Category: The Non-Writing Life

Allie McBeagle is ten today. Unlike my previous pets, I have never forgotten her birthday because we brought her home from the kennel on December 18th and she was exactly two months old. Over the last year, she’s made a big deal about turning ten. She wants a “baby burger” and a kiddie cone from Dairy Queen. Here’s where I confess that she eats the kiddie cones once or twice a month. It’s not my fault. My husband started it. That dog can inhale a kiddie cone, cone and all, in 3 minutes. And that’s holding back.

So…the “baby burger.” I don’t know if such a thing exists. I’ll probably order a cheeseburger instead and let her have 1/4th of it. Bad, bad, bad. But the beagle made ten, and so she deserves it. Our last dog, an Alaskan Malamute that lived to 13.5, had pizza on his tenth birthday. We’re big on ten!

Allie’s goal is to live to 16. So that’s six years to go. The average lifespan of a beagle is apparently 12-16 years. She’s been running three times a week for the last two, so is in better shape at 10 than she was at 7. But that’s not the reason she wants to live to 16. No, you see, there’s competition. Every pet of ours since my dh and I got married has lived longer than the preceding pet. Slink, the first cat, lived to 6 (got run over). Kanik, the first dog, lived to the aforesaid 13.5. Seiki, the most evil Siamese cat that ever existed, who nearly died (the first time) when he was four, lived to 15.5 years. And now Allie wants to outlive Seiki. So I hear. I mean, it’s not like the dog talks to me. Well, she tries. But it’s not like I listen. Creativity does have its bounds.

Do you celebrate animal birthday milestones, or do you think I’m soft in the head? Come on, admit it, if you were a dog, you’d want to live with me.

In the several weeks since both my sons have left home, I’ve taken to running or long-walk-to-the-park-ing with Allie McBeagle in the mornings and a short trek around the block in the afternoons. Hey, she’s turning ten in a month. I can afford to slack off. Besides, Youngest Son trained her in the art of the “short walk” over the summer.

Last week, we (Allie and I) spied a doe and her fawn on the right side of the road, at the edge of an undeveloped lot. We were on the left side of the road. Allie was on her leash (busy car road), but because she’s nearly ten she doesn’t immediately alert (or care about doing so) to the deer like she did when she was little and she chased a deer in the neighboring orchard into the provincial park in the middle of winter and was thereafter lost for 6 hours until the orchard caretaker found her right where I screamed “Stay!” and brought her home.

Last week, she barely pricked her ears at the scent of the deer and fawn. As always, the sight left me in awe, and my natural inclination is to say, “Hi, guys” and even approach. But I’ve learned not to approach or even want to be around a doe when her fawn is around, or might be around, and you have a dog. So, I was in awe, but I was in a wee bit of terrified awe. I never ever thought I’d be afraid of Bambi’s mama. I thought deer were gentle creatures. But three or so weeks ago, My Liege and I were walking Allie in the huge provincial park near our house with a multitude of walking and biking trails…which the deer also love to traverse. We were doing the “short-short” walk (as opposed to the “long-short” walk), which took us off the main trail down to the road that overlooks a lake of many colors. There’s a portion of this highly used trail (by humans) that is very peaceful and ethereal. It’s hard to believe that in a few minutes you’ll come out to a view of road and/or the wide pedestrian pathway. During this walk, Allie was not on her leash. We always let her off-leash in the park and clip her back on if other dogs on leash approach or, heaven forbid, we see a bear (warnings of bear sightings are usually posted at the park’s entrance; no one’s ever posted a warning of a deer sighting—maybe they should). So, this walk she was off-leash. She was ahead of us and going up a little hill in the narrow path, when M.L. and I noticed, to the left of the path, a deer. Standing there looking very serene and peaceful.

“Well, hello,” I said (as is my way), and then, remembering the times Allie had tried to chase deer in her youth, I said to M.L., “Should we leash her?” I’m pretty sure he said yes. Because his next step was to go ahead and leash Allie while I stayed a few feet behind so as not to startle the doe. Because, you see, this doe had not taken kindly to our dog’s presence. Her nose was twitching and she pawed her front hooves (hoofs?) on the ground. It was clear she wanted to cross the path without any interference from us. And we were trying to be clear by standing absolutely still that we wanted her to. On the one hand, I wished I’d had a camera, because she would have made a beautiful shot. On the other hand, it was obvious there must be a fawn in the area, although we couldn’t see it. M.L. leashed the dog and kept her on a short leash, and the doe darted across the path and into the woods to our right…but didn’t take off completely. No, she started to stalk us. I’ve never experienced anything like this (my husband has been treed by a black bear and a moose, but normally wildlife loves me). We walked the path without looking straight on at the doe to our right. She continued following us, stamping her hooves and pawing the ground. At one point, I kid you not, I took the dog and M.L. picked up a large branch and shoved it at the doe to get her to stay off the path right behind us. Suddenly, my BFF’s stories about deers attacking humans in the communities around Victoria, B.C. weren’t so funny. Literally, I just LMAO’ed at the thought a couple of days previous. So the story goes, the deer are born on peoples’ property and so consider it their territory. Small dogs and cats are considered ON the deer’s property and can get in trouble/run down. Apparently, so can humans.

Our deer was most likely born in the provincial park. We never did see her fawn, but it’s safe to say the fawn was born in the park, too. Along with the bears and cougars and rattlesnakes we’d rather not encounter.

I’ll never again feel safe approaching a deer…unless my dog isn’t around. Then, okay, I’d give it a go. We often get them in our neighborhood, and we have “sit spots” in our huge back yard in winter. The deer sometimes leave “candy” (deer droppings that look like chocolate-covered raisins) our dog used to find irresistible. I know, disgusting, but there’s no accounting for a beagle’s taste. She also thinks four-week-dead fish smell amazing.

Have you ever had an encounter with a form of wildlife that surprised you? Last week, catching sight of the doe and fawn on the other side of the road, I just wanted to stand there and admire them. Instead, I kept my head down and a short leash on the beagle until we were safely out of sight. Because, believe me, that doe had her eyes trained on us every step of the way.

Yes, I know, it’s supposed to be the other way around.

An inordinate number of elderly people are dying around me lately. If bad news comes in threes, let’s hope this is it. Because next week I’m going to my third funeral in as many weeks.

The first was the mother of a friend. She lived to 90, which is respectable, so that one I could rationalize. The second was my sister’s boyfriend’s mom. Actually, I didn’t physically attend that one, but I was with my sister in spirit. Then, earlier this week, I learned that my father’s older brother died in his sleep at 84. I don’t like it when people die in their 80s. I really don’t like it when they die in their 20s, but “she died at 90” works much better for me than “she died at 83.”

My grandfather (my uncle’s father) lived to 106, so 83 sounds “young” to me. Even my grandmother, despite having a stroke at 81, lived to one month shy of her 89th birthday. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around my uncle dying at a younger age than either of his parents.

Amid all this doom and gloom, my second niece on my dh’s side is having a wedding reception of sorts this weekend. She eloped a few months ago, in the States, but several Canadian members of the family couldn’t attend the first reception, so we’re doing it all over again. It’s a white-themed party. So everyone has to wear white.

Yeah, me and white. We’re great buddies. White and me will last about 20 seconds, until I eat something and likely drop it.

But I’ll take white over wearing black any day when it means celebrating the union of two young people.

Now, here’s a tip if you ever have to phone someone to tell them a family member has died: make double, triple, nay, quadruple sure that you HAVE THE RIGHT NAME. Of the person who died. Believe me, hearing the wrong name will give the recipients of the bad news unncessary conniptions. And hearing that you yourself have died can’t be enjoyable, either.

I’m not happy anyone died. And I’m well aware that mistakes can happen, so it’s not the fault of the person who did the calling. Next week, I’ll travel with my sisters, brother, and parents to pay my respects to my oldest uncle. I remember him painting art in his basement studio when we were kids. I remember the crazy purple lounge suits he and my father both received from their wives one Christmas. My uncle liked the suit, but my father was appalled. I think it was the only time he wore it. What can I say? He was a logger.

My uncle enjoyed gardening, boats when he was young, and his art. As the years passed and my cousins and brother and sisters grew, my uncle remarried and moved away. We didn’t see him often. But he was always pleasant to talk to, and I looked forward to seeing him every time.

Rest in Peace, William Richard Procter.