Twerking

I did some twerking in my backyard today. (Look it up online; the word is probably too new to be in a printed dictionary.) Now, wait a minute. Don't call for a strait jacket yet. Let me explain. Yes, my ass was up in the air most of the day and there was definitely a whole lotta shakin' goin' on, but not of the Miley variety.

Here in the north, we have two seasons: a very short, barely warm summer and a very long, mind-numbing cold winter. So, late August to early September would qualify as fall. Therefore, it is time to begin preparing my newly created miniature garden for fall bulb planting. Hence, the twerking. Raking, hoeing, tilling, spreading new topsoil, etc. It gave me tremendous satisfacation to rip out the roots of my mortal enemy – weeds.

Although allergies prevent me from having flowers in my house, I seem able to enjoy them in the great outdoors with no apparent side effects. This week's blooming of an absolutely beautiful pink rose in the corner of my yard has inspired me to dream big when it comes to flowers, so I've decided to opt for perennials instead of a few miserly annuals. Now that I've discovered my long dormant green thumb, I can hardly wait to get started. Over the next couple of weeks, I'll visit the local garden centre to ferret out the heartiest bulbs for zone 0 to 1 and plant them lovingly in the freshly tilled ground. Hubby was kind enough to install a temporary chicken wire fence around my precious plot of soil to keep the dogs from burying bones there. I've vowed to chop the tail off any hound caught digging (or planting, if you catch my drift) in my garden. 

Well, we shall see what next spring brings; hopefully, it will be worth the effort. I don't know if Miley's butt hurts as much as mine does, but I know for sure that my twerking is done, at least until the bulbs are ready to be planted. The neighbours are no doubt grateful for small mercies. 

Claustrophobic Travels

Everyone loves to get away for a while, especially during the long, lazy days of summer. Some head for the beach or the mountains, some go home to visit friends and family, others take the trip of a lifetime to see with their own eyes the history and beauty of other countries. All of this moving around the globe involves various forms of travel. Getting there can be either pleasurable or a real pain in the posterior.

If you're claustrophobic - like me - the journey, more likely than not, brings its share of hyperventilating moments. It all began many years ago when someone sat on me while I lay face down in a snowbank. Were it not for several quick-thinking friends who hauled the kid off me in the nick of time, I might have made an early exit from this life. From that day on, I have had a mortal fear of enclosed spaces.

Yet, like millions of others, I love to visit new places and favorite old haunts, and, since I live in a fairly isolated northern community, long travel days are par for the course. Driving is my preferred mode of transportation, except when it involves a ferry ride or tunnel excursion. The twins of my Gemini psyche are constantly at war with one another when I'm travelling – logic vs emotion. You will definitely not smother while exiting your vehicle in the bowels of this ship, asserts logic in a condescending manner. Omg, I can't breathe, I'm trapped, I'm going to die from paralytic fear down here in this dark, stinking hellhole, screams emotion in a state of utter panic. Quintessential Mr. Spock vs Dr. McCoy for all you Trekkies. While driving through the Lafontaine Tunnel in Montreal one time, I was so overcome with dread and apprehension that I cried silently for however long it took to travel the 1.8 kms (must have been at least a hundred years) and I was incapable of speaking for about two hours after the ordeal. Poor hubby always wears a worried frown when escorting me on trips that involve travelling in confined spaces. He's no doubt wondering if this is the time she really loses it.

Flying is also problematic for the legions of us who suffer this sort of malady. It's not the fear of heights nor the possibility of crashing that scares the daylights out of me. No, sirree. I could probably fly around the world without a hitch if they didn't have to close the damn door.

Even when I drive to the supermarket in the middle of winter, I usually have to open the window a crack just to reassure myself that there is a good supply of air circulating throughout the car. Up to this point, I've somehow always managed to survive the stomach churning, irrational anxiety of claustophobia sufficiently to allow me to travel to other locations, but it is definitely draining. As I plan to roam further afield in future years, I'll have to rely ever more deeply on my tried and true mantra: “This is what I have to do to get to where I'm going.”

Gone to the Dogs

Life has gone to the dogs lately. Literally! Mica, our 11 year old Beagle, has been Mommy's baby and Daddy's little girl since she came to us as a tiny puppy tripping over her long ears until she finally grew into them. Recently, she rather reluctantly opened up her home to Blue, a young, energetic, muscular Boxer-Amstaff mix with an engaging, albeit occasionally domineering, personality. Blue is the pride and joy of Son # 2 whose new job necessitated a part-time return to home turf. She also has a brother, Hemi, a.k.a. the Gentle Giant, who occasionally drops by for a visit. Hemi boy could easily be a stand-in for Scooby-Doo; a big old wuss who looks imposing but is actually scared of his own shadow, especially since a recent terrifying encounter in which he had his ears boxed quite soundly by a neighbour's cat. Then there's Reno and Nova, the canine offspring of Son # 3. When those two rapscallions join the brood, all hell breaks loose.

Mica leaves no doubt in the others' minds that she's top dog, the matriarch of the clan. Even though she's much smaller than Blue, Hemi and Nova, she has no trouble giving them a verbal lashing when necessary. Little Reno, with his mischievous, elfin face, usually turns his head to one side and sits back on his haunches to watch the exchanges from a safe distance. At times, Mica and Hemi seem to form an alliance of the laid-back duo while Blue and Nova rambunctiously duke it out over territorial rights. Reno, Houdini of the doggie world, quietly pokes around trying to sniff out a likely escape route in which to squeeze through for a brief attempt at his own little run for freedom.

As you might guess, our backyard is now a veritable minefield of doggie do. Hence, at least twice daily, I hie myself off to the battle grounds armed with a litter scoop – gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “doggie-bag.” When the pooping and scooping is done, it's time to take out the garden hose and give the grass a refreshing sprinkle. One day while Hemi was visiting, I had just turned on the water and before I knew what hit me, I was slammed against the side of the garage by an 85 pound whirling cyclone of a dog. I had never seen Hemi so animated. Who knew he had a thing for garden hoses????

Sometimes, when it's just the two of them around, Mica and Blue curl up together like two peas in a pod. Of course, if I happen to plant my butt in their vicinity, they both want to get up in my lap. It's hilarious to see the shapes they get themselves into while trying to squirm closer to Mommy or Nan depending on whose viewpoint you look at. Yes, I have been reduced (or elevated) to being not just a canine mother, but now also a grandmother to a pack of dogs.

For a brief period of time between the kids leaving home and the dogs descending upon my little castle, I prided myself on having a reasonably tidy house. Now, the floors are covered in old blankets, the furniture is showing signs of wear, dog fur sometimes swirls around like tumbleweeds out of the wild west, and eau de chien is my signature cologne. Aw, well, things could be worse. Imagine if someone brings home a cat!