Sally has a job. She is Postmistress #3. She is the second alternate to the main Postmistress and is called on to perform her postal duties about twice to three times a year. The first alternate does about the same but is usually asked first because she wants the work. Sal just likes the break.

On Friday, it was Sal’s turn. Postmistress #1 was a chaperon on a school field-trip and Sal stepped into the breach. She headed up that morning in her small boat in -11 degree weather with the wind on her nose (and Fid’s. He went, too). Just like the shopping day.

As she turned the last headland to the bay where the floating post office was located (it is one of only two floating post offices in BC. It has no electricity, no phone, no bathroom and only enough room for one customer at a time. The post office is heated by wood and is about 10 feet by 12 feet in size. It is located at the foot of the ramp on the government dock), she was brought up short by the sight of a large, dead sea lion floating alongside.

About 2000 pounds of golden-haired, bloated mammal.

She decided to call me but the walkie-talky transmission was blocked by that same headland.

“Why call me?” I asked.

“Well, I thought that maybe you should call somebody.”

“You mean like the Dead Sea Mammals society or the Morbid Mariners? Or were you thinking, perhaps, that the same DFO that can’t afford to put a boat in the water or who has overseen the demise of our fisheries on both coasts might want to know about that? Maybe the Coast Guard needed to ‘flag it’ as a hazard to navigation?”

“Well, all that did cross my mind. But I was thinking they might think me silly. Better you should call it in.”

“Yeah, they would think that. But, if it is any consolation, they would have considered me certifiable for calling it in. There is no way I am going to sit on an automated phone tree to leave a message for a bureaucrat who is unlikely to be aware that we even have sea lions in these waters just to tell them that one had died.

“And, anyway, what would you do? Sit there in the bay for hours while I talked to DFO’s imbeciles-without-boats?”

“Well, I was thinking I might slip a line over a flipper and then tow it ashore. At the very least, we’d have a dead sea lion out of the way. And, anyway, you know how everyone loves to get dead animals out here.”

“Now you are talking! They love that sort of thing out here. They seem to like skulls the best, I gather. I suppose the best thing would have been to simply cut off it’s head while you were there and just throw the bloody thing into the boat for someone to pick up later.”

“Yeah. I thought of that. I only had a small knife with me but I suppose I could have hacked through it. The big challenge was that it was floating head down so I think I would have to tow it to the beach and then decapitate it when the tide went out.”

“Good thinking.”

“Yeah. But I feel a bit guilty because I didn’t do it after all. I sort of felt that I should get on to the post office but I also didn’t want anyone to lose out on a good seal lion head. Tough choice, ya know?”

“Yeah. I know. But you could call one of them and tell them?”

“Are you kidding! I don’t want to get someone mad at me. What about the ones I didn’t call? They’d be ticked. No, it’s better this way. Wherever the sea lion ends up, there goes the bounty. In that way, I am not involved!”

“Yeah. Good thinking. Who would have thought you had to be careful who you told about dead sea lions, eh?”

So, with that thought in mind, I decided to tell you guys.

We planned on going in to Quadra today. It was ‘iffy’ but, if it didn’t snow last night, we had plans to stock up on a few necessities. Sal got out the keys and asked, “You comin’? I can go alone, you know. I’ll take Fid for company.”

“Nah, I’ll come, too. I can get a few things at the hardware store, maybe find a ‘space’ movie. I really need a good sci-fi movie with creatures and everything, you know? It’s weird. I might even watch Battlestar Galactica and it sucks!”

“Why rent it then?”

“Cause I’ve seen the others. And I just really need some spaceships in my life. It may be a male thing. Hard to explain.”

But then the phone rang. It was a ‘client’. One of those non-paying, pro bono clients that need as much if not more energy than the paying ones. Well, I think that, anyway. I haven’t had many paying ones for a long time.

Strange fact of life: a paying customer limits themselves because they think the more they need, the more it will cost them. Which, by the way, is not so since people/cases/disputes/legal issues requires what it requires and there is never any ‘padding’ when I do something. Paid or for free, the service is the same. But pro bono work is often like an open-ended invitation to do everything from the resolution of the problem to business advice and relationship matters. It is harder to get away from a free job than it is from a paying one. Weird.

It looked like I was going to be tied up for awhile so Sal waited and then, after about twenty minutes, quietly bundled up, gathered her stuff (packs, totes, coolers, list, keys, radios, life jacket, etc.) and kissed me goodbye. She decided to go on her own.

As the conversation endured, I would frequently look up and out the window to see her go by. Fifteen minutes after our ‘peck’ goodbye, I saw her little boat heading west over the channel. It is blowing about 20 and the temperature is, with the wind-chill, about 10-15 degrees F. Her 11 foot long boat is open and has only about 6 to 8 inches of freeboard. It is a ‘wet’ ride in bad weather and this was a little ‘testy’ to be sure. Whitecaps, spray, two-foot waves. All of it coming on her nose.

Well, better put: all of it on Fid’s nose. He was with her and standing at the bow like some live, furry figurehead at least 20% the size of the boat, it seemed. Ears flying back, face being sprayed, boat bucking and jumping (especially at the bow) he was in his element.

I was still in my housecoat.

And so the phone conversation continued until I could see Sal arrive safely at the community dock through the binoculars. I am not 100% sure I was completely ‘with’ the person on the other end of the phone the whole time. Sometimes the great plumes of white breaking over the boat in the distance would distract me. But, she made it.

And the conversation ended soon thereafter.

Sal will drive 20 miles down a partly paved, partly graveled logging road and do a bit of shopping at the store on the next island. She’ll stop in at the movie rental place and look for a space movie for me and, while there, pick up a few chick flicks that literally suck the will to live from me.

But I will watch them. They are all the same, really; 90 minutes of watching misery suffered slowly by a woman who is otherwise fabulous and ending in somebody’s death, usually hers and her protagonist. Sometimes it is the story of angst and fear and courage that ends poorly and the children, dog or gay person dies. Sometimes it is with sub-titles.

Whatever.

And people think Bruce Willis movies are predictable.

I much prefer the great big ugly bad guys dying in a hail of gunfire as their car and all the cars in the neighbourhood blow up. And our lone hero, with his jeans and t-shirt torn, walks through the smoke to pick up the ‘fabulous woman, child, dog and gay person’ and take them to safety.

It’s nicer, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, Sally will then turn homeward, drive back and drag all the stuff down the long frozen dirt covered hill at the end of the road, pack the boat, get Fid in and come home.

As she nears the house, she’ll turn on her walkie-talky. “Hey, sweetie! I’m home. Wanna come down and get the groceries?”

I’ll meet her at the wave strewn beach and she’ll pass coolers and packages while the boat tosses and bangs against the rocks. I’ll take them up and she’ll take the boat back to where we tie it up. I’ll put on some tea and greet her with it when she gets in.

“So, I am glad you took your walkie-talky. Glad you took the radio (VHF) too. Comforting, I’m sure. You know, it would be a good idea to turn them on while you are out there. You know, like for safety sake?”

“Oh, don’t start. You know I hate them. I only want them to call you to come down and get the groceries. Otherwise it is just a pain.”

And that, my dear readers, is how we (Sally) use the safety-first VHF radio and the stay-in-touch walkie-talky. Basically to ‘ring for the servant’.

More on dogs later. Unless you insist.

It’s -11 C but bright and beautiful. Our weather has been fairly good this year despite ominous warnings from the Farmer’s Almanac and people with steel rods in their legs who can ‘feel’ the weather several months in advance.

But I must admit that I thought winter was over a week or so ago. Lots of little plants were pushing up and it seemed like Spring was just around the corner. I was feeling good about my wood supply.

Not so much today. We’ll get through but there may not be much carryover for the next year.

I shut down the water system last night and I am glad I did. I have heat tape and insulation and all that but a harsh wind out of Bute Inlet will freeze just-off-the-boil water in a few minutes. The wind chill can get crazy. We once had an ‘overflow’ pipe from the stream that squirted water from a 1-inch pipe at least six feet on the horizontal – that’s good pressure. A winter Bute wind froze it in mid stream! A pretty impressive icicle was sitting attached to the pipe the next morning.

The cold stopped the Q-hut work today. We thought it too cold to work so a few quick calls in the morning postponed activity til next week. Sal decided to just add some glove-liners and off she went up to the school to have a quasi-council meeting. She’s a director on the board of the group that manages the school buildings. Then she’ll do something else up there with the neighbours and then get the mail and then come home. Weather doesn’t deter her.

Very little deters her.

Yesterday we built the second raised garden box. It is 4×11 and about two feet high. It doesn’t seem like much and, of course, it isn’t. But it is approximately 80 cubic feet and, in a place without soil, the task has just begun to make it into a functioning garden box. It looks good but that is not the ultimate goal. Lettuce and tomatoes are the goal in mind.

Soil gathering, making, nurturing and, naturally, composting is 75% of the chore. Maybe more. Planting and harvesting is nothing by comparison. This year we gathered some sea weed and we’ll bring over some peat moss after our next trip to town and we compost all year long. We’ll supplement the whole thing with steer manure and maybe a few buckets of sawdust. When it is a working garden box, we’ll make enough ‘greens’ during the summer to be ‘full of salad’ for at least four months. And the herbs, we think, will last much longer. But, really, our two and half garden boxes are not yet a ‘supportive garden’. We have to do more.

To do this right, I would think one must have the equivalent of a garden about 60 x 60. I don’t really know but that seems about right, especially if you plant potatoes. But they are easily bought and stored so we won’t.

But once you have a producing garden, then the work really begins! When you have that much produce, you have to ‘can’ it, preserve it, dry some of it, process some it and on and on and on. Gardening is not easy even if just on a supplemental level.

Thank God Sal likes to be busy.

I mention this mostly because when people think of a cabin in their future – especially one that may become their full time residence later in life – they think primarily about the structure. I did.

But a cabin lifestyle is so much more. The actual building is, when all is said and done, not half of it. I have mentioned ‘infrastructure’, ‘systems’ and ‘material handling’. I have mentioned ‘boats’, ‘transportation’, ‘lifestyle’, ‘projects’ and ‘building’, too.

You have to address ‘safety’, ‘health’, ‘community’, ‘income’, ‘communication’ and a host of other things as well, of course.

But food-gathering is or should also be considered. Food and food storage is more important out here than it is in town (at least as long as the urban systems are working, anyway). Home grown, gathered and stored food not only tastes better, you have less access to simply buying it the further away you are from the store.

-11 degrees outside reminds me of that.

I am not really the best person to write about dogs because, for the most part, I think of them as dogs. Call me crazy.

They are not ‘people’. They are not ‘part of the family’ (except in a dog sense which is just a few notches above a pair of comfy slippers and an old housecoat to me). Frankly, I am disinclined to have them as ‘pets’ insomuch as that means petting them and playing with them and, God forbid, talking to them. To me, they are sentient beings that deserve my respect and assistance once in awhile. Period.

OK, I’ll throw the stick once in awhile if I am really bored or trying to get Sal to forgive me for something. I throw the stick a lot, come to think of it.

Probably have to throw the stick after Sal reads this.

I am, it seems, in the minority on that score (dogs should be dogs) and I am quite wrong, wrong, wrong as far as Sally is concerned. For Sally, they are peers, friends, family, and her posse. I have not yet fully reached that status myself. She has boundaries with me.

She talks to the dogs all the time. Full sentences, whole paragraphs. I would even go so far as to say she has whole conversations with them if she thinks she is out of earshot of me. She thinks they understand her. They do not.

Hell, I barely understand her most of the time and we speak, it is assumed-but-not-yet-confirmed, the same language.

I know they are pets. But my idea of a pet does not include an animal that lives in the house with me. I think dogs should live outside like…..well, wolves. You know? If it is below freezing, I will let them in but only because Sal threatens me if I don’t. But freezing is the ‘let-inside’ point.

Well, except there is ‘their time in the morning’ that Sal has institutionalized. It begins when she gets up and last until I can’t stand it anymore. About 2 hours or so. Then there is their ‘evening time’ which begins immediately after their dinner (5:00 pm) and lasts until our usual bedtime at 11:00.

But except for those eight hours or so, they are not allowed in!

They are also on a special diet. Raw meat. I am a proponent of that. They are remarkably healthy and their teeth and breath are as clean as any dogs. I didn’t think it was possible to have tolerable ‘dog breath’ but they do. And you know how some dog poop seems to last like it is partly fossilized? Laying there in the same spot on your lawn for months? Turning white and hard? Well, raw meat-fed dogs have dissolvable poop. I swear. Leave the damn thing on your lawn for a few days (not a hard choice for me) and it disappears! Really.

‘Course our front lawn is at a 45 degree angle so maybe it just all rolls away. More research needs to be done, I suppose.

The dogs have hair, not fur. Like a poodle. So, they don’t shed. But it does grow and it grows fast. I bought a trimmer and every two months or so, I give them a haircut (see pic below). It is hell. I really should do it every month to keep the chore manageable but I don’t. I put it off and then have to ‘mow’ and ‘hack’ at them. Meg is pretty easy to trim but Fid has hair like a Brillo pad. Well, more like Persian Lamb after Monsanto has had at it with some gene modification for indestructability. Really. It is curly, tightly bound and thick like a Russian peasant woman’s leg…….thicker hair even!

We can leave them alone when we go to town for the day but Sal won’t leave them overnight. I would. I would give them some raw meat, some water and a few bones and see them in a fortnight but Sal thinks that is just plain mean. So, if the trip is longer than a day, they come along.

Our location is ideal for a dog. Their ‘roaming space’ is the small 10 or so acre peninsula we live on (counting the lagoon) and they can cover the whole area in less than a few minutes or spend hours upon hours exploring. I am pretty sure they love the place as much as we do. They sure seem to.

Sally exercises them (and me, if she can) every day between 4:00 and dinner time (theirs). Of course, they do all sorts of things with us when we are doing our projects and chores but sometimes they get underfoot. They have both learned not to get too close to me when I am working. I have been known to yell at them. Sally, on the other hand is often laughing when she is interrupted by Fid’s nose in her face while she is drilling, hammering or sawing something in a tight space. He likes to get ‘in there’ and see what is going on. I have to admit that Fid is ‘game’ for anything and ‘at the ready’ to get involved even if he has no clue as to what that means. And, of course, he never does.

PWds don’t always do as they are told. If they are interested in something or bored with you, they just carry on as if you weren’t calling them or trying to get their attention. On the other hand, we hardly did anything to train them and they always do as they are told or do the right thing when it is needed.

Megan even will play fetch with herself. If we say, “You do it!”, she gets her toy, takes it to the edge of the front deck and pushes it off with her nose. It falls. She looks to see where it landed and then races off down the stairs and gets it. Again and again. Sometimes she does that ‘throw’ for Fiddich to ‘fetch’. Sal finds this amusing. Every time.

It is a simple life we lead. A dog’s life, really. A happy dog’s life.

I am not so sure that the ‘dog’ posts are well received so I’ll add one more and move on. I can always add more later but when Anonymous stops commenting, that usually means he/she is bored with the topic. Plus, I confess, that I went on a bit too long for a blog. Sorry.

Meg did well her first year. So did I. Sal was ecstatic. Even our kids took to Meg knowing full well that she was a kid-replacement. It is a good statement about your kids when they can love and accept the ‘new’ dog that Sal inadvertently called Emily at least half the time. ‘Course, she evened that out when Em came to visit by calling her Meg virtually all of the time.

Ben went through the same thing with Fiddich (Fid).

And so we come to the dog who thinks he is God.

We went to see the breeder one day a year later just to ‘check in’. It seemed only fair to show her that we had turned out to be worthy owners after all and, to be honest, Sally was just a bit proud of how happy and healthy Meg was. It was time to show off a bit.

When we arrived, we went through much the same ritual of ‘talking dog’ and oohing and aaahing over the latest batch of puppies. Then the dogs were loosed and all the females ran around fetching. Bogart stayed in. Then the breeder let out Fiddich (named after the scotch, wouldn’t you know?).

This guy was about 13 to 15 months old and easily as big as Meg. It was hard to tell because his feet hardly touched the ground! I swear this dog held the same kind of ‘air-time’ as a Gazelle. He just leapt and bounded and jumped and flew from one place to the next. A veritable rust-coloured ball of energy that rarely and barely touched the ground.

Honest, I have had kites that spent less time in the air.

In a moment of weakness I said, “Geez, he needs some space, that boy. If you ever want to let him go on vacation sometime, we’ll take him for a week or so. You know, like a parole?”

Sal looked at me. The breeder looked at me. They stared like women do.

“What?!”

“Are you saying you want another dog!?”

“No. No! NO!! You women! Everything has a double meaning for you. No, NO. NO! I just said that we’d give this poor bastard a chance to be free, that’s all. A chance to fly, a chance to feel alive, a chance to explode on this planet like he obviously wants to do. Then, of course, We’ll lock him away like an old winter coat just like you’d expect. No. No. NO! No more dogs!”

And so it came to pass that Fiddich joined the family.

What can I say? He flew and leapt and jumped and landed here. I had very little to do with it.

Meg was pretty good. Weird. But good. She was not ‘socialized’ as a result of being in a kennel for her entire life. Not with dogs, not with people and, to an extent, not with the great vastness that is the outdoors beyond her own yard. Basically, she had been in jail most of her life.

She was quite fascinated by all that was going on around her from behind the backseat window but fearful and intimidated whenever she was removed from the love cocoon that had become our car.

This did not bode well for the protective role that I had envisioned for her.

PWDs don’t really protect so much as ‘alert’. They tell you when something is coming and then, especially in Meg’s case, head for the safest place possible leaving you to deal with it. Given that Meg was mute from the surgery the best we could hope for was being alerted by noticing her leaving the scene rapidly. “Hmmm……….Meg’s bugged out. Wonder what’s coming?”

Occasionally, when she deemed the matter urgent, she would attempt to ‘do her job’ by barking in her own special way. But all you could see was a dog in minor convulsions with the odd ‘pfft’ coming out the back end as her internal pressure built up from the attempt. We came to know these mild indiscretions as signs of impending doom.

I have to say that a convulsing dog with it’s mouth opening and closing rapidly but with no sound coming out is a bit intimidating in itself. Looks bloody mad, it does. More than a few people and animals backed off when confronted by such a sight. So, in her own way, she was scary.

And her perceived impending doom was rarely ever any real threat at all. Meg is not brave. For instance, she was and still is to some extent terrified at pressurized air – like when one is filling a tire or hearing the ‘air-brake’ releasing from a big truck. When that special hell was encountered, we had to console her for what seemed-like-forever while she trembled until her attention span waned. Which was usually helped along with lots of hugs and numerous treats.

PWDs are really quite water (and treat) oriented. It is definitely in their genes. But with a kennel-kept dog, most of their natural inclinations have been left unfulfilled or unexpressed. When we first brought Meg home we had to depart the car and embark on a small boat. And there was a dock ramp to be negotiated in between. Meg looked at all that as if we were asking her to walk a tight-wire over a burning inferno. She refused to go down the ramp and, when eventually carried down and placed on the dock, she stood looking at the water like she had landed on Mars.

Getting her on the boat was an exercise in gentle cajoling and steady leash pulling with lots of assurances and baby talk to help in the decision. But she came and, after another ride or two, she was a bona fide sea dog and looked forward to zooming about in boats. She swims almost every day in the summer and does so on her own if she is feeling overheated. Meg is definitely a water dog. Now.

She is also a good dog and makes Sally happy. But, of course, some rules had to be put in place to ensure harmony and life in general was to Sal’s satisfaction. So Sal laid it out clearly, forcefully and, as we all know is needed, repetitiously. To me. And I eventually got it.

Things changed for me (not for Meg – she still had the ‘fur’, the ‘cute’ and the ‘trembling factor’ going for her so she was exempt from any rules whatsoever). But it was OK. I adjusted. I am still very thankful that I am still allowed on the bed and on the couch even if I am #5 in a group of three.

I was taught to clean up my messes, fetch dog toys and to entertain Meg whenever she wanted it. I even learned to do ‘monkey-fists’ from odd pieces of rope because she liked them. I may be an annoying person but I learn new tricks quickly. Sally was pleased. She gave us both treats. At the same time. In this way, she hoped that we would bond as a pack.

I hoped that she would eventually get a grip.

Meg hoped that I would go away and leave the bed and the couch to her and Sally.

She’s not the first sentient being to have had those thoughts.

Anyway, we all carved out space for ourselves or, better put; I was left with some space after they had claimed what they wanted. Things weren’t normal but they were live-able.

And there were the treats.

When we arrived at the PWD Kennels a few days later, I got out of the car first and was greeted by a large-ish Spaniel-type, or maybe a very stocky standard-Poodle-ish-type dog with no hesitation or malice in his approach. Good looking dog. I put out my hand in that open, palm-side down, vulnerable way of greeting dogs that basically invited him to ‘bite me’.

And he did!!

I wasn’t sure that I had been bitten at first. I looked at my hand and there were definite tooth marks, like dents on the skin. Sorta-like a taste more than a bite. (PWDs are a ‘mouthy’ breed, it turns out, and they often quasi-bite-without-chomping to get a ‘feel’ of a person. I didn’t know that at the time.).

I looked at him. He looked at me. And I wondered whether I should proceed any further. Still no real threat was being made but, on the other hand, no ground was being given either. He seemed to be saying, “Had enough? Or do you need me to tell you again?”

I stood there undecided for a bit and then his owner showed up. “Bogart! Come here!” He did as he was told and Sal and I went to shake hands and begin the interrogation that would or would not result in our being judged worthy. Bogart was the reigning sire at the kennel and had a vested interest in who came and went. Obviously, I thought, his vote had already been cast. Judging from the scowl on the owners’ face, she was leaning in the same direction.

So, as I always do when meeting strangers, I let Sal go first. I call it ‘putting our best face forward’. People allow her into their space much more readily than they do me and I then get to follow quietly behind. This was definitely one of those times.

We went through the heavy grilling and, of course, I let Sally answer just about everything. It was not hard to do that since the woman barely acknowledged my presence (don’t forget previous phone call mentioned below)and I got the distinct impression that she preferred dogs to people and female people over the male ones. I have experienced that kind of ‘cool’ initial reception before from women.

I wonder if it is me?

While we underwent the being-judged process, the kennel-keeper introduced numerous dogs into the house although she was fairly diligent in keeping it to one at a time. Bogart was kenneled before any of the other dogs were brought in. The one exception was later, when we went outside and she let a few of the females run around fetching balls and things. I remained, for the most part, mute although I confess to tentatively offering up a bit of light charm in the form of self-deprecating humour. If I get anywhere with women like that, I have to deprecate like hell.

It is not that hard, actually I have plenty of material.

But I also noticed that I was not the only mute one. None of the dogs barked. Well, not that I could hear, anyway. Occasionally I would see a dog make a barking-like head gesture but no noise resulted and the dog went about it’s business of ball-chasing so I wasn’t sure.

Seems they had been de-barked. Show-dog breeders de-bark their dogs by having their larynx lasered. It is illegal in some countries. Not Canada. They do this so that the dog shows (and the hotels they frequent) are not a riot of barking dogs. It didn’t seem like a very nice thing to do but, of course, I levied no criticism of the breeder lest she rip me a new orifice and we had to go home dog-less. But I didn’t like it. Neither did Sally.

We were introduced to Megan-the-mute and a love bond formed between her and Sal faster than five-minute epoxy.

“If you want, you can take Megan for awhile, say a month, and see if you get along. If you do, we’ll make it work. If you don’t, she has a home here. And, remember this: she will always have a home here. Do not ever think of getting rid of Megan if your life circumstances should require it. Bring her back!”

It is pretty clear that the breeder loves her dogs, larynx-removing and too much kennel time notwithstanding. They are fed well, treated well and shown as much love and attention as anyone can sanely do with a dozen or so dogs, few of which can be left alone with each other (due to sibling rivalry, unchecked mating, naturally occurring fights that might lead to show-damage, etc.) But being a breeder is not the same thing as being a dog owner. Dog owners make a dog a member of the family.

My worst fear.

We had not gone more than ten minutes down the road with Megan in the back seat when Sally decided that Meg ‘must be lonely back there’ and climbed into the backseat with her so that more snuggling, licking and hugging could take place. Megan even did some of that as well.

It took me a lot longer forty years ago to get Sal snuggling and hugging in the back seat than ten minutes, I can assure you. A year, actually, as I recall. Seemed like an eternity at the time.

About an hour into our trip home Sally said to me (from the backseat) with an authority in her voice that was not to be dismissed, “We are not going to take her back! This is working out just fine. Nothing needs reviewing. Don’t even think about it!”

And so the trial period ended.

As anonymous said: “It’s the dogs turn. So far you have pretty much left them undiscussed. So turn your pen to the dogs.“

I am pretty sure that ‘anonymous’ in this case, is Sally. We have our own computers and she wants the dogs to get more ‘press’. I suspect that she is the one wanting hear about her own dogs. And, of course, should I write the truth, I will pay for it forever so it is pretty much a demand for a glowing PR release promoting Portuguese Water dogs. And ours in particular.

Sheesh.

Megan is the older of the two, about 9 we figure. We got her when she was 4. She had been a reluctant participant in the local PWD breeder’s program and basically lived in the kennel for four years warding off all advances and remaining chaste and, at times, chased by Bogart, the resident stud.

The breeder was disappointed in Meg because, in every other way, Meg was a champion specimen of a PWD with awards and ribbons to prove it. I think she was a Lesbian (not that there is anything wrong with that but it disappoints breeders and studs at the very least). She was also a bona fide, kennel-ized nut case! Sal and her hit it off right away.

I had promised Sal a dog. Any dog. Whatever she wanted. The only proviso was that she quit her job and we go off and have a life. I figured that, if I had to have a dog to get a life, at least I’d get a life! At the time it seemed like a reasonable trade-off. Turns out I got partly a dogs life.

When it was time and Sally’s birthday was coming around, I felt obliged to honour my promise and contacted the BC PWD Association. I spoke with the woman in authority regarding PWDs and who gets ém.

“I understand that you have PWDs for sale and that they cost about $2,000? Could you put me on the waiting list for one?”

“Well, I have to interview you first. You can’t have a dog just like that, you know? Why do you want a PWD?

“Well, to be honest, I don’t. But my wife does and I want my wife. Ergo dog.”

“Hmm…..well, there are no puppies due for at least six months.”

“Thank God!! A reprieve!! Wahoo!! Will you put me on the list. Maybe at the bottom?”

“I am not so sure that you are going to make a good owner…………

“I probably won’t. I’ll be good to the dog and treat it with grudging respect and all. You know, food, water and the odd pat on the head. But Sal will be the Mother Teresa of dogs. She will love her dog to bits. In fact, part of my reluctance is that I’ll come fifth in the love line-up after my son, my daughter and the dog. Yes, I can add. But Sal will leave space number four open just in case. Trust me, I’m fifth in a group of three.

“Well, I still have to interview you both.”

“By the way, do you ever have any discount dogs? You know? Ones with a kink in their tail or pigeon-toed or cross-eyed or something? One ear, perhaps? Maybe cheaper?”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!! I am definitely wondering about you. Our dogs are pedigreed and blah, blah, blah, blah and you’d be lucky if we allow one in your care. Your wife better be as great as you say she is or you don’t have chance!”

“Oh. Sorry. Forgive me. I am just a guy trying to make his wife happy and I’ll do whatever it takes even if that means acting like I want a dog. Honest, I can pull that off. You’ll see.”

“I doubt that but, say………have you ever thought about getting a dog that is grown? You know, the puppy stage is a difficult one and it requires even more patience, tolerance and love than does what I am hearing from you. Would you consider an older dog?”

“That depends……….how long do PWDs live?”

“About 14 years.”

“Got a 13 year old?”

I waited a day to phone back.

I am not a good writer by any stretch. And I can prove it if I haven’t already. But, I rarely lack for topics. Usually I can come up with something to say, however inane it might be. It is not because I am creative so much as it is the unusual-for-us lifestyle that we have chosen just naturally provides a lot of material.

Usually.

But the February blahs, the source of personal conflicts in the community and mild, light-deprived depression in the home is somewhat aggravated by limited activities. I don’t want to gird my loins and venture into DIY land just to get wet and cold and not get anything meaningful accomplished at the end. Or an incident to relate. That just seems masochistic.

Sal is generally more game than me. She is a ‘keener’ for just about anything outside that involves dogs, boats or putting things in order. Get the dogs sitting side by side in the boat while towing a log to the beach is her idea of pure bliss, weather be damned. Me? Not so much.

I need projects. Firstly, we need projects for the burgeoning empire. Kinda like manifest destiny writ small. Secondly, I need projects because I am still enjoying the ‘fruits-of-my-labour’ syndrome that is so often missing from modern, urban employment. I like saying, “Well, sweetie, here’s your new towel rack. A bit crooked and loose but it will hold a towel.”

And I especially like hearing in response, “Oh, sweetie-pie, thanks so much. It looks great. Are you going to remove that bent nail and get rid of the grease or do you want me too? Oh, my big, cuddly handyman. Want some tea after all that hard work?”

But the real motivation to do anything for me is that I generate something to write about. I have spared you all the Chronicles of Blood series (accidents, mishaps, injuries and self-abuse) but, except for that gruesome portion of our lives up here, I have described life as it comes. So, for that to happen, it has to keep coming.

And, in February, it pretty much slows down.

A few of the local people are feuding. They yelled at each other and did petty things. Silly stuff, mostly. It is news but it’s not new. Happens all the time, especially in small communities, but much more often in small communities in February. Winter light may be at it’s lowest in late December but being lighthearted is at it’s lowest ebb in late February.

The locals even have a name for it: ‘bushed’. It is not really being ‘bushed’ in the old, historical sense of the word which described the effects of isolation and seclusion as well as winter. We aren’t really all that isolated nor secluded. Even our winter is mild in that sense. We have cars, ferries and each other should we choose to avail ourselves. But we are still living in the winter bleaks somewhat isolated and remote from the vibrant social activity level we once knew. And winter is winter, after all.

We are ‘bushed’ in a way but it is Bushed-lite, actually.

A large percentage of people deal with it simply by going to Mexico (or China) for a month or so. That works.

Some feuds last awhile. Most ‘blow over’ by spring or summer. But each one nibbles a bit at the relationships of the parties over time if left unaddressed. They grow a bit more easily irritated by each other unless there is a re-bonding experience of some kind.

It’s a healing thing they need. That is why (I think) people all attend the market day and other social gatherings when they can. It is chance to ‘look in the direction’ of your irritant and see if there is still a flame burning. Usually there is but just an ember. By next year, conflict not rekindled, it will pass. And, in that way, the feud fades.

Just for the record: it is also a time for reaffirming good relationships, too.

But the most effective method of healing can’t really be organized or scheduled. It comes by way of a natural occurrence. Someone gets hurt and the ‘bad neighbour’ takes them into the hospital, a fire happens and the feuders show up and work side-by-side, a boat engine fails and the first one passing is ‘that bastard’ who helps out and does all the right things. That is how it heals the quickest.

We can actually create that kind of ‘quick-healing’ but not by way of social events. Not usually, anyway. The community – feuders, too – will unite to fight off a common enemy and, if victorious, the celebration sweeps up all the bad feelings and the slate is clean again.

One of the best things that happened to our area was ‘resisting’ the spraying of a portion of the island by a timber company. Another was the ‘fight’ against privatizing our rivers for General Electric to generate power and control the water. We were all feeling good about one another in those days.

And feel-good projects like fixing the community kitchen or renovating the Q-hut help keep the energies positive. It is not a hard prescription to follow. Not as a rule.

Until February comes along, anyway.