safe, I have traded the solitude of walking in the dark for the peace of the river valley.  

On a particular morning...Fog lifts gently off the river and undulates over the field, cloaking the cows and their one horse companion in scarves of mist. Above the silhouette of trees, an orange glow promises the bursting arrival of the sun.

Over the abandoned house on the other side of the gully, purple fog drifts in the sky. Purple fog! Of course. The rising sun diffusing through the cool moisture creates unexpected palettes in the sky. Burning orange at its centre with a pink puff then purple at the edges.

The dog meanders through the ditch, seeking bodies to match the smells: mice, skunk, raccoons, fox, deer. Thankfully, they are long gone, safe and sound, into the woods or down by the river.

Every walk ends with coffee or tea; the anticipation of it keeps my feet moving briskly towards home. In the mornings, it is always coffee. The dog finds her bed in the sun and flops into it, knowing her breakfast comes later. Wisps of steam drift from the roof as the sun flings itself over the tops of the pine trees. While the coffee perks, I hang a load of wash on the clothesline, dark work clothes punctuated by a sunlit splash of red handkerchief.

That’s new, the laundry part of the ritual. I like it, like that it reminds me of why, when living in Vancouver, I always dreamed of living in the country. 

The New Employee

We are dog-friendly at The Oxford Journal (The Friendly Home Paper of Central & Eastern Cumberland County for over 100 years) so Jane, my esteemed colleague and mentor, has been bringing in her new puppy.
In this photo, "Sam" keeps a close eye on the quality of Jane's work while waiting for Charlie to let him know that tea is ready...