blueAlto

It's fat-free, comes in a ton of flavors, and it's for ... dogs.

Introducing "Dogissimo" — an ice cream created specifically for canines. Which, as of this weekend, has gone on sale at my local high end coffee shop.

Sitting on the enclosed patio at Terez, the Yorkville coffee shop and bistro, Allison and I had blood orange smoothies, while Singher had a one cup serving of Mint Mutt - evidently her favorite, as she passed on the Snicker Poodle.  Judging by the way she attacked her cup of the green stuff, and is now sporting a fashionable green moustache, this new find has the potential to become a hit during the dog days of summer.

A few weeks ago Singher celebrated her first year anniversary of being a "pet therapy dog". It was a program she was enrolled in on the advice of her vet, and she has been doing once a week visits to a local hospice ever since (minus the few weeks she was undergoing chemo).

I would recommend the program to anyone with a socially inclined animal; as much for yourself, as for the dog. Here is the entry I penned from last year, after Singher had graduated from the program. She may be insane, but she has heart!

*** 

In the fall of 2001, when David and I bought the apartment that I now call home, there were many reasons that it was a very bad idea. One, the housing market in Toronto was definitely not on side of the buyer. Two, the apartment, a 1940's walk up that had just been gutted and renovated, was located in Rosedale, Toronto's most expensive area. The price was, no matter how we looked at it, out of our range.

Though the reasons to buy it were many. A five minute walk from the downtown core, and a twenty minute walk to the center of the university campus, the location was perfect. The day that we toured the suite and walked out onto the balcony, we both seemed to know we would find a way to make it work.

At 1900 square feet, the top floor two bedroom end unit apartment was huge, and the balcony that ran from one end of the suite to the other ran the entire length of the south end of the building. The view was one that faced into the deep and lush Rosedale Valley ravine. Standing on the balcony in the fall breeze, we could make out easily a family of coyotes between some ravine trees.

"What do you think"? I asked, speaking to no one in particular.

"Sold", was the definitive response that came from David as he gazed at the four legged family in the distance.

It was the only response I needed to hear. An hour later, documents signed, we began to plan how we would manage this very impulsive decision. And luckily, things simply fell into place. This past Friday marked the day I wrote the last check on the mortgage.

While going through photos earlier today, I came across the above picture of the east end of our balcony, and I was reminded how happy I am that we took a risk and followed through with what we knew we wanted. Judging by the picture below of Singher resting on the same balcony mid summer, I think someone else also agrees with the decision.

Since getting the Singher all clear report, and finishing up the chemo last week, my crazy dog is doing much better and seems to have finally returned to her old self.

Whether that is entirely positive and normal, is yet to be seen. Please remember, there is a reason she is called the insane canine. "Old self" and "normal" are relative terms, all things considered.

Though one difference I did notice in my normally mild mannered, albeit eccentric dog, was that what is hers is now hers, and what is mine, is now hers as well. After a burst of energy unexpectedly hit this afternoon, I was vacuuming the living room (doesn't happen often), when I noticed my small, stuffed Winnie The Pooh in a pile of severely chewed squeaky toys. The pile that is meant to indicate impending surgical intervention or perhaps trash bin. And there, not a mark on him, sat Winnie.

Strange, as that specific bear sits on my desk in the den which Singher never goes near unless I'm sitting at it attempting to do something besides pet her. So why would this Winnie (she has her own Winnie), the one she has never given a second glance to, be in the middle of the island (heap) of misfit (severely traumatized) toys? As I said, around here, normal is a relative term. Without thinking, I pick up the misplaced bear and plop him back on the side of my desk. Which, obviously he must have fallen from.

Yeah, right. Literally minutes ago, Singher walks into the den, sits down at my feet, looks at me then at Winnie, stands up, paws on my leg, and grabs my little, yellow bear, making a quick dash out of the den, no doubt headed for the island of misfit toys. I think we may just have to have that talk about respect and acceptable boundaries again. Because it obviously worked so well the last time.

Well, after a tumor removal, nine days of chemo, and a day stay at the puppy hospital for dehydration, it wouldn't be your best day either, now would it. As you can see from the above picture, tonight the insane canine is not in one of her playful, energetic, thus insane moods. The good news is the vets in charge of her care assure me that they did in fact get all of the tumor, and that the chemo was simply a preventative measure in the unlikely event that there was some residual cancer that had not been detected.

To all those who have expressed concern and asked about Singher, thank you, it was very much appreciated. I'd especially like to thank Miranda and Sam for the doggy cards Singher received. And of course curiousg, who for the entire week he was here, kept Singher in stock of all forms of gourmet delights from the local doggy bakery. Her vanishing appetite from the chemo, surprisingly returned anytime George would walk in with the canine gold. Speaking of George, you will enjoy reading about the travel hell that he endured on the way home.

Actually, Singher eating the bakery treats was more than likely good, considering that the only other food she has managed to keep down has been the Miso soup that I was making for her nightly (yes my dog enjoys tofu and seaweed soup from Japan, enough already). Dehydrated buffalo with cranberry, grapefruit and flax seed does gets old you know.

If the last few treatments have been any indication, Singher will be back to her old self, attempting to climb trees, and purring at the feline malcontent gang, in a couple days. Though tonight I think we'll just stay in, have some Miso, and toss her favourite DVD in player. Do you really need to ask? Benji, of course!

Considering that George (curiousg) got into town this evening, and I am going to be busy playing host to corrupting his virtue in gay town, I will leave you with this entry that Karen has written, and has been on my back asking me to post it. Now seems as good a time as any.

When I went  to Vancouver last spring, I asked Karen to stay at the condo and watch Singher for a few days. Because of this, she of course thinks she has the inside goods on the fact that I spoil my dog. Whatever. Here's her two part  entry, and yes it is funny. And no I don't spoil my dog!

Please pray for George. He is going to need it.

*** 

Oh the things I get myself into. I've often stayed at Al's place when he and David were away etc. but not until this time did I notice just how utterly spoiled that dog is. Just in case there is any doubt, let me share  the note that greeted myself, the twins, and my still a puppy mangy mutt when we arrived to house sit.

Hi Karen,

Thanks for taking care of the apartment while we're gone, I appreciate it. We are at my cousins where I can be reached at until Monday night. Back late on Wednesday night. Help yourself to whatever is in the fridge. There's left over chicken jalapeno chili, it's amazing.

In terms of Singher, she's pretty low maintenance. Just a few considerations:

1. Be careful of the insane female cop down the hall with the bad dye job,and ugly bob. She appears harmless, with her fake little smile and whiny, squeaky voice. About a month ago Singher chased her stupid fucking cat Swikens, and "traumatized it". You'd think poor Singher brutally sodomized a new asshole into the little shit for the looks David and I get anytime we see cop lady in the hall now. I swear to God, one day her head is going to explode and she'll go completely postal.
2. Singher goes for her walk at 9 am, 5 pm, and 11 pm. Usually poops at 9 and 5, not 11.
3. When you first go out the front doors, hold on tight, as she makes a bee line for the fountain, and is fascinated with the fish. Don't be surprised if she dives in, she has on occasion.
4. You may need to go in and get her, so I'd hold the leash tight to make sure she doesn't go in.
5. Her food is under the sink. All you do is add a cup of water, let it sit for two minutes. It's dehydrated buffalo, cranberry, grapefruit, and flax seed. she normally eats at 9 am and 5 pm, after her walks. For the 5 pm meal she gets a treat for desert. Doggy ice cream is in the freezer; it's an organic soy product made for dogs. Feel free to give one to Abercrombie.
6. Bed time is whenever you go, and she will most likely be okay wherever Abercrombie decides to sleep, though with us, she usually curls around our heads on the top of the pillows. Be warned!
7. Before bed we normally wind her down by playing one of her favorite videos, either Benji, or the documentary on wild horses. If she gets anxious and starts to whine, don't worry, she does that all the time. She'll be totally engrossed, and after half an hour she'll go right to sleep.
8. Anything else, feel free to call.

Thanks Karen, this really helped us out. See you Wednesday.

Al

Day 2 

I suppose I shouldn't complain, Singher is a great dog, and she was actually fine. And yes, it only took Singher two viewings of the horse documentary, and Benji to fall fast asleep. Well, not exactly Benji; it was For The Love Of Benji: Americas favorite dog goes to Greece. What a riveting, entertaining cinematic undertaking that must have been. As per Al's note, the whining began almost immediately and didn't end until the still photograph of Benji faded to black at the end of the movie.

Not to be left out, Abercrombie my Lab / Poodle cross, perfected his whining, cocking of the head, and feigned interest, all in some attempt to impress his older canine fantasy. However it was to no avail. Abercrombie may be cute, but he's no competition for that mutt Benji. Though the best part of our animal themed movie nights, was that the boys couldn't go to sleep with the two expressive canines. Therefore I had my hands full with cranky little twin male people, both mornings.

As much as I complain, I suppose I really must thank Singher. As when the dogs were playing around the fountain, that infamous bunny that loves to terrorize Singher darts past. As expected, Al's dog of course follows with a torrent of "I'm tougher than you bunny" barks. And much to my surprise and delight, so does Abercrombie! I bet you're thinking "surprise and delight from a dog barking, you don't get out much do you Karen"?

Yes I do happen to get out thank you, but I was ecstatic because it was the first time I ever heard my four month old puppy bark. Not sure if it was a hearing issue, or stunted development, but Dan and I were beginning to worry about the lack of vocalization. I can say after a day and a half of Abrercrombie "finding his voice", there's nothing to be worried about.

Forget new courier fonts, elegant color schemes, right aligned text, and "aggressively content focused" designs. Because really...what says this site more than the insane canine?

When it comes to the bundle of neuroses otherwise known as my dog, nothing is ever surprising. This entry, originally posted late last summer to my old site, applies equally in the midst of winter. The affinity Singher has for water, evidently has a specific snow carry over. After chasing her around the inside of a snow filled fountain for ten minutes, I felt the following would be oddly appropriate for today....

*** 

You may have noticed that one of the categories I use to organize my blog articles is entitled Insane Canine; included here are articles describing, at best, my dog Singher's rather eccentric traits. At worst, they describe her obviously deranged cerebral architecture. Those of you who are regular readers will know what I refer to. For those new, her canine identity disorder (believing she is a feline), a habit of purring combined with the rabid need to climb trees, should offer some insight into her derangement.

Just when I though it couldn't get any more bizarre, the always true phrase never say never comes to mind. The evening walk began as usual, a hyper and hysterical run/trip/run down the four flights of stairs to the door leading to freedom. Between purrs, sighs, and a few other unintelligible noises emanating from deep within my Dalmatian/Lab cross, she manages to relieve herself, regaining some semblance of composure. Normally, it would be time for the intense dash to the trees, followed by the usual unsuccessful attempt to shimmy up the tree. Not tonight.

The center courtyard of our condo complex, a tree and garden filled pathway between the two four story buildings, has at its center an old, grand fountain. For years it had been turned off, however during the major renovations a few years ago it was beautifully restored, the original facade intact. A large stream of water rushes up from the center, jetting into a circular plume, cascading downward into an expansive pool. From the street, the fountain is the centerpiece of the site, striking and soothing to view.

Though I imagine that is not a description one would have used if viewing the fountain roughly an hour ago. As inelegant swimming canines clash rather severely with a vibe of "calm and serene". Especially when you include the addition of one cursing, wet, and very pissed owner, lamely chasing said dog throughout the fountain.

It started innocently enough. Singher's friend Ginger, the adorable Collie from the adjoining building is out for her evening walk. As usual, the two romp, jump, and run with each other, seemingly parroting the others stride and jumps. It's an amusing site to see, the reality of which my six year old dog enjoys immensely. So when Ginger takes a dash at the fountain, hops up on the ledge, then laps up some much needed refreshment, Singher naturally follows close behind.

I know I will not enjoy the ending to this little adventure, when I witness Singher performing a less than graceful swan dive into the pool. The likes of which would have assuredly garnered an Olympic ten.

"Ok dog, you got me. HaHa. Very funny. Now get out of that vile water. Singher! Now"!

Needless to say, the insane canine is joyfully unaware of my hollering, as she is too involved spitting, panting and attempting a bastardized version of the doggy paddle.

Five minutes later, with Singher, aka Esther Williams, by the collar, I emerge from the still gushing fountain, soaking, cold, and painfully aware of the not so small crowd that has gathered. Making a hasty retreat toward the building, the eyes on my back solidifying my embarrassment, I feel as though I will implode into the floor. Singher of course, prancing as if she is on display after winning best in show.

Just one of the reasons this category is titled Insane Canine.

I haven't thought about this for a long time. Still gets me every time. Originally posted a year ago, I have just now decided it will be an annual tradition....

Today was another of those days I was reminded of the power that animals can have in our lives.

It all started with a visit to the local Petsmart outlet to purchase a crate to house Singher during the train ride to Ottawa next Friday. I can't believe that a 5 1/2 hour train ride would generate the amount of anxiety I am feeling over this. After all, it's simply a large cage, and in it she'll have a blanket, food, wall mounted water, a few toys etc.

Ultimately, I find it amusing that I am so concerned over what is simply an everyday event for hundreds of canines. Singher is no different. Except of course, she's my dog.

A card carrying dog lover, I have always had a canine in my life.The first dog I ever owned was Max. An Old English Sheepdog mix, he actually looked like an odd mix of typical sheepdog with the grey and white thick hair, but having the strong and quick legs of a breed like a Border Collie. Max was purchased by my parents as a birthday gift for me at age two when we lived in Tokyo.

Max was the most gentle dog I have known. Though if the situation required it, he was the most brutal and effective protector one could ask for. I remember just having moved back to Canada, being around four or five, and out for a walk in the park with Max and my mother. At one point we were aggressively approached by an obnoxious, obviously high as a kite man wanting change. Max watched intently as my mother declined and the man persisted. That was the first time I had ever heard the growl, or saw the face and posture that became synonymous with "Max the protector". Though for most of his days, he was simply a happy, loyal, and loving pet.

I remember coming home from school at lunch time in the middle school years and having Max waiting, head looking out the window. And though my high school years went hand in hand with daily swim team practice, often not seeing me return home until close to dinner time, Max and the wagging tail would always be waiting. Mom always made sure there was just enough time for our ritual ball toss in the park. For this only child, that dog was my best friend for sixteen years of my life, navigating all the "firsts", and the requisite coming of age experiences right along side me.

The summer before I left home for my first year at McGill, and two weeks before I was to turn eighteen, I was busy filling out course applications for the fall semester. Sitting on the couch in my fathers den, the sun streaming in through the huge windows, it was your perfect early fall day. With a bit of help, my sixteen year old, arthritic best friend joined me on the couch, curling up in my lap. He adjusted himself, stretching, turning, attempting to garner full benefit of the sun streaming in from the window. And that is when Max met my eyes, licked my hand twice, let out a deep breath, and simply left this world behind.

I remember sitting with my dog in my lap for well over an hour, crying occasionally, but mostly not wanting to make the next move. The required "actions" of a death. When my mother came in the den, initially she didn't know. Though when she looked, and saw the face of her seventeen year old son crumple, she knew.

At age 39, and twenty years later, I still can't discuss that day at  length without the chin starting to shake and the voice betraying me. And as I'm finding, writing about it doesn't change that response. Though the feelings these memories generate are nothing but fond.

Sadly, I'll never know. Singher came into our life when she was a year and a half, therefore our only puppy picture of the insane canine is a poorly lit, fuzzy pound shot, one taken by the SPCA the first time she was adopted. To the wonderful, caring crack addicts who, when they moved the party to another flop house, left Singher behind. The poor girl was alone, pregnant, and with no food until rescued over a week later. But that, is a story for another day.

Much more interesting is the picture above. Because wouldn't you know it, that puppy is a Dalmatian / Lab cross at the tender age of six weeks. Evidently, this is how my insane canine would have looked in her diaper days. How do I know? Because Dr. H Dawson DVM, says so! Before you ask, I am composing the post evening highlights as you read this. Should be up soon.

So. Good news or bad news first? Myself, I prefer the bad first, hence leaving something to look forward to after normally having the mental shit kicked out of you with the bad. Well, I am pleased to say that is not the case here. Oh, the good is still good, but the bad really isn't all that bad.

But to play this little scenario out...first, the bad news. My sharp and erudite deconstruction of all things gay and sexual will need to make its debut another time. Since an unexpected medical emergency arose earlier this am in the specific form of dog, meet jellybean. The bastard who will very nearly destroy your life. To paint a more accurate picture of the inherent destructiveness of that ruffian jellybean, he comes in the plural form of "large bag". Full of the bastard and his gang of friends. Such a diverse group of assorted flavours they were, including chocolate!

Oops! Having purchased three bags as stocking stuffer content yesterday (my first three shopping purchases of the season), I naively assumed the dining room china cabinet would be an appropriate safe house, far from canine detection. Color me stupid!

In retrospect, the low pitch moans would have really been enough, though Singher felt the need to be dramatic and interpretative with the addition of a rainbow colored snout. Just a minor, amusing addition to the manifestation of acute jellybean overdose! So I thought it best, with the colorful, moaning dog in tow, to make my way down to the the local doggy ER.

One hour and several milliliters of activated charcoal (and unfortunately sorbatol) later, my dear pup is feeling much better, seemingly content to shit herself into oblivion every twenty minutes or so. Crouched down, following the silly bitch around the apartment with towels under her ass, was not exactly how I would have chosen to spend my Friday afternoon. Such are the trials of parenthood.

The good news you ask? That would be the image seared into my brain of one very scrumptious blue scrubs wearing Dr. H Dawson, DVM. WOOF! Though I may have wanted to inquire what the H stands for. You know, since after I dazzled the good doctor with witty banter and my jaunty disposition, I am meeting him for beers at The Eagle around ten. With any luck, come posting time tomorrow, this late out of the gate entry will be given some hot, fresh, reality infused content.

Saying last nights puppy bath was a tad premature, would be quite the understatement. Considering that since roughly one am, that is all we have done. Resulting in one very wet, and in no way happy dog, as well as an owner who could be similarly characterized.

But like all of lifes unfortunate events, there is a lesson to be learned. For Singher, it would be that cute, black, fluffy puppies, are neither cute nor puppies, when one realizes they have a long white stripe down their back. Her other lesson might be that when the cute, fluffy non puppy raises her tail with the big white stripe, it is not the best time to dive in for a sniff.

My lesson? That whoever came up with that can of tomato juice nonsense should be shot. After four baths with the stuff, both of us were choking, gasping and wondering why the bathtub appeared as if I had just disposed of the blood of half of Toronto. One trip to the 24 hr. animal hospital later, and she is beginning to smell like...well, not like a dead skunk. Me on the other hand? I completely stink!

If anyone has a tip on how I can begin to smell like a human again, please, do share. 

And of course several more to go. I'm speaking of what Didi made reference to in the yesterdays comments section as "the first of the firsts"; those markers of holidays, birthdays, etc. after someone dies. While it certainly wasn't a pleasant day, it was made a bit easier by several of the comments left yesterday. Thanks everyone for the thoughts, messages, virtual hugs, and of course the virtual sloppy kisses:). It meant quite a lot.

After laying low for the day, I felt that staying around the apartment and moping was a tad too clique, so I got my ass to an early dinner at one of my favorite Greek haunts, and then taking Gavins advice, hit a movie. For whatever reason, the mood, not having seen a film in a while, who knows, but Across The Universe hit me just the right way and I loved it.

A love story set to two and half hours of Beatles songs wouldn't normally be a first choice, but it was that or some animation thing that, frankly, I'd have to put toothpicks in my eyelids to keep them open. Animation, to put it mildly. can drive me insane, or most often, put me to sleep. So The Beatles it was. Though the schmaltz factor is on the high end, if you like that genre, or are a Beatles fan, I'd recommend it.

Tonight i'm off to eighties night for a final bar crawl with my friend Bruce, as he is moving back to the east coast for an opportunity that unfortunately, cannot be matched in Toronto. And it is unfortunate, as Bruce has been one of my best friends for several years, and is one of two people who know me like no one else can. I will miss him greatly. Even if he just occasionally comments on these pages.

In closing, I thought I would add some pictures of the insane canone. Though upon telling her she was the Sunday feature cover dog, she retreated to the purchased in Mexico-still-smells-like-rubber-and-body-odour-vile Winnie The Pooh blanket, and hid. She wouldn't say, but when I finally coaxed her out with promises of kitten chases, I think she was aiming for shy and demure.

I'm calling the first one the "It's so hard being pretty" pose. 

This is of course the, "what are you waiting for big boy" pose. Normally affected anytime she is within sniffing distance of a male dog. 

When the stuffed Pooh Bear seems more alive than the heap of snoring fur beside it, you can at least be assured the dog got her exercise. Today it would seem, was Singher's day to be tiered.

After a three hour ravine hike, numerous impromptu swims in stale, stagnate water, and two overly involved racoon chases, we retired to the "Poochbucks", a hopelessly yuppy dog cafe with delicious baked creations. or so it would seem by the amount of time it took the spoiled mutt to consume two appropriately gooey carrot and barley scones. What can I say, she's rather precious with her food choices. No doubt the reason for the upturned nose with requisite sneer after taking a wiff of dinner. After baked to order, it's a bitch going back to Alpo....

So I guess posting amusing stories about one very insane canine is not enough. Apparently now I'm supposed to post videos of the canine version of Cybil. Or so says Ms. Cowbell, mistress of all things intelligent, sane and...well, kickass on the net. And yes mistress, I'm working on the video! In the meantime, this will just have to do.

The following entry, about Singher and Blue, the dog of a good friend, is one of the first I ever posted, just a little over two years ago. To date it has been the widest read, and has logged the most comments of anything posted since. So in lieu of video, enjoy....

*** 

Today I ventured out with the two beasts known as Singher and Blue, Singher the Dalmatian/Lab cross who, poor thing, has canine identity syndrome. As she likes to tongue bath, climb trees, chase mice, and has an annoying habit of purring when she is relaxed.  You tell me, but I'm not thinking canine when I hear my dog purr.

Then we have the walking bull in a china shop with the particularly foul gas emissions, Blue. She is just plain old gender disordered. Must be so hard navigating those issues of desire and identity....what's a dog to do?  Well in the case of Blue, all she does is attempt to fuck the spots of Singher. Though I see this as obsessive. Even a lab is going to eventually get down with the fact that she does not have a penis. Even if Blue was hung like a horse, I don't see Singher really noticing. Since she is, of course, doing everything but participating in the erotic encounter. It's quite the sight to see when the doorbell rings. Singher will do her usual sprint to the door, followed by Blue, half on, half off, tripping over herself as she still is attempting to establish her dyke dominance over Singher. Who, as usual, is wholly unconcerned.

There's the framing required for today's little adventure. This afternoon my friend Karen, and my partner David and I took Blue and Singher to the new canine recreation center, the "doggy playground" for a few hours of rather loud, rather smelly fun. As Karen pointed out, the odor would not have been that bad if they did not feel the need to make it smell pretty with "doggydelish" scented fragrance.  I can hear it now. First came body odor in a bottle. Obsession. Next came chipmunk piss. Eternity. Now we bring you Canine. The new scent by Calvin Klein. "Canine. Experience the howl today".

We started off on the obstacle course. A maze of trapped doors, running tracks, climbing gym, teeter totters, and old tires. Watching my dog climb the wood pole to the slide, when the stairs are right beside her, I was half shocked and half mortified when one of the attendants slowly says, "what is that spotted dog doing...exactly"? I look over at Singher, and I have one of those moments. The kind when you are very sure your dog is utterly, and completely insane. 

She is halfway up the pole; a good four feet. She is actually in a shimmy type of hold that looks rather pained. She is grunting. And I assume to garner the identity of REALLY insane, every third or fourth grunt is followed by a semi snarl at I have no idea what, followed by a gnaw of the pole. Lovely, today she thinks she is a beaver. I close my eyes and shake my head as all the owners seem to whisper in unison, "Fluffy, move away slowly from the spotted dog. The one climbing the pole and snarling at nothing in particular. She is not our kind of dog.".

Not be outdone, the pool is where Blue shines.  As the gender identity seems to correct itself when she is briefly violated by a husky with one blue eye.  Steve would be proud.  Well, not so fast there Al.  I'm sure both David and Karen would not say that.  Since I haven't mentioned the final straw.

Cut to the "wind down" room.  A very cute, though very obnoxious little blond brat, all of six, was there with her family and "Sparkles", a nasty little cocker spaniel who I was secretly hoping would bite the very nasty girl. When of course, obnoxious child does a sprint over to mommy and proceeds to inform her that the "black mommy dog" is "feeding" the one from the 101 Dalmatians.  David moves to the side of the room and looks at the two lovebirds.  When he gets back to Karen and I, my first thought is he is going to collapse, as he looks rather ill. 

"Oh she is most definitely feeding her".  Looking squarely at me, oblivious to his half of the parenting role, David finishes, "Singher is felching what remains of husky spermatozoa, as Blue is sprawled on her back, prolapsed woman parts frothing and flapping for all to see".

David has a rather sick sense of humor at times, so I decide to see for myself.  I don't have to look for any length of time.

Though it's Karen that has the last word.  Looking both of us up and down, "Well, she's your fucking dog!"

I'm guessing from the picture above, it may be obvious someone had a good time today. Singher and I, along with Karen and her dog Abercrombie, spent the better part of the day in the Rosedale Valley Ravine. Only a few short blocks from where I live, the ravine is a canine paradise. Far enough away from the road, going off leash is never a problem, there are miles and miles of trails bushes etc., and of course lots of fragrant decaying animal carcase to roll in. You know, if that's your thing. Which is what it would have been for both of these dogs. And as Karen and I discovered, and are now regretting, no roll in dead carcase is ever complete without a dip in the mud filled creek

The day could not have been better for a ravine hike; crisp but sunny, the weather was the perfect compliment for the leaves that have just recently begun to change color (this part of the country always changes late due to Indian summer) Though I forgot just how challenging the hike down the ravine walls are. Especially when wet! Of course the dogs were down in record time, but even with my full compliment of Timberland hiking boots, fleece, and gore tex rain pants, by the time Karen and i had navigated the climb down, we were wearing half the ravine wall. it should go without saying, as were the dogs. Though it seemed they were completely fine tearing up the trails with a wet, soggy ass. Me, not so much.

A good two hours later we are set to make the ascent up the ravine (that's the trouble with coming here, getting back up). As with the descent, two crazy ass dogs, one black and white, one yellow, disappear up the wall into the park above. Of course standing at the side, looking down with the very clear expression of  "Uh...humans!' But hey, I actually made better time than I thought. After sliding down for the third time, Karen became a big sucky girl, and took the long way around the ravine. HA! Though truthfully I almost joined her, since having had two hours for my ass to completely dry off, the few times I slid back down the ravine wall were particularly not appreciated.

Several hours later, I'm back at home, enjoying a hot chocolate with not a minor shot of rum, I'm really glad I got out. I really hadn't done anything particularly outdoor focused since David died. For me, that's rare. Not that I've been Mr. Recluse, sheltering myself from humanity, but I find lately it's sometimes a chore to try to motivate myself and engage with people. I suppose that's normal and healthy, as long as I keep it in check. Looking over at singher, I'm now fully convinced getting out was a smart idea. Sprawled out dramatically on the floor, she is laying half on her side, half on her back, snoring. And not elegantly I might add. Looking at her now, she appears perfectly content to sleep until Christmas.

*** 

Five years ago, in the fall of 2002, David and I made a decision that has profoundly changed our lives. We decided to adopt a dog. Not arrived at easily, it was a decision which saw David initially hesitate. I was steadfast. It was time.

Eventually he relented, and though he will never admit it, he was clearly as excited as I was.

We settled on pound adoption for a number of reasons. The escalating price of puppies in pet stores, the ongoing controversy and neglect occurring at puppy mills, and the sheer number of homeless animals we encountered  in the Toronto SPCA factored into our decision to adopt.

It was one of the best decisions we have ever made. I realize that every dog owner says, as well as fully believes, they have the best dog. In our case, that statement has proven itself to be true time and time again. The Dalmatian / Lab cross who has become a solid third member of our family; the mutt named Singher.

She actually began her life at that same pound. Brought in with her seven siblings, she was eight weeks old. They were found in an abandoned parking lot, no mother to be seen. All the puppies were healthy, but cold. A few days at the Toronto SPCA  and they were ready to be adopted. Singher (or at that time Sassy) was the third to go.

Unfortunately the records have been misplaced or lost, and it is not possible to identify the individuals who adopted Singher. Sadly, contact had been attempted a few months before we came to know our future dog. The administration at the SPCA obviously were very concerned about the starving, malnourished, and dehydrated animal found in an abandoned crack house on the edge of River St. Tragically, seven short blocks away from the SPCA.

Though the most tragic element of this story, is that Singher needed to be sedated before she was removed from the dirty, abandoned home. Not because she was violent, but because her loyalty as a mother wouldn't let her leave six puppies crowded underneath her. In the same position they had been in when they died, waiting for the milk that their mother was too malnourished to produce.

When we met the dog that would change our lives, it was three months later. She had been adoptable for two months. No takers. In dog pound culture, that's never a good sign.

When David saw the underweight, cute, but rather odd looking mix of two of our favorite breeds, he extended his hand towards the cage, rubbing his fingers together. "Hi girl".

A mouth full of menacing teeth, and a slow, scared growl escaped from the dog in the cage. David never averted his gaze. He sat on the floor and continued to softly talk to her, offer his hand and literally do everything he could to give the girl a few moments of peace.

It worked. After a few minutes, Singher cocked her head to the side, teeth no longer visible, the growl morphed into some bizarre purr / content sound, and looking in every way like a changed dog. The difference was clear. There was no fear. In exaggerated form, she raised her paw up and out, resting it on the cage where it connected with David's hand.

I didn't need to see the expression on David's face. It was clear in my mind as well. When he finally did turn and look at me, one of us, and to this day neither of us recall who, uttered the definitive, "she's the one".

Originally published in August, I thought of this entry today as the fish were being taken out of the fountain; fall weather ensuing and all. I debated on removing the first line in the last paragraph, but couldn't. Anyway, this is meant to be a light entry. Feel free to add to the comments.

*** 

First, it was the trees, and wanting to climb them. Maybe she thought she was a cat, who knows. Well that little theory didn't last too long, as it soon became obvious she was terrified of the cats.  And for a whole year, whenever I would walk my wimpy Dalmatian/Lab cross, we would have three or four of the feline malcontent gang follow behind terrorizing poor Singher. There has been rolling in the mud, chasing rabbits, thinking she is a bird dog, and many other strange fascinations.

Though none more bizarre than her current obsessive interest. Fish. Goldfish to be precise. The ones that make their home in the large, cascading fountain pool in our courtyard. Every morning, evening and late night walk, she has to run over to the fountain, get up on the ledge, nose in the pool, whine, and make an effort to look like it's killing her not to dive right in. I'm assuming a few times it was, as she has more than once perfected her diving technique, as well as her Esther Williams dog paddle.

So yes, if you are thinking Singher is a "strange" dog, you'd be accurate in that assessment. Though it's really just semantics, I prefer eccentric. Since,of course, dogs are often compared to their owners in many ways, I tend to embrace eccentric much better than I do "strange", as a personal description.

Though there is one thing that never fails to impress me from this insane bag of two dog breeds with the odd habits. Those who are not dog people, or who have never had the pleasure of owning a dog as an adult, may think I'm completely insane when I say this, but Singher really has a heightened capacity for empathy. How the hell would I ever come up with that? Well, how about the following event from last night:

Making her usual dash ahead of me to the fountain, I approach, noticing she is whining a little too much, prancing around and looking very anxious. As I get closer I see a fish, flopping around on the ledge. Obviously it has beached itself on the side of the fountain somehow. I immediately give a stern warning to Singher, telling her not to be having fish sticks for a snack!

At this point my dog looks me square in the face for a good several seconds, then turns, leans down, and fills her mouth with the goldfish. "That defiant little bitch" I think. I just finished telling her not to do that. And right when my dog is about to catch holy hell, she leans over the fountain, gently letting the fish fall into the pool from her mouth. It then swims swiftly away, obviously glad to be rescued. By one very insane pound puppy. Who proves to me time and time again, this dog knows much more than she lets on.

I smile, shake me head, and tell Singher she's a good dog, and it's time for a cookie. Pausing for a brief moment, my gentle dog takes a last glance at the fish swimming in the pool, cocks her head, then hops down, heading across the courtyard in anticipation of that cookie. Bringing up the rear, and teasing her by walking extra slow, I torture her with "does the lifeguard and fish rescuer want a cookie"?

Heading inside the condo, I realize how lucky David and I have been with this dog. I smile once again, and laugh out loud, thinking that might just be what one very relieved goldfish is thinking as well.

A late Monday evening greeting to everyone. Between preparing a lesson plan for my Tuesday literature class, and a faculty advisor's meeting that went a lovely three hours over schedule today, this is the first time I've had to go near the home computer.

After posting Saturday's entry, I realized that to effectively describe the weekend I refer to, I would need to get some permissions from friends before documenting that experience. I have since received those, and am in the early stages of drafting something up. I should have it posted by Tuesday evening at the latest.

As I indicated, the last few days have been pretty busy with the general routine of life. However owning a mildly insane canine, always has the ability to throw a