Whatever He Says

In the sunporch, I savour my first cup of morning coffee, wondering what magic there is in these first sips and why it never tastes quite as good later in the day. In the quiet, I am sensing the sacred, when my granddaughter Tori, and her dog, Kevin, come out of the house, she shuffling feet into outdoor shoes with her back turned to me when I gently say, “Hello." She turns, “Oh, I didn’t even know you were here,” she says. I ask where they are going, thinking of joining them if going for a walk, but Tori’s boyfriend, Dylan, and his twin sister, Jordan are coming over with Gonzo, one of their family’s dogs—in fact, they are arriving as we speak, Jordan in shorts, and a long plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up, her dark hair cut short and artsy. Dylan, also dark-haired, is tall and angular. Both of them have the most beautiful, kind eyes. I walk down the curving driveway  to say hello to them, and Tori cautions me about little Gonzo, “Be careful, he can be unfriendly to pe...

In 2006, our daughter Brenda used to volunteer at Maple Lanes Kennel, near Alliston. It was from that kennel that Molson,  the most gentle of Golden Retrievers,  came into our lives. He trained as a therapy dog himself and is father of three  COPE  service dogs. Now my friend and coworker Irene, is awaiting the imminent birth of a litter of his pups being carried by a dog named Lyric, and she'll be choosing one of them to share her life. Today here's the story of one very special dog from Sherri's kennel and then a link and video about COPE. Back in 2006, Brenda recorded the details related to various litters of puppies on the computer--where the puppies went, to whom and for what purpose. The pure-bred dogs go all over the continent, some as far away as Yellowknife, Alaska, and some are trained for such unusual jobs as detecting bed bugs or termites! One dog's name struck her as unusual; her registered name was "Maple Lanes--You'll Have to Tri Harder"...

Like so many dogs, my brother Rob's  Staffordshire bull terrier  seems to have been "sent on assignment." So far, I'd have to say he is accomplishing his mission because for a small dog, he takes up a big amount of heart space. Bruce had some big paw prints to fill when he came into Rob's life. Thirty years ago Rob had another Staffordshire bull terrier, the aptly named, Boss. The first time Rob took Boss out as a puppy, he let him loose on a country path surrounded by fields, thinking that it would be safe. Boss took off like a shot, his little legs running at top speed down the path towards the road. He wouldn't turn back no matter how loudly Rob called, and the only way he could stop him was by overtaking him.  B y the time he was two years old, Boss still wasn't coming when called, and Rob began to wonder what he was doing wrong.  But finally he learned Boss's one weakness; he couldn't bear to be rejected. Rob discovered this when h...

By Belinda On  Tuesday Paul and I fly to England to stay with Rob for two weeks and I am in "getting ready to go" mode. So on Saturday morning I called Rob to check in and give him one last chance to let me know of anything he might like me to bring over. Rob is one of the most contented people I have ever known. He rarely "wants" anything for himself, and I wasn't surprised that there was nothing he could think of.  The one thing that would make him happy is something for Bruce, his Staffordshire Bull Terrier. But he said that Bruce was well stocked up with kongs  and he is still working on the reindeer antlers  I took in January . The one treat that he has adored since I took some to England-- Liver Bites --has not been on the shelves of Costco; where I bought them; since January.  Rob mentioned them hopefully, but I shared the disappointing news, "I look every time I go in, but they just don't seem to have them anymore."  Brenda and I ...

  By Belinda I have been away a lot recently, and busy when at home. And now I am home again but needing to go to bed and sleeeeeep. Although too tired to write much tonight, I am posting some photos taken where I was for the past three days; at   Write! Canada 2012 . The photos are of Canadian children's author,  Jean Little , her sister Pat, and guide dog Honey (yes, I realize I have given preferential treatment to Honey. That dog was so well behaved. Jean Little, as well as being a gifted writer, also has the ability to cut through pretentiousness.  A few quotes from the conference, by Jean: She doesn't read books that tell you have to be okay. "I'm already okay," says Jean. There's nothing better than doing a hard job and doing it well. Read a lot: Poetry; chapter books. Writers are the ones who know how you should do; teachers do not. Eavesdrop! And now dear friends, goodnight!

Belinda I heard a voice through the open kitchen window. "Is Rob around?" asked the man with fine, whispy, white hair and a day or two's growth of whiskers. He was on a scooter and had a passenger: While waiting for Rob to appear I asked about the compact tri-colour dog perched on the foot platform of the scooter. "She's a rescue dog," said the man, whose name is John, Mum's neighbour from across the road. "Her name is B. I tried renaming her but she would have none of that." "What does she do?" I wanted to know, "Other than companionship." "Absolutely nothing," said John, "She can turn what should be a pleasant walk into a nightmare." It seems that she, like Bruce, has yet to come to terms with the fact that she is not the only dog in the village; she does not like other dogs. Post Script: Susan said in a comment that she was looking forward to Chapter 2 on B. I did finish rather abruptly, I...

By Belinda We were in for the night. It was Friday and we landed happily on the shores of the weekend. Friday evenings always feel like the start of something good. Relaxation seeped into body and soul as I heated our supper in the microwave--lasagne left over from cell group the night before--no work at all. "I got some movies," called Paul from the den. "Perfect!" I shouted back above the whir of the microwave. We settled down in from of the tv with our suppers on trays and watched Letters to Juliet  with the beautiful Lynn Redgrave. It was the perfect Friday night movie--so romantic! Brenda was out so we brought Molson upstairs, and he curled up between us, content to be with part of his "pack." When the movie ended at about 9.00, though, he was unusually restless. We'd all had a busy day and he hadn't had a walk, but now we took pity on him. We had bought reflective vests for walking at night a while ago, but hadn't tried them ...

By Belinda Chatting with my brother Rob, and my mum in England, is part of every Saturday morning. As well as catching up on our human family's news, we always talk about our dogs: Bruce, his Staffordshire bull terrier and Molson our golden retriever. Bruce is still suffering with shattered nerves from Bonfire week in England. He hides under Mum's settee when he is downstairs in her flat, in the far corner, where he manages to find a tiny space to wedge into. Rob has to work hard to pull him out. When he is upstairs in Rob's flat, his chosen hiding place is in the storage cupboard. He still only ventures out when he's sure it's safe, in the wee hours of the morning. Rob said he will probably just be getting over it when the fireworks start again around Christmas. Both of us believe that our dogs are gifts sent by God. Rob doesn't talk much about God except when it comes to Bruce coming into his life. Years ago Rob had a Staffordshire bull terrier na...

By Belinda Although he has a marshmallow soft heart with the people he loves, my brother's dog Bruce puts on a fierce show with other dogs. The last week and a half though, have reduced him to a trembling bundle of terror after sundown. November 5th is   Bonfire Night  in Britain, a night when the capture of Guy Fawkes; who hatched the gunpowder plot of 1605; is celebrated with bonfires and fireworks. The fireworks were going off in the village after dusk for several nights before I left on October 31st and the loud banging that sounded like gunfire, continued nightly until November 5th. Bruce took to hiding in a cupboard. Rob had to pull him out by the collar with his tail looking like it was glued around his bottom and between his legs, so that he could put his yellow bed in the cupboard for him to lie on. This past Saturday, on our weekly phone call, Rob said that Bruce had a proper little ca...

On Saturday, my brother Rob on the phone from England, asked me if we'd heard about, "Computer Face." I said "No," and "What is that?" He explained that it's in the news over in England at the moment, the fact that people who stare at a computer for most of the day (that would include me) develop something called, "Computer Face." Of course I wanted to know what that meant--my imagination was running rampant--and he said it's frown lines of concentration, and jowls. "Jowls??" I've got little ones forming. Maybe not so little, either! And all this time I thought it was to do with aging and now I find out it's Computer Face. The antidote, apparently, is to have a mirror on the side of the computer, there to remind you to look up (and fight gravity) and not frown. A mirror on the side of my computer? I would never be able to concentrate on work again, not to mention scaring myself at odd moments. :) I know of a ...

On Saturday morning I dial her number. The miles between us melt away as she picks up the phone in Alvechurch. "Hello? How I love her dear voice; though it is quavery with age and slightly slowed. 7 years ago, the process of getting thoughts from the brain and turning them into speech, which we take for granted with every word we speak, became like a road after a storm, blocked by fallen trees, with sign posts uprooted and pointed in wrong directions. But we move that tree with every conversation because every word with the one on the other side is precious. After we finish our brief conversation, she says, "I'll pass you over to Dad now." Rob and I know that she knows that Dad has been gone for 7 years now. It's just that his name is what comes out when Mum thinks of Robert and he doesn't mind. Rob uses Dad's childhood nickname for me and adds a dash of humour to his case of mistaken identity. "Hello Twinkle Toes." We chat about...

"Glad-eyes," that's what he has, Molson, this friend of mine with golden hair and lolling tongue. We run from the house into the evening air, his nails tap-tap-tap-tapping lightly on the pavement as my feet thud-thud beside him. He dances with exuberant joy at being "out." Jumping high, he catches his red leash in his mouth and tugs me along; pulling it as if he is playing a joke, pretending that it is he taking me for the walk, which is probably true. He is so HAPPY and he communicates that with every fibre of his being and glance of his glad eyes. The first rush of excitement settles and he trots forward with focus, pacing his trot perfectly to my stride. He is a gentleman of a dog, disciplined and well bred. He reads the ground with his nose, as avidly as my father used to read the newspaper, and leaves messages behind for others who will follow. He looks as if he is about very serious business. I don't hurry him; it seems a small thing to wait when ...