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!

The Mind's Eye

There is a mad bull on the loose behind our house. Apparently, he escaped while being dropped off at the farm next door then crashed through the fence and disappeared into the woods. He's not just angry, he's crazy, and as has been explained to me, it doesn't take long for a cow on the loose to "turn wild" and this guy is definitely resisting capture. A farmer never takes kindly to being chased by his own cattle.
After I get home from work on Mondays and Tuesdays, I take the dogs for a swift walk along the old road leading back into the woods before it gets dark. For the first bit of the lane, the woods belonging to the farm next door run alongside the fence on my right (on my left is our field) then they pull back some to create a small field which further along opens up into a larger field. At the top of the old road,  the woods close in again on both sides. As that first break in the woods appeared this afternoon, my eyes registered something out of place along the treeline at the other side of this small field. I knew it was the bull.
How many times have I walked up and down that lane, muttering to myself, deep in thought, watching the dogs, listening to the pileated woodpecke hammering on a tree trunk, or whatever; not paying the least attention to my surroundings. Yet today, instantly, with one glance, my mind registered that there was something different. Even in a stretch of trees that includes the light bark of old poplar trees, my mind knew that those clumps of white there were new, and thus part of the bull.
This was confirmed after I kept walking. When the out-of-place white clumps moved, it was obvious they were on the bull's face and massive chest. The very large, very red Hereford bull turned and slipped back into the shadows of the woods.
The brain is so amazing. Some neuroscientist would be able to explain this phenomenon to me but even without the explanation for how neurons and connectors and blah blah blah works, it was very cool to experience it firsthand.
Although only halfway up the road, the dogs and I returned home. My brain has a strong survival instinct, as well.

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.

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.