Ah, summer. When it finally arrives in the Comox Valley, it is simply intoxicating. Last weekend, Bee and I took the little dogs up to Mt. Washington to parade along the boardwalk, and we were surprised to see banks of snow abutting the pathway, despite the 18C July heat. Piper Mahalo Hewlett is a born bon vivant. With his bright button eyes, laughing face and wagging tail, this dog could be a poster child for planentary goodwill.
In grim contrast we have my Chance, who, despite his myopic vision, can sense a fellow canine within one thousand kilometers. Whereupon he reacts with derisive snorts, bullish raking of the turf, and sometimes, out and out apoplectic seizures. All six pounds of him. The profanity that comes out of that dog's mouth is legendary, and his rage is so consuming that a whole new litany of sound effects emerges, some of which sound like the end stages of respiratory arrest. It was all I could do to maintain my own dignity as I hauled this livid creature past a benevolent golden retriever and then a bemused beagle. "I am NOT a small dog person!", I wanted to scream as I dragged the hydrophobic hound behind me, his nails locked and skittering while foam dripped from his miniscule muzzle. And while I hurriedly rushed down the trail, cheeks blazing, Piper stopped to sign a few autographs and reward his adoring fan club with a free belly rub.
It was off to the vet's for the annual check up this week. Chance, who has never, ever forgotten the medieval torture he endured in that building, shuffled into the clinic with the air of an inmate on death row, complete with profuse shaking, heavy panting, and dripping angst. In the waiting room there was an elderly German Shepherd, a massive Great Dane, and, surprisingly, a fellow Papillon. And what did Chance do? With his tail dragging and his ears lowered to his ankles, he skulked around on his belly, slitty-eyed and sucking up to every dog there. I'm pretty sure he was trying to convince them to take his turn, or maybe hitch a ride on the back of the Dane on a jailbreak to freedom.
Instead, he flunked his dental exam and is now signed up for a general anesthetic, cleaning and extractions next Friday. Don't feel sorry for the little freak. Because I, Mother of the little Freak, get to undergo a four hour double crown procedure on Tuesday morning, and that totally trumps him.
Outpourings of sympathy will be gratefully received. Kindly don't hold back, Internet.
Sorry for the delay in posting, everyone. The past three weeks have been a whirlwind of activity, projects and events. One of which was wrapped up today with a quick trip to Nanaimo to pick up this cool little car. As I am downsizing, Bee is upsizing, and tomorrow she will take possession of my faithful Honda, Coco. I'll sport around town looking like a lascivious, sweaty cougar and she will take on the comfortable, utilitarian lifestyle of the CRV.
The dealings leading up to the Mazda purchase were interesting and involved meeting with a bank officer to arrange a small loan. It began when I swaggered in and confidently requested a minor extension on my line of credit on a temporary basis. It ended when I pulled out my derringer and shot the skinny bitch - oh! excuse me! - it ended after I had disclosed my income, investments, marital status, frequency of dental appointments, and favorite color of nail polish, then finally handed over most of my dignity in a bucket that I had previously hurled in. When did the world become so suspicious? Her demands became so exacting and (I thought), outrageous, and the more she wanted, the angrier I got. It went right down to the wire on Friday the 13th, when I at last managed to satisfy her demands. I even had my poor sweetheart rooting through the landmine of my personal files at home, looking for an invisible piece of paper that never existed (sorry, honey), sweating profusely in 30 degree Celsius heat, while I remained chained to my desk running a double clinic (cue the violins). I fired several caustic, profusely profane texts his way - not directed at him, of course, but about the bank officer, explaining in no small detail how I would bribe karma to roll back over her and leave tire tracks all over her delicate, furrowed brow. I pretty much worked myself into a lethal fury, earning frightened respect and wide-eyed tip-toeing from all those who stepped near the firing range. And then.... just when I was about to boil over like molten lava - a tentative, hopeful text arrived from my hubby. "So! Angry sex tonight?". He managed to hit exactly the right tone at exactly the right time and, just like on those episodes of Mission Impossible, the bomb was diffused with less than one second to spare. And nevermind, all you inquiring minds out there - my responding text remains classified.
Last weekend was spent in Calgary, for the hugely-anticipated launch of The Origin, the family history book that sister Jan and I co-authored. We celebrated with very special champagne and the intoxicating joy of having almost our entire family together, on a beautiful summer's day, at Jan and Frank's welcoming home. Babies! We had babies! I cannot resist sharing them with you now. Everybody? Meet the kids:
And may I say, it was certainly a pleasure to spend time photographing these beautiful children without being arrested for pedophilia?
On a more serious note, that effing fickle finger of fate has recently pointed in this direction, with one of my most cherished friends being recently diagnosed with breast cancer. She walks the same path I took just a few short months ago, and is facing her challenges with graceful courage and patience. This damned disease is so indiscriminate and unpredictable. Hey, all you ladies out there over 40! Have you had your mammogram lately?
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| Maui 2010 |
So there we were, having an innocent Saturday afternoon after a morning of shopping and weekend chores. We were just canoodling and enjoying each other's company. RJ had just gotten to second base, when a fierce pounding on the door disturbed the moment. We elected to ignore it, given the circumstances, but when it came again a scant 5 minutes later, we figured we should answer the door.
Turns out it was a neighbour, who pointed wordlessly to the hall behind him, which seemed to be under water. You know that sound that wet carpet makes when you step on it? Slushh, squish, squash...
The Mister hastily donned his superman cape and his baggiest sweatpants and surfed down the hall and up the stairs, searching for the source of the flood waters, which were now rising everywhere. It didn't take long to find the culprit, a neighbour who had filled her kitchen sink with heads of lettuce, and then turned on the tap to give them a good cleaning. And then went shopping for a couple of hours.
We checked on our next-door neighbour, a delightful elderly lady who has a little dementia, and found her sitting in her chair, entranced at the water pouring from the light fixtures over her television. I grabbed a bucket and a couple of towels and managed to take care of the worst of it, while Dorothy rocked and cackled with lively interest. In the meantime, on the third floor the bucket brigade (everyone in our building who was sober enough) arrived in short order, and with mops, towels and fans, rolled up their pants to tackle the astonishing sight of a 2-inch deep swimming pool in the middle of a living room.
Ralbernia - our cherished abode - has escaped from the tsunami (at least so far). My heart goes out to my guilt-ridden neighbour - a responsible, smart and focused woman, who became distracted for just a second, and set off a virtual calamity. It could have so easily been me and my forgetful, careless, bitchy buddy Tammy Ox. Phew.
