Iremember, Iremember that morning because it was my favourite kind of day – it had snowed overnight and the landscape was a carpet of thick, wet white snow. Momma snapped on my lead and we were off, out the door, for a walk. With no tracks in the morning snow, the site before me was mine to discover, to carve out, like a romp down the roadto visit the WonderfulWizardofOz.
Snow banks on either side of Daddy’s freshly plowed gateway.
Yet some 6th sense or premonition stopped me dead in my tracks. It was like a dark shadow crossed my peripheral vision. I stopped, and turned back toward the house. I saw Daddy, standing in the window of the sun porch, wearing his gray-green, unzipped snow parka. When my eyes met his, he raised his hand and waved, a big smile on his face.It felt like an eclipse, a big black cloud momentarily covered the sun. I bolted as if I was being chased by Seven Devils,dragging Momma across the neighbor’s lawn, over our gateway, up the stairs, through the door where I flung my trembling body at Daddy’s ankles. If I had given Daddy a million dollars cash, he would not have been more pleased.
“Did you see that, Momma?” Daddy bragged. “Jakita never has done that before.” Momma was speechless. She had been dragged over snow banks, like a car hitched on a tow truck, and as for me, I had no clue to what had just happened or why.
That the way, uh huh, uh huh, I liked it…not so much now……
In order to regain some semblance of the here and now, I did a long, deep body shake.Somehow, someway, a forewarning of what the day would bring had materialized, leaving a sense of inexplicable foreboding, warning me to not leave Daddy’s side. But I am just a dog. I don’t make the rules nor do I interpret feelings… I gave myself a few more total body shakes,a couple of praying dog stretchesand followed him to watch the news, resting along side my beaming Daddy.
Daddy, a good,good man who shared his breakfast, dinner and supper with me. I miss Daddy!
Then the phone rang, breaking the drone of the talking heads on the Sports-Net Channel. First mistake – Momma answered it. Second mistake, she told Daddy that one of his customers needed a quick favour.Rule #1 for Daddy was treat the Customer like King or in this case, Queen.At the end of the day, Daddy’s Second Rule was NEVER say no to money.
But of course this story does not end here – it never does, for Momma!
Ok, I don’t ‘do’ the dog park – far too many tail wagging, slobbering, barking and humping canines for me. Anyway, my Vet said it is off-limits because I can no longer get vaccines (because of my unstable immune system). However, worse case scenario, if I bit a person or another dog, since I did not have my Rabies Shot, I would be quarantined. So much for my Life of Riley. But forget-about-it, I do not bite and I’m not keen on Dog Parks anyway because well, you know, I am Superior.
Here I am, with my favorite bone on a leash just in case I do a ‘Jack Rabbit’.
It really doesn’t matter because I live by a huge park, with enormous trees, green grass for kids to romp on, a fenced in baseball diamond, tennis courts, and walking paths. You can stroll for miles. I am ashamed to say, once Momma took me there a few times and being brilliant and adventuresome, I soon knew the way by myself. When I was young and foolish it was one of the areas that I would do a ‘jack rabbit’ to, with Momma and Daddy in hot pursuit, trying to woo me with treats, coaxing me to come back and well, I always did, once I had my fill of running, just gasping for breath, my tongue hanging on the ground. I know, I know, I am lucky I lived to tell the tale. I could have ended the same fate as Zanny.
Tall Trees, Giant Tiger Lilies for Butterflies and Colorful Ground Cover. So much to explore, sniff and route in.
What a great place to wander around, sniffing the trees and grass, seeing all the teeny, tiny bugs that scoot around on the ground, the bees and butterflies hovering on the flower petals. In this Shangri-la, Momma & I meet up with many dogs from around the area and their owners. Some I make friendly with but mostly I just stop and give them my ‘get out of Jakitaville’ stare. It is not like I cut all dogs dead. There are a couple of Border Collies on our street. I like them, they like me, we greet by sniffing each others’ noses, there is no power struggle. However a Husky dog we meet often is kind of freaky – pale green eyes, plops down in front of me and stares straight through me. Her Momma can not move her. It is like she becomes a frozen statue. Then there is that little black dog, smaller than me, younger than me and meaner than me. I don’t get it, he was so sweet the first couple years of his life, then his Momma died and over night his personality changed . I mean, Daddy died and I did not turn in to a weirdo. Help him, quick, get the Dog Whisperer.
One day when we went for a walk in the park, Momma and I saw something so sad, I still have nightmares about it. It was in the winter, very cold, wind chill factor of maybe -30 degrees. Momma and I could not believe our eyes. Tied to a bench was a German Sheppard Dog, definitely a candidate for frost bite, probably hungry and so sad and dejected. We could not go near, Momma said, because the poor dog may attack us, from fear. Momma and I went right home and called the animal shelter and here is the amazing thing. Not only were we the sixth call about this abandoned dog, one of the callers volunteered to take him. Momma said that is the neighborhood we reside in, good souls surround us, looking out for those who cannot look out for themselves. Don’t you wish you lived here?
But still, I confess. I prefer the Two Footed any day over dogs. They feed us, walk us, play with us, love us. Sometimes our Masters need training to come around but still, would a Four Footed Dog be able to meet all of our demands, I ask you? Not likely! It doesn’t take a Rocket Scientist to figure this out!
Sometimes I am in awe when I look at the sky to see a plethora of rainbow shades coloring my world. The Rocket Scientists would know what this is all about.
So long ago, Gen, when Moses was a pup, Momma lived on the old homestead, in the country, far away from the hustle and bustle she faces today, with her UrbanSuburban life. It was not better, it was not worse but it was radically different. Do you have some time, you want to hear, Gen, oh, you too, Tigger and Ruby? You’ll enjoy this.
Ground Zero for Momma. Not everyone is born in deep forests with rainbows casting shades that change as the sun rises and sets.
Jack Jack was a local character, born in the back woods, that even today’s Google Car would have struggled hard to locate and map.He was beloved by the adults and children alike. There were so many Jack’s in every family,Big Jack,Little Jack, Peg Legged Jack, One Eyed Jack…you get the picture. His fathers’s first name was Jack so it was only befitting he be anointed Jack Jack and so he remained till death did he part.
Anatural-born raconteur of tales,he talked a form of Gallic. An entrepreneur bachelor before his time, he invested in a Dream Team, two horses, Nessie and Nestor,who were both large, and placid, chestnut brown coats with long, black, feathery tails and manes that gleamed in the sun. Jack Jack went from farm to farm in the district, plowing and planting gardens, than gathering the hay, and finally cutting and storing the harvest for the long winter months ahead. The Dream Team and their owner, just reaping what they had sewn.
Descendants of Nessie and Nestor!
They would hear him in the fields calling, ‘Gui up a ha, Nessie,Gui up a ha, Nestor’ and the horses would respond in kind, plodding slowly but unquestionably forward, hauling plows, or what ever wagon or farm tool was needed, for the job at hand. Come Christmas, on a moon lit night, Jack Jack would put bells around Nessieand Nestor’snecks, hitch a sleigh on his Dream Team,and take all the neighborhood kids for a ride back the snow packed alley wherein they sang all the season’s songs, at the top of our lungs, waking the dead from their peaceful slumber.
However, just like Our-Favorite-Uncle would say, ‘There’s always something to take the joy out of your living.’ To that end, even in Shangri–La some mean-spirited person lurked, who would take a run at him, but Jack Jack would more than likely put him in his place, right smart. Such was the occasion when Jack Jack went to the local store and the owner, Fred, decided to tease him about being a bachelor all these years, like it was a disease to be treated before it killed you,so every time he’d ask, ‘Getting married soon, Jack Jack?’ Jack Jack caught the eye of another shopper. ‘Fred’, he drawled with a dead pan face, ‘I was wondering, was there any more of those long toothed hags, where your wife came from, that I could marry?’ No one ever heard Fred ask Jack Jack about his marital status again.
On Halloween night, after finishing trick or treating, all the neighborhood kids would go back to his house and beg him to tell ghost stories. As they sat around his kitchen table, the candle light flickering, casting long shadows, on the oil table-cloth and the cosy kitchen, he would tell of the disasters that always occurred when any one saw the Headless Horsemen, as it galloped through the meadow to disappear in to the black of the forest. Floods, failed crops, loss of life followed in the Headless Horsemen’s track. It was a common denominator among them that would not go looking for any Headless Horsemen to invite havoc in an already chaotic life.
Jack Jack recounted a legend passed down through the generations about his Great Aunt Matilda, how she buried her pot of gold, then died the next day and to his knowledge, it had never been found. He swore if they went back the alley, across from the Half Way Brook, in the field to the right, where they planted their potatoes, up the hill to the quarry they would see her routing around the blue berry bushes, looking for her pot of gold. But don’t even blink, Jack Jack cautioned, because she may evaporate, before their very eyes, leaving them wondering if it was all in their imagination or maybe, just maybe, there were unknown realities that they had to glimpse, just to give them a yearning to see more.
Paradise awaits you. From Morguefile.com ruined_doorway.jpg By hotblack
Momma says that they all sat there, transfixed yet addicted to the tales, knowing next year, the very same stories would leave them wondering again if Jack Jack was not just a simple farmer, but maybe a graduate of higher learning from another dimension of the world, that they fervently believed ‘wasoutthere‘.
Jack you were Special… We did not know it then…We’ll see you up in Heaven….Where stories never end!
So, you have heard lots about my Two Footed family, what about my Four Footed? Are you kidding, in this family, where everyone has dogs and cats they inherited or rescued? They can not bear to watch those heartwrenching advertisements that SPCA run in their attempt to find foreverhomes for the unfortunate canine and feline orphans.
Poor Ming-Minghad a rough life at the start. Now has the life of Riley.
Yes I have Cousins. Auntie No.1 Sister has Ming-Ming, a similar color to me but a Shih Tzu with that round head and kind of pushed in, serious countenance. But boy, she has springs in her back paws,leaping though the air, jumping on furniture, or tables. Her potty training is still hit and miss but I blame that on her first owner who tired of her and asked Auntie Itty Bitty to pick up the torch and other things Ming-Ming left on the floor, or the bed or the couch. You get it. Still I am amazed and impressed by her ability to fly from the chair to the couch or from the floor to the kitchen table. Our cats are totally puzzled and disoriented by this flying dog. The kitchen table belongs to them, not some visiting canine cousin with bad ‘table’ manners. Tell me, how could I not like that doggie?
Next comes Misty, a cream-colored Maltese, Auntie Goodie Two Shoe’s Dog. Like Momma’s former dog Teddy,she is perfect – well except when her Momma walks out the door, leaves the room or is just not in sight for a moment. Then like a wailing banshee, the warbling and whining commence, climbing to an ear-splitting crescendo.This is just not an acceptable response, especially when you are a guest in someone’s home. I say Misty needs a few retrainingsessions with a stern dog behavior expert. Momma tells me to be understanding because it is separation anxiety. My best advice, ‘ Well, boo-hoo! Get over it, Misty’. I try to distract her by encouraging her to join me on the back of the couch in the Sun Room so we can do ‘The Neighborhood Watch.’
I am so jealous because Mistyis just so cuddly and cute.
Anything that moves in the neighborhood outside, be it birds,critters,dogs,cats,people,butterflies,even leaves,we watch. Their sure are some interesting scenarios that we get to see, in our free front seat row vantage point. One particular day, a man went up and down the sidewalk having a fight with himself, swearing like a drunken sailor (no offense meant to sailors). We are not sure who won, but it was very intense. Teens walked three abreast in the middle of the street (as usual)and an angry, stressed out driver stuck his head out their car windows to chastise them.SuburbanUrbanWarfare!
We cannot forget Auntie Taught-Momma-Almost-Everything-She-Knows dog, Cousin Cooper, a little black Yorkie-poowho acts like he could be one of the Three Little Rascals. Just maybe he has a tiny devil with pointy ears, a long tail, and a pitch fork, living inside him, the same as me. Whatever! We are compatible and rush around, looking for trouble, followed by reinvigorating nap, so we can think up more mayhem and chaos.
The Coopster – so sweet, soBAD!
Cooper also has a beautiful black with white splotches sister, Daisy. She is cut from the same bolt of cloth as Misty, good to the boneexcept one time on a walk, marched over to another dog and nipped his master.What is in our doggie DNA that makes us so inscrutably amicable one minute and an ‘unsub’ the next? Then we hang our heads in shame as our masters rack their brains for a solution that they never thought would be a problem.
So do I have a Doggie Family? Do I??? You could say,I got it covered.
Cute (Misty) and cuter (me).
And, just in case you are wondering, I am still the best trained.None of them can do the tricks I can do, (like counting or waving), the brightest,(who else wrote a Policies and Procedure Manual),the most nurturing, (just ask the Tigger and Babbie – more on them on the way).
I am also amazingly gorgeous and of course modest.Just realize, I am the ‘don’t take my word for it’unquestionably questionable pedigree dog….ever!
Like, I got some things to say. You know that I ♥♥♥ my Momma and she ♥’s ♥’s ♥’s me but I do not understand why she goes so postal, on occasion, like a few days back. I suspectit had something to do with the fact thatI did not come when she called me in.
Look at that sky. Are those colored globes planets from millions of galaxies away? Look at the shades of blue, yellow, green. Oooohhhh. Is that red one Mars, maybe? How could any dog or man resist the spontaneous pull of a starry night?
But, whatever (big yawn) I was outside, there was a full moon,with ***’s(or is it planets,)shiningbrightly in the dark, clear sky,just beckoning me to enjoy the moment. That it was a nice balmy zero degrees only encouraged me to plow through the snow with gusto. I was no longer a sable and white dog, I was completely white, with huge snow balls, like a tiny abominable snowman. At the same time I managed to attract monster thistles caught in the wiry fur on my legs, my beard, my long silky ears, my tail and ouch, my belly, from slinking under the dead bushes and left over foliage in the flower beds. I felt like a commando, disguised as a snow (wo)man, on a sssshhh, top classified secret mission.
Okay, I get it (a little) that the longer I stayed out, collecting snow balls and thistles, the bigger the job Momma had when I finally came in. Yet at some point,I always bark to say, ‘Hurry, I am cold, let me in, hurry, you’re not here yet, where are you? I am dying out here. HURRY, HURRY, HURRY!.’
Is it my fault Momma can not always see me because the snow is so high and she worries unnecessarily, may I add that:
I may escape the back yard and will be like Sweet Sophie who has never been seen again (to our knowledge) or
I may be doggy napped and not able to find my way home (did you not hear about Lassie, Momma?) or I
I will become stuck in a snow drift and my life force will be sucked out of my body before she even finds me and how would she tell Wonder Boy.It is just to sad. See Momma wipe away a tear from her eye.
Don’t do this – you’ll get pain in your old age.
Itell you, Momma is just like her father before her, so I understand, worrying needlessly….But not without cause. I heard Momma tell Wonder Boy, tears in her voice that a little boy, a few miles from here had been caught in a snow bank during the blizzard Wednesday and died before he could be rescued. That is why Momma clears the steps of snow, then shovels a pathway for me from the door to the very back of the yard, under the big old evergreen tree I love to hide under, surveying the world at large, while, as I said previously, the world can not survey me. Winter is so much fun. In my next life, I want to come back as one of those husky sled dogs, in the land of the midnight sun or maybe not…I enjoy being pampered too muchand…oh, that’s right, I like people more than frothing, barking, whining dogs. I am not a team player.
See the paths in the deep snow, half way up the cherry tree, that I run up and down, back and forth till my lungs could burst.
This particular night Momma, finally had to put her boots on, and come outside to find me, then chase me in the back door. Apparently that is unacceptable behavior that falls short of previous training.WhoKnew?She raised her voice so loudly, I thought I’d go deaf or my ear drums would pop. Usually, with Momma, it is over in a minute but not tonight. All the frustration she felt in past four years spilled and spewed, making a stew of words I could not understand or fathom.I was served a full plate of her complaints, in a loud, penetrating rant.I felt so ashamed for letting her down, I could not look her in the eye as she melted my snow balls, in warm water, towel dried me, then used her blow dryer on low heat to complete the drying process, brushing or cutting out the thistles I had managed to collect. It made me feel so warm and contented and guilty.
Look at me, so crashed out and guilty looking, my sad eyes reflecting that I knew I had to do better, next time, I promise.
But there is more to tell and well, I like you to know that I realize my short comings. Even though Super Boy has great admiration for me, when he doggie-sat me, he soon realized I was powerful contrary, and dead set on doing what ever I want to do. I am trying…..but I am a work-in-process.
In the meantime, everyone agrees that I am uncommonly smart,(though not boastful)and mostly sensible so that I know to rein it in when I get out of line.
And if you see me behaving badly, please feel free to put me in my place. I need lots of structure.
Did I tell you yet about our back yard? There are all kinds of things that catch my attention back there and so many places to hidefrom Momma’s all seeing blue eyes. A big dog may consider the yard a postage stamp but when you weigh twenty pounds, stand about fourteen inches from fluffy paw to upturned top of head, it is a heady jungle to plough through.
Look at the green ferns, the summer snow, the exquisite rose, with petals from heaven, that the butterflies choose to land on.
Green, green grass, massive flowerbeds chock full ofhostas,peonies, rose bushesand flowers that germinate from seeds that float from the neighbor’s garden, all providing a leafy canopy to hide away from the world.
Yet still I can observe all the activity taking place, a little mouse running,a worm pushing through the damp earth to the surface, some busy antsand butterflies of every color landing daintily on the tip of a cone flower.It is a breathless, ever-changing oasis. A fence line on the East, West and North side of the lawn denies my escape while the house is the barrier on the South side, keeping me in and undesirables from the neighbour hood out.
Then there are all the trees Daddy planted, a silver birch, a red and green maplethat provide shade with their canopy of leaves filtering and obliterating the hot sun. Also, a back yard cherry treeis an invitation to squirrels who zip up the trunk, shake the heavy laden branches with practiced little front paws, raining cherriesin the back yard. But maybe my favourite is the big fir-tree, with a massive circumference providing shelter in the cold of winterand coolness on scorching day in the summer.
Managing the Indoor – Outdoor cats (Momma calls them the Indoor-Outdoor-Indoor Cats now because they are inside way more than they are out), the Colony Cats, Squirrels,Raccoons,Rabbits, and lonely old possum – oh boy, that keeps me busy.
Kitty Club Med.
Take our cats, (p–l–e–a–s–e), all who are older than me and sometimes wiser than me.They mostly treat me with something between respect and indulgence because, well I am street smart and the Baby of the Family. But what they appreciate the most is that I have a loud, annoying bark and will run off enemies as well as defend them to my last breath. In return, I have carte blanche when they start hissing and growling at each other to pounce on them and bring them back to their senses. They will stalk away, ears back, tales swaying moodily, but in no time they are making friendly with each other and me, no grudges allowed or tolerated.
Let’s talk about the rabbits who I believe, over the years have learned their lesson and no longer invade our flowerbeds because, well, the cats will perpetuate the cycle of life and death, on these poor, witless creatures.Better to listen to Mama Rabbit and stay the heck out of Dodge. I love the cats but not for a second do I understand their predatory nature, given that they get the samesoft and hard food, treats and toys from Momma, as I do. I mean, I make a lot of noise but I would never take a life, as pointless as it may be.
And tell me, what is wrong with a Mama Birdthat she thinks her baby should be pushed out its nest, the only home it knew, into our back yard where the cats are prowling and salivating? I bark to warn Mama Bird. I try to protect those poor little peepers by inserting my body between them and the cats, as they valiantly practice using their little wings.
Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, it is all in the game, says Momma, who is as perplexed as I am at both Mama Bird, and our cats’ behaviour.
See Mama Bird, this is how you protect your baby. Note how I am on high alert, head on swivel tilt, so Tigger can sleep in heavenly peace.
Now the raccoons, they have it together. They know the rules, they obey the rules. They do not come in our back yard. There is a time and place for everything and they learned it is best to come out and pick cherries from the tree at the side door under the mindful supervision of Momma or Wonder Boy.
Sometimes on a clear summer night you will see the cats,raccoons and squirrels all together, cherry picking, like in Revelations, where the lamb lays down with the lion. Of course the cats don’t have any use for cherries, except to bat them around or to steal them from under their opponent’s nose.
As for me, I am a voyeur. I just sit on the steps with Wonder Boy, monitoring thecherry picking,watching the June bugs buzz around the outside light, and the awesome fireflies,just marveling about sweet is my very own kingdom come!
I am not tired yet, from my Neighbor hood exploration and Graveyard strollso what other possibilities of entertainment is out here for me? In the front garden, all of our Indoor-Outdoor and Colony Kitties lay down, paws tucked under, Egyptian style, sheltered by the Japanese Maple, or stretched out on the Stepping Stones.They look so cool and introspectiveas they sit upright on the front step, staring through slit eyes at some invisible spirits that only they have eyes to see. On my best behavior, I do not chase the cats out, instead I sniff, sniff, sniff, what is that smell?
Front garden,with bushes @ back, lovely yellow tulip, geraniums and wildflowers – a perfect camouflage for a Dancing Fairy to conceal her true identity.
Did another dog have the nerve to walk through our front garden? Did a dog pee on Momma’s flowers? The audacity – some people’s kids.Dog owners these days – they are just not up to the job. Momma never would let me walk in a neighbors’ front garden or yard, for that matter. Let me share a secret about how this patch of bad grass and bramble bushesturned in to a front yard garden. It began long ago and far away when Daddy still walked the earth plane.
Yet even before Momma and Daddy, there was Momma’s father who cajoled his children into looking at the unknown, to examine and question whether it was the wonder of nature, political or religious attitudes or just leaving behind the old to embrace the new. He would taking his children and their friends on a walk, (the Pied Piper) on a lazy, summer afternoon, through the mill yard, over the fence, up the railroad tracks till they arrived at a piece of land that had a big round hole in the ground, which he said was a fairyring.
Now science might claim the hole was caused by a meteorite hurtling from outer space, creating the cavity in the earth. But no, Momma’s fatherhad seen with his own eyes (well, at least once), on a moonlit night tiny iridescentfairies with their gossamer wings, their tutus the very colors of the rainbow, whirling on bejeweled pink satin slippers as they performed the Circleof the FairyDance, for only those who “believe”.
Back in Real Time, we live in a friendly urban neighbor hood wherein, in order to keep the tradition going, Momma had Daddy pull up the front lawn and carefully lay down rich top soil, then plant bushes, ornamental grasses and flowers.Next came stepping-stones and rocks that bleed a river of silver when the sun is high in the sky.
Twirling in wild abandon in the shadow of sculptures and flowers.
Of course, little statues and sun dials were put in place for tiny fairies to conceal themselves, peeping out from behind our miniature roses and Impatiens . Like The Field of Dreams, Momma and Daddy believed ‘if they built it, the FairyDance would come’. When the moon is high, Momma says, she does, that the fairies gather to effortlessly perform the CircleoftheFairyDance.
Now it came to pass there was a lady across the street who, when she saw Momma and Daddy working in our garden, would wave and say they should come over and plant a garden for her (True Story). Of course Daddy said he would, when he got some free time. Unbeknownst to us, she had a lethal form of cancer, which she decided to treat with firewater, shunning conventional medicine. You know the weekend when the hydro failed here in The Big Smoke. Ontario blamed New York and New York blamed Ontario and Quebec, with all their abundance of natural power, laughed at all of us. That weekend, the lady across the street, slipped away, on to her greater reward, free of pain, man’s best friend, her faithful dog, at her side.
Unconditional, I am with you till-death-do-us-part-love.
Momma and I like to think the lady’s very spirit crossed the street, to the garden she loved, wherein on the Moonlit Nights, we have a new Lead Ballerina, twirling in bejeweled slippers, fully embracing the magic of the CircleoftheFairyDance. Come see come see, her energy now restored, her body once again lithe and strong, effortlessly spinning in pinkpointe ballet slippers in the midnight moon light!
See the three Angels playing musical instruments, the Winged Angel, and the picture of the Circle of the Fairy Dance behind the Resting Fairy. Only, in Canada. Pity.
Out of the cemetery and down the street Momma and I march. We meet up with that friendly couple who have cats (I won’t hold that against them) but always have time to discuss me.
Next we pass the big red Canada Post Box that Momma drops envelopes in. I am not sure what that is all about. She explained its use one time but I was eying a brilliant yellow buttercup patch with a white Butterfly hovering over it – should I lunge and snap? Uh, nah, bad Karma, especially around Momma. ‘Let nature run its inevitable course’, she says, she does.
Finally we are at the corner and turn left, where a little Mom and Pop Store sell all those lottery tickets, as well as baskets of flowers every summer and odds and sods that are going no where fast. I wonder about this enterprise because I heard Momma speculate, that maybe it is a front for some illicit den of iniquity because they do not seem to sell enough to stay in business. The store opens when the owner shows up and closes when he feels like calling it a day.It is not a very reliable schedule for the customers, least those who are just trying to buy milk for their kiddies’ cereal. Even the homeless are perplexed about how it stays in business since it never seems to be open when they pass by. I know this because one day, a customer, new to Brampton asked Momma, what gives, what time does the owner show up? All she could do was shrug apologetically(she is Canadian, after all) and say, ‘You got me on that one. No one has a clue….least of all the owner.’
As we mosey on down the street I see The Hat Lady coming, long before Momma recognizes her. My tail starts wagging, a Friendly, Momma will stop to chat. The Hat Lady’s property also backs on to the cemetery. As a matter of fact, she can go outside and wave at RIP Daddy, she is that close to his gravestone. She lives in the old homestead, built by her father, over sixty years ago. The Hat Ladyis a devoted Presbyterian. ‘What’s that, Momma? Oh, yeah, a do-gooderwith a different umbrella, hers being under the Presbyterian banner. Didn’t some of our ancestors march under that, till they broke away and merged with another Church?’ Water under the bridge, water way under the bridge.
Although The Hat Lady seems to approve of me, she doesn’t have time for a pet, in her life. As they chat, I tire of the wait, and start complaining in a mournful warble, to Momma who, understands and chooses to ignore me.
Finally we are on our way, and cross the road. ‘Oh, there is Ms. Portugal, you know, her property backs on to ours – let’s talk to her, for just a minute, Jakita, I promise’, says Momma. ‘Mr. Portugal (her husband) is fine’, says Ms. Portugal, ‘But he still drives me crazy, wanders all over, someday, he will get himself killed in the traffic’, she says, she does. So true, we have seen him absolutely totter across four lanes of traffic, cars changing lanes on the fly, to avoid hitting him, horns blaring, no one stopping, least of all Mr. Portugal who apparently is on auto pilot and angel wings. I am so glad I have not been assigned to be his protectee.
We say farewell for today, see ya tomorrow, and move on, turn right at the corner, past our neighbour to our left, who are always in
Don’t come between a dog and her bone.
transition.We can not figure out who the owners are,who is in and who is out. It seem to be a never-ending parade of unfortunates. But it is all good because now we are, home again, home again –and there is no place like home.
Get out of my way kitties. I am on a mission to find a place for some water and some downtime.
Here I am, out at the cemetery, resting as I watch those perpetually in motion squirrels dart up the trees.
So truth be told, it being stranger than fiction, but all was well with a daily romp in the cemetery, until, Daddy, well, you know, died. Then all bets were off the table. I think just last winter, I taught Momma a lesson. Remember, how I complained that she dragged me down to his grave, deafening me as she punched holes in the crust, sinking in to thick snow, because she had to fix the flowers and windmills she so lovingly left. She is so proud (isn’t that one of seven deadly sins) of the amazing silk bouquetof tulips and rosesand then that Christmas Bough with cream lilies, adorned with silver ornaments on an evergreen branch because:
1) There were no other footprints in the snow so Momma must love Daddy better than other people who never visited their loved ones (at least not in the Arctic Vortex Season),
2) Momma’s bouquet with windmills that spun merrily, and stood out so succinctly, would ensure everyone knew that you must be Dutch, Daddy. As you used to say – ‘You’re not much, it you’re not Dutch‘ – uh, where does that leave our Momma, Daddy?
The ice storm had left the grave yard like awar zone, branches falling 150 feet from two hundred year old trees, which up to this point in history had stood the test of time. It must have been frightful in the cemetery that night as trees and branches crackled, laden with ice, falling heavily to the ground, uprooting the tributes, such as bouquets and Christmas boughs. At Daddy’s site, the Christmas Evergreen, thick with ice, was left lying horizontal in front of the gravestone.
You Praise God. RIP Daddy’s flower arrangement.
So on this day. Momma became distracted, trying to manipulate the Evergreen Branch upright again. I saw my opportunity and, I disappeared. She can lead the cow to water but she can not make her drink.
Who knows how many minutes had passed before she looked around for me? At first she called my name, in a relaxed manner. I never go far, I must just be behind a gravestone or a monument or maybe crawled under a bush. Momma laughs and says I walk like I got my moseyon more often than running these days. (What is my mosey Momma?). She says it is when I walk like Stockard Channing in Grease, with a slow-moving hip swivel, to gain the attention of the John Travoltas’ of the world). Huh?
Then from my vantage point I could see Momma move to where kids were playing with a big dog on the other side of the cemetery fence. Had they seen me, she asked? Like I would hang around where kids were screaming and another dog was barking. Give your head a shake Momma. You should know me better than that.
A towering monument by a big old tree to mark the prominence of some long gone family, with the pointed end of the pillar directing traffic to heaven.
I saw as Momma went one way, then another, like the cemetery is a huge place that a little dog like me could stay hidden for a long time. As I have said, I have those bionic ears, I can hear the butterflies in Africa and could easily read the panic and desperation as Momma plowed her way through the snow, dreading the thought of going home, and telling Wonder Boy that she had managed to lose me, her Jakita-Boo-Boo.
Iwas not lost. I was waiting. I know Momma like the back of my paw. I made my way back to the paved driveway where I knew Momma would exit, I laid down on the road, head resting on outstretched paws, waiting for her. Because of my size in comparison to the high snowbanks, I was hidden from her line of vision. I may never understand the level of relief Momma felt when she saw me there waiting, waiting patiently for her to return. It was a good life lesson, my eyes told her. I would never desert her but there comes a time in life, when No-Means-No,Momma.
It was a somber march home. We exited on Church Street, hung a left, greeted the couple whose property back on to the cemetery. They are so fine and polite. He is a Union Man, Momma tells me, with his work boots, blue jeans, plaid shirt and lunch box while she teaches pet grooming at a local college. I don’t believe she teaches manners (at least to her dogs) because her little Jack Russell mix barks, snarls and growls his way through life.Oh, and don’t get close, he bites as well, admit the embarrassed owners. Now what possible use is a dog like that?
I must bring him a copy of my Policies and Procedures between the Doggies and All Other Creatures That Inhabit Earth Plane.
Finally, we have arrived at our destination, the Cemetery, a Gated, (from Sunset to Sunrise) Security Patrolled landscape of headstones, monuments, angels and flat stones of all sizes, and various ages, starting some 200 hundred years ago.
The massive trees, that provide shade, conceal bird nests that are filled with chirping peepers every spring. There are paved streets, like a giant maze, that go around and around, then dump you back out to the streets.
In an attempt to ban the industrious Ladies of the Night that have been known to ply their trade in dark corners, every Entrance / Exit has huge iron gates that are closed and padlocked every night at sundown. I can not say for sure, but do you think the gates keep the dead in or the live out?
The Cemetery, padlocks on wrought iron fence, after Sundown, before Sunrise.
Of course the graveyard has lots of benches, set up in the shade cast by the thick foliage of the leaves of the trees, where you can sit and recollect your past and plan your future. The benches are sometimes occupied by the Homeless or those with Mental Health issues, in our midst. Where else do they have to go? They have breakfast, lunch and supper at the local Soup kitchen. It is not like they have money to go shopping or family to visit so a bench in the shade works fine during the long, hot summer. At night the shelters open their doors to give them the dignity of a bed to sleep in. The next morning, the process starts all over again.
Sometimes after complaints from the families of those occupying the plots, the Cemetery Security tell the Homeless to keep moving. Ah, it is always a struggle between the Law-and-Order-Rightversus the Do-Gooders-to-the-Left. What are we again, Momma? Oh, yeah, we are Radical-Center-of-the-Road (like everyone should be). I note Momma nods to them, but no talking, to show respect for their privacy, she tells me. I don’t look at them or even wag my tail. Better to be ships that pass in the night, rather than to reject them, (true story, I am so ashamed but I feel their fear and uncertainty and back away if they reach out to pat me) or for me to intimidate, or frighten them. Best case scenario, I am invisible to them.
There are reams of huge, medium, and small flower beds to bedazzleyour eyes which are full of plants, flowers, grasses of every size and color that attract butterflies, humming birds and tiny glowing fairiesthat sparklelike jewels in a crown. (I know they are there, I saw them).
So here I am, in the Cemetery, taking a rest between chasing squirrels – see all that different, stones and monuments, some hand carved.
In the midst of all this paradise, the squirrels live, scampering from tree to tree, up the trunks, swinging from branch to branch. I mean, I believe the squirrels are begging me to bring it on. It keeps them in the game, all dashing, flying and shrieking, ‘Nana, nana boo-boo…..you can’t get me’ and they are so right, I can’t.
There was not one inch of that graveyard I did not sniff Pre-Daddy-God-Rest-His Soul. Like the wind, I moved from one section to the next, the world my oyster, sniffing and pawing, well, until, you know…Daddy went to Heavenand Momma wanted him close to her and home andI just can not do that, Momma. I can not tell you what it is, do I smell him, do I sense him, you ask? I do not know what it is but it is too sad for me. I can go to any other part of the cemetery, please Momma, don’t pull me down there. But Momma has a hard, practical head so we are here, let us visit Daddy, her will be done. Like in the poem, ‘In Praise of Older Women’ she bends over Daddy’s grave, willing to wash the limbs of her dead, feel the pain of others by the process of osmosis, and endures forever, hoping in some way to connect with that which was, and ever will be.
OK, I get it Momma, but I am not there yet.I am too young, and far too sensitive. It brings me pain and it brings you pain, so I cannot condone it. I am the Protector, you are the Protected. I will visit anywhere else in the grave yard. Just don’t make me lay by Daddy’s grave. I am sorry. Maybe I am shallow, but I am not like that little doggie that spent his days and nights at his master’s grave.
PS: I read my Job Description carefully and my duties included serving the living. There was nothing about graveyard vigils.
