Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Overly "motivated," Dingo is a joy to own

originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record, October 27, 2009.

As if our lives weren’t already busy enough, about a year and a half ago, we realized there were a few bits and pieces of time available to stuff with more action and activity…so we got a puppy.

It really does amuse me that there is an animal wandering around, making our house its home. This butler-of-sorts eagerly announces visitors, cleans up spills from the floor, acts as a personal trainer, and provides on-going entertainment and insight into the fascinating human-canine connection. Our Australian Shepherd, Dingo, gives us much to marvel at.

We often hear how intelligent this breed of dog is, which makes me wonder if I’m smart enough to play Alpha to her Einstein. Try as I may, I can’t figure out some of her behaviours…or mine, as her owner.

Given that I am reasonably uptight about germs – not those that spawn the common cold - remarkably, I don’t rush to wash out my mouth or seek a full course of antibiotics after Dingo head butts my face and her wet tongue spreads slobber onto my chin, mouth and nose. Instead, I banish the thoughts of the morsels she’s been snacking on in the back yard after the rabbits have been to visit, and while walking on the country roads frequented by horses.

When discussing dog training at the pet store, the clerk inquired if our dog is “treat motivated.” I laughed. The word “motivated” does not begin to describe the intensity of Dingo’s behaviour when there is a possibility of treat disbursement. “Obsessive” and “fanatical” are words that leap to mind, as she frantically attempts to perform any trick or obey any command when the prospect of a treat looms in her immediate future.

Dingo needs near-constant reminders to heel, sit, stay…and refrain from demonstrating her fondness for some people by leaping unbelievably high and jamming her nose into the face of her object of unbridled adoration. But if we allow a rule to be broken, even just once, she sees it as an invitation to start a delightful new habit which is as hard to break as a non-splintering marrow bone. If, during a weak moment, we allow her on the couch, she will continue to confidently hop back up, looking innocently like it’s us humans who have forgotten the new and improved rule.

But most amusing is her irrational fear of inanimate objects…

When my grasp barely closes on the handle of the broom, Dingo senses, from wherever she is, the “need” to leap to attention. I’m certain I hear the theme to “Mission Impossible” as her eyes snap wide open, her head turns abruptly, and in stealth mode, she skids down hallways and slides around corners. She then mercilessly attacks the bristles of the broom with a vigour that suggests she is saving her mistress from almost certain demise.

We don’t mind when she gets wet – she is a dog, after all – but she seems to have developed an intense fear of …the towel. Whenever she comes in from the rain, she dodges anybody who could be concealing a towel on his or her person. She dashes to the safety of her kennel, and settles in, knowing we won’t attempt to dry her while she’s there. Eventually, she’ll venture back out, but not before suspiciously peeking around the corner to see if anybody is wielding Terry the Terrible.

Although dog ownership can be filed, without question, under W for “What were we thinking,” life with Dingo really is enjoyable. Just ask her…and if you happen to have a treat in your pocket, she’ll do everything possible to speak the answer!

Monday, October 19, 2009

Not exactly "a day at the park"



originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record, October 13, 2009.

Over the years, there have been moments that have rudely heralded the undeniable fact that my youth is slipping from my increasingly wrinkly grasp. Not the least traumatic of these occurred about seven years ago when my kids were six and three. Both were constant climbers, scrambling over, under, in and out of small spaces with total ease and fluidity. Once, as I watched them take turns climbing in and out of an upright toy box with sliding doors, I estimated that surely, my frame too, would fit comfortably into the box.

I was absolutely right; the box was large enough to fit my lower half, when folded just so. Unfortunately, though I neglected to give any forethought to…getting back out. Like Winnie the Pooh, my torso stuck awkwardly out of one of the sliding doors, while the rest of my contorted body waited patiently to untangle into the freedom of, anywhere but the confines of that toy box.

Giggling, my son firmly gripped my hands and pulled, while my daughter pulled him by his waist.

Next, they offered matter-of-fact suggestions: cut down on my honey consumption or, call Dad (never!) at work. Eventually, I was able to detach both doors of the toy box and slowly, excruciatingly, free the remainder of myself.

As a result of this and other serious miscalculations about my size, shape and physical abilities I was becoming aware that perhaps my physique had changed since having children. A family visit to a water park this summer further solidified this thought, when I tried to keep up with my now 13 and 10-year-old kids.

Early in the day, I was quite pleased to be easily maintaining the kids’ pace as I confidently scurried up the concrete steps, and endured the battering of each ride down the slides.

As the day wore on, however, all I was pleased about was my previous good sense to have sent our 13-year-old for first aid training. I was pretty sure my husband, moments before bright red from exertion and then an alarming pasty white, would not have the strength to administer chest compressions, or the extra breath to revive me from what I felt certain was imminent collapse.

I continued to haul myself up the stairs, one gruelling step at a time, grasping the railing desperately. I fondly remembered of the days when I could easily get in and out of a fair-sized toy box, and sit crossed leg without suffering aching muscles and drunken-like wavering when attempting to return upright.
When the kids decided to move onto a slide that, after watching for a bit we dubbed the “Treacherous Tunnel of Terror,” my husband and I decided it was time for us to become spectators. From the bottom, we could see each rider enter the enclosed slide, and then hear intermittent, smashing thumps as he or she was hurled from side to side. We would then see a shadow spin around, at high speed in “the cyclone” portion of the slide, immediately prior to the rider plunging, limbs flailing, into the pool below. Children would surface giggling, older folk, wincing and rubbing an elbow, shoulder or newly acquired skin discolouration growing darker before our eyes.

My kids couldn’t wait to ride again and again, trying repeatedly to convince those of us over 40 to join them. We resisted, assuring them that we would watch, camera poised, ready to preserve their spectacular drops forever.

…or at least long enough to provide them with an effective “I remember when…” moment when they begin to feel their own inevitable signs of aging.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Letting the Leaves Fall...


originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record, October 2009.


This September, I am recognizing in myself what could be considered a neurotic tendency to fixate on words.

Amoung my favourites (words, not neurotic tendencies) are those which provide comically accurate descriptions or implications of events, objects and, teetering precariously near the top of the list, states of mind.

Take, for example, the connotation of, and the actual word, “scattered.”

And I’m not referring to the way beautifully coloured autumn leaves lay scattered on the ground after flitting gracefully from outstretched branches.

What I am referring to are my efforts to switch gears, back to what almost every conversation with parents includes at this time of year: routine. I have been trying, with limited success, to recognize the value of this firmly impaled thorn-in-my-side, while trying to achieve all that it implies.

However, my efforts have been, minus the beauty and grace, much like the leaves that have fallen haphazardly to the ground.

As a child, my September routine included a promise to myself that I would adhere to a strict regimen: my homework would be completed immediately upon my arrival home each day, and my notebooks would be kept meticulously tidy. For a couple of weeks, I lived up to these pledges.

But, soon after about week three, the painstaking forming of each stroke of every letter became too much, and many other diversions had nudged their way into the time needed to maintain what I, by then, had assured myself were unreasonable standards, anyway.

Now, as a parent, I remember this about myself, and balance it with the importance of setting a good example as I encourage my kids to fully capitalize on the fresh opportunities to develop and maintain excellent work habits.

I’ve realized, though, that in my case, the bar needs to be set a tiny bit lower (dangerous territory, I know) when re-establishing a September routine. Because, aside from ensuring my kids eat three meals a day and go to bed at some point when it’s dark, I’m reluctant to call much of anything else right now a sure thing. Even though their attendance at school is pretty high on the list, in the negligible number of days since their return, both my 13 and 10 year-olds have missed the bus twice, and one has spent a day sick at home.

So if I need to grasp at small successes (and I do), I can really only claim true victory on the basics which simply include food and sleep.

And I’m hesitant even to take full credit for those.

Early in September, we (OK, I) decided that lunches would be prepared and packed an almost-worrisome amount of time ahead. For the first couple of school mornings the children would flee my commentary about how great it feels to simply grab the lunch bags from the fridge, and stuff them into backpacks on the way out the door. Now, just as we fondly remember those long summer days when the trees still held their leaves, early-made lunches have also become a thing of the past.

I find ways to placate myself; it’s still kind of summer, after all. This is an excellent excuse, and we embraced and over-used it last weekend when we opted to accept invitations to friends’ swimming pools, rather than settling into the routine of fall chores that need (still…need) to be done around the house.

I have complete confidence that, as we always do, we’ll eventually struggle our way back on top of our back-to-school routine.

But surely, I can delay it until the last of the leaves have fallen.