To the Woman Beside Us in the Restaurant This Evening....

First of all, it really was very nice of you to take your mother out to the restaurant for supper. She looked like she really enjoyed herself. She was dressed very nicely, decked out in a Christmas sweater, wearing Christmas jewellery. Your dear mother must be in her nineties.

For goodness sake, when you decided it was time to pay the bill and leave the restaurant, you could have been more patient with her. It was obvious that she maybe didn't hear as well as you, and that she moved a little slower and more carefully (the walker was a dead giveaway). I can understand that it must be painful to watch someone you love grow older and slower - but I think you could have been more patient and kind.

Then again, what do I know - I don't know your life story and my own mother is still quite young and still does everything for herself. But if ever she needs a hand buttoning her coat, and doing up the zippers on her snowboots, or finding her gloves in her purse, I will certainly do everything in my power to help her. I'm sure it's not easy.

I remember sitting on the stairs while Mom told me to concentrate on pushing my foot into my shoe or boot. I remember Mom and Grandma both coaching me on how to make sure my fingers were all in the right spots in my gloves. I remember being told that I missed a button and should try it again. I remember being told all of these things without reproach, and without being belittled. I can't help but think that makes a HUGE difference. It's all in how you say it.

There really wasn't much sense in shuffling her out the door faster than she could comfortably walk. It seemed to me she was totally willing to be responsible for herself. She hung her purse on her walker with great care, buttoned her coat up to her neck, and looked down to be sure her boots were on securely before she moved an inch. It was obvious to her (and I) that you were frustrated with this. At that point you were already outside the door. You did reach back to hold it open for her. It's too bad you cannot remember being a little girl and having your mother hold the door open for you while you walked out under her arm, or holding her hand. Perhaps even walking at a pace you were comfortable with and capable of.

I'm not religious, but "Honour thy father and mother" rang through my head while I watched you scoff and sneer and roll your eyes. I think that the fifth commandment still applies, even when 'thy mother' is elderly and slow. Seriously.

And that's all I have to say about that. And I'm posting this here in hopes that in 25 years when my parents ARE elderly, that I too will remember this. It's so important.

What's that smell?

Why is it that people have such a hard time remembering certain things, and others are engraved in our memories? I forget to take my lunch out of the fridge in the morning, I misplace my keys, etc..and yet I remember all the words to The Twelve Days of Christmas?

I know that some children remember things better when they learn them as a song. I still remember "The Provinces of Canada are fun to remember.....", and from my grade 10 German class "Ich bin Auslander und spreche nicht gut Deutsch." I even remember my uncle George crooning to me "When Papa papered the parlour, you couldn't see Papa for paste!"

The silverware drawer of my china cabinet smells like Grandma. Well, not like Grandma exactly, but like Kraft chewy candies that she used to stock there when I was about 4 years old. There haven't been any candies in the drawer SINCE I was about four, but every time I open it I stop and inhale deeply, and the scent is still there.

And my Aunt Gwen's house smells like, well, like Gwen's house. A mixture of scented candles, bleach, and Fuller Brush closet deodorizers. Anything that comes from Gwen's carries the scent, and it just smells like home to me.

A friend of mine told me a story today about a time when she was very young and her mother went away for a conference for about a week. She told me she would open her mother's closet and smell her clothes, just because they reminded her of her mother. I can totally relate. I did the same thing when I was about 15 and Gwen spent a night in the hospital because of an allergic reaction - opened up the closet door in her bedroom and just breathed it all in.

I did read somewhere that our sense of smell is the tightest link to our memory, and I believe it one hundred percent. If I smell something with a memory, I'm taken back, instantly, to wherever I was and whoever I was with at the time I first smelled it.

Smell is a funny thing.

Thanks Gwen....

For teaching me there are many opinions. I don't have to accept everyone else's. I just have to accept that they have as much right to theirs as I have to mine.

Lots of people should learn from that.

Just like Statler and Waldorf (Betty, this one's for you!)

My normal 'seat' at the council meetings is in the first row of the gallery, directly behind the Director of Public Works. At one meeting this year I showed up a few minutes late, and the gallery was FILLED with people. I think it might have been the night the throngs came out to talk about what was going to happen with the Dr. G. W. Williams S. S. There were three people sitting on my bench. I had no choice but to sit in the media box on stage right.

Then Betty showed up. It wasn't until Betty arrived that I realized I may be in the wrong seat, but nobody said anything, so there I stayed. I think I may have got up to let her have the inside chair, but I don't remember exactly. Before the end of that council meeting I decided I really liked Betty. She knew who was who and where they stood on many issues. We spent a lot of time whispering back and forth like schoolkids. I learned a lot.

I met up with Betty this weekend. I hadn't seen her in a long time. I told her that I missed her since she'd been 'fired' from her job, and that's the truth. We were like the 'grumpy old men from the muppets' sitting up in the gallery whispering back and forth. I didn't know until just a few minutes ago that those guys had names.

I'll see you soon Betty!

Toaster Turmoil

Today's Newsflash - I do not own a toaster. I would like one, and have looked for one in every store I've visited for the last two months. I'm a child of the 70's, and in the 70s and early 80s we had a toaster that was chrome, with black ends. It did have a 'lighter/darker' indicator on the side - but the toast always seemed to be just right, no matter how you fiddled with the toggle.

The chrome sides of the toaster got HOT. I don't know that they got hot enough to seriously burn skin, but they were hot enough that once you discovered they were hot, you didn't touch them again. That's what I'm looking for...just a skinny, plain, unadorned toaster. Do you think I can find one?

Nyet.

To top it all off, we were at the grocery store today, stocked up on Eggo Waffles and syrup. On the way home, the young genius in the passenger seat says, "Hey, if we don't have a toaster, isn't it going to be hard to toast all those waffles we just bought?"

Yep. Incredibly hard. I've since added "small toaster with NON-cool touch sides" to my Christmas wish list.

Wowsers!

Anybody who's ended up here from over there (and there seems to be many of you - I've had 16 visits today, all from local ISPs. 16 is astronomically high for this blog)... should at least hear me out here. (Read me out?) How about, please read what I have to say.

I made a flippant comment on Evelyn's blog as a response to an anonymous comment. I've always been one to comment using my name. I'm not afraid to say what I think. Unfortunately the written word doesn't lend itself to 100% understanding. There are no facial expressions in writing. It's sometimes hard to portray emotions; and when you write something you never know how the reader is going to interpret it.

I didn't understand why someone would post anonymously and ask about women living in the household and where the men were/went. First of all, that doesn't strike me as anyone else's business. And if you wanted to know out of genuine concern - then why didn't you sign your name so a response could be directed back to you personally? Or, you could certainly have emailed Evelyn directly.

No further comments are being published from that post. We can still see them all come rolling in, but no more will be posted. Some were not nice. Some were quite nice, and some were down right strange. Not that it matters - but I really wasn't trying to stir up anything, and I certainly got more than I bargained for.

What I was attempting to convey through my 'flippant' comment was that I didn't think the question about men really had anything to do with the topic at hand. To the person who posted the really long saddening comment - thank you for sharing so much.

Go placidly but have fun!

Too Enthusiastic?

After a bout of bad news yesterday, I was seriously hoping today would be more positive. There's something to be said for your day following the attitude you start out with. Today wasn't great.

There was something going on at work that I was hoping to be chosen for - and the 'judge' told me I was too enthusiastic. I have lots of energy, etc. Perhaps they were looking for slugs? I don't know. I did congratulate my two colleagues that were chosen though - because I think they'll do well.

And, GUESS what!? The Dominion grocery store chain stopped carrying raclette cheese over a year ago. And guess who got her hands on $40 worth of fromage d'oka/raclette direct from La Belle Province!? Guess who's going to be having raclette supper once she's in her new digs? Yep, me! ME!

And you know what... if being 'too enthusiastic' means I can't get excited about the simple things in life, that's too bad. I didn't get this way over night and there's no changing me now. Besides, I have a lot to be enthusiastic about this month. Moving. A wedding. A birthday. A solid week with my boy while his Dad goes hunting. It's all good. Life is grand.

And every day I'm just a little bit more convinced that there is a big hand up there in the heavens - moving around puzzle pieces that turn out to be lives here on earth. Every once in a while something just clicks. Friends, situations, sometimes things just work out.

Wordle

Wordle is an online gadget for generating “word clouds” from text that you provide. The clouds give greater prominence to words that appear more frequently in the source text. Here is the Wordle that I've created using the top 150 words from my blog.

It would appear that I do a lot of remembering! I had a lot of fun playing with this!

Growing

Tagged......

I was tagged by Kim at "Changing my World, One Moment at a Time" - so here goes!Here are the rules.

1. Link to your tagger and list these rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some wierd.
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your blog, with links to their blog.
4. Let them know they have been tagged by posting a comment on their blog.

7 Random Facts About Me.

1. I think I'm afraid of horses, but have never got close enough to test the theory. I'm happy to stay far away from them. Cows don't scare me though.

2. I can't paint my own toenails - a 5 year old would do a better job, and it's not for lack of flexibility...I can reach them easily enough, I just slop and smear the nailpolish everywhere.

3. I feel bad for people who lie and then have to tell another one to cover up the first lie, and another and another, even though it's their own decision not to tell the truth in the first place.

4. I'd rather go deaf than blind.

5. I wore reading glasses from the time I was 16 till I was 24. When Logan was born, all of a sudden I didn't need them anymore.

6. My best friend is nearly an octogenarian, and I'm 34. How neat is that??

7. I have solved my housing woes (moving in to an apartment on Nov. 1) but I'm still socking away money to buy a house. I think that will be my New Years Resolution.

I choose to tag: Umm.....
1. Gill at That British Woman
2. Shannon from Tales from the Fairy Blogmother
3. Evelyn from her own personal blog.

Unfortunately I only read three or four blogs on a regular basis, and am only comfortable tagging these three.

Poop! (Can I say that here?)

Just in case, I've cleaned up my title language just a little bit. I never like to wish for anything, because I'm always afraid that if I wish too hard, something bad will happen, and my wish won't come true. I spent all weekend debating with myself.

I've found another little townhouse that is within my price range. It's small, but it would be perfect for Logan and I. It's not too far from family and friends, and my daily commute would only be about 10 minutes longer than it is now.

I talked to Heather and Andy yesterday while we were gallavanting with the kids at Wonderland. I think I was convinced that putting an offer in on this house was the right thing to do, but I just needed someone to tell me they agreed with me. Heather's like a bulldog though - when she knows something's a good idea, she just keeps on, and on. I needed that. And, that's something that a friend can offer, that family cannot. Well, that's not entirely true. Family can keep on and on, but it immediately turns into nagging and I immediately turn them off. I'm not concerned about it though, it works both ways; they do it to me.

Anyway, after another night of nearly no sleep, I decided I was going to do it, bite the bullet and sign myself up for a house. I called my real estate agent this morning, told him what my plans were, and he said he'd make some calls and call me back. Not an hour later, he called back to tell me the house sold just THIS MORNING!

And I was nearly convinced it would all work out for me. Oh well. At least I can be satisfied that it was the right choice, I was just a little slow in making it. And, now that I know what the going price is for that area, I can continue to keep my eyes open.

That doesn't solve the problem of what I'm going to do come the end of October when I have to be out of this place though. Right now I'm too exhausted to even think about it. I've made a few calls about some rental units, but they're so expensive, and everyone wants a first and last month's rent up front (which just makes sense) - but that's going to take a serious chunk out of my bank account. A chunk that I don't want to part with in case I need it when I find another house to look at.

Ugh! Poop!

Happy Birthday Dad & Gramma Edie!

Today is double birthday day. My father was born on his mom's birthday, way back when. I was talking to Cathy today at work about it, and got to thinking about different birthday, Logan's, my own, Mom's, Dad's and David's. Sometimes I wonder whether the memories that I carry with me are REALLY the way things transpired, or whether my recollections are 100% true.


I remember 'driving' the truck from our house in Newmarket to the dump in Aurora, when I was about 4 years old. I sat on Dad's knee and steered, while he worked the pedals. I remember driving to the dump one Saturday morning and going to McDonald's afterwards for breakfast, just Dad and I. Strangely enough, I remember the funny squeaky noise the plastic knives made on the styrofoam hotcakes container.


I remember Bo, our little pug puppy, running down the driveway and up the street to steal a hamburger from Sonya who was about 5 years old. Bo grabbed the burger, and got half way back up our driveway before Sonya could recover enough to scream. Nobody was hurt.


I remember going to the hospital with Aunt Blanche to visit Baby Stephen and his mother. Then Blanche took me to a restaurant in the Old Plaza where we ate the biggest strawberry waffles I'd ever seen.


I remember racing my bike up and down the main road of our subdivision because Uncle Glenn and Aunt Nancy were coming for a day at our pool. The best part about their visits was that they always brought Jaime, who is 9 years younger than I am, and Gramma. I guess Matthew must have come with them because he's only maybe three or four years older than Jaime - but I don't really remember his presence. Nice eh?


I remember asking Grandma Morton (Mom's mom) if I could eat some of the 'yummy stuff' out of a jar in her fridge. The yummy stuff was sticky fruit peel (for fruitcake), and she let me eat it by the spoonfull. That might just be the oldest memory I've got, because Grandma moved in with us in 1978 or 79, so I was probably 3 or four years old. I also remember she kept a small margerine tub full of rat poison behind her washing machine. I don't remember being warned not to touch it - and yet I know it was there. Strange.


On the wall above the door in Grandma's kitchen, there were three or four ceramic Canada Geese. They hung all in a row as if they were flying south, with their bellies flush to the wall. One day a little girl came running into the kitchen and let the door bang shut behind her, and one of those geese crashed to the floor and broke. I don't remember whether I was the guilty party (I like to think it was my cousin, Marlene), but I do remember all of the geese hanging together on the wall, so I guess someone fixed the broken one.


I remember leaving all my toys after supper on Christmas Day to go home for a sleepover at Aunt Gwen & Uncle George's. I did it every weekend (or at least every other) so Christmas was no exception. I would imagine I brought at least one of my Christmas presents with me.


I remember enough that I think I'll do another one of these posts another day!

Lest Ye Be Judged

This one is directed to the ogre-lady at the rehabilitation centre where Evelyn is recuperating and getting intensive physiotherapy for her newly installed bionic hip.

Just because someone has white hair does not mean a thing. It means they have white hair, so you can logically assume they've been around for a while, yes. White hair doesn't make you deaf, and it most certainly doesn't make you stupid.

I think the #1 rule in dealing with patients should be that you TALK TO THE PATIENT. Barring unconciousness, or dementia, most people know who they are and where they are. Evelyn can answer all of your questions without 'assistance' from anyone else. She speaks English. She reads and writes it very well, too. Imagine that! She had a total hip replacement, not a brain-ectomy, for goodness sake!

Evelyn and I were heading outside to check out the grounds at the rehabilitation centre; she was on wheels and I was pushing the chair in which she sat. One of the nurses told me that if I brought her back before 7pm they would give her some more medication. "OKAY MRS. BUCK? SHE WILL BRING YOU BACK SO WE CAN GIVE YOU YOUR MEDICATION!!" It wasn't so much what she said, as how she said it. She used exactly the same tone you'd use with a three year old while encouraging them to pick up their toys so they can have a cookie. Like, if she remembered to come back inside they would give her some yummy medication, and wouldn't that be fun!?

Um, okay. If the bribery tactic is what you need to use to keep people in your institution - I think you might want to revisit some of your methods of communication. She's not deaf, nor lacking in any lucidity. I'm not her keeper, but I was tempted to roll her right out to my car, and take her home. I had one other brief conversation with the ogre (while Evelyn was talking with someone else, filling out forms, etc."

Ogre-lady said to me, quite knowingly, "So, I'll just write retired under 'occupation' on her chart".

Me - "No, she's not retired - she's a municipal politicial."

OL - "A muni..muci...mu....politician?"

Me - "Yeah, mark that down on her chart"

OL - "Ok. M...U...N....I then what?"

Me - (spelled it out in full including politician)

OL - "Ok.. muni (mumble mumble) politician.

Sorry lady, you lose. If you can't say it, can't pronounce it... and are going to assume that my friend is deaf and stupid and whatever else you wanted to assume - then I am going to assume that you're the dumb one.

I can't think of anything more demeaning then having someone direct a question to whomever I'm with, when I'm right there and able to speak for myself.

I noticed the same thing when George had his knee replaced about 10 years ago. I was there through the whole thing, at the hospital every day, etc. And more and more was directed to me instead of him. Same thing when Gwen had a hip replacement. I'm happy to be the appointed spokesperson when invited to be - but don't just assume.

George likes to tell me that he's forgotten more than I'll ever know. I believe that. Gwen used to ask me "Do you think I got this white hair from walking through a snowstorm? No - I earned every last one of them!" I believe her too.

I know that this ogre-lady was just trying to do her job. But I left there this afternoon very frustrated with the whole turn of events. Argh!

The hip replacement in itself was a success, thank goodness.

On a side note, no house for Logan and I just yet. I am too chicken to take the plunge. I could maintain the townhouse we looked at - but I don't want to start out totally broke. So I'm still saving. Like crazy. In the last week I've spent slightly more than $7. Crazy, eh? My car needs gas this week, so that will be a big expense. Between all the phone calls I made yesterday to the real estate guy, the mortgage broker, etc... I'm sick of talking on the phone too. Not good when that's 'what I do for a living'. But, life goes on. This weekend it's just me and my boy and I can't wait!

Yikes!

I've found a small house that would suit our needs very well. I talked to the bank and have been approved for the mortgage. The next step is to make an offer, and all of a sudden I'm scared sh!tless! I don't know if it's my Dad's influence, "Never buy anything on credit! Never pay interest!". I'm sure at one point he qualified that for himself with "if you don't have to.", because he had a mortgage at one point too.

I'm all by myself in this venture though. I think that I know I can do it. I've run the numbers through a spreadsheet. Income vs. Expenses. The numbers do not lie. There will be money left at the end of the month. I know that 100%. The bank won't loan money if you can't handle it financially.

I'm a good saver. I'm a frugal person. I'm NOT a spender. I think I can, I think I can. A home of our own can only mean good things for Logan and I. And yet I'm hesitant.

But the little voice in my head is saying "No, not just yet". So who do I listen to - everyone else, or myself? I need someone bigger than me to tell me to go for it. Jump in with both feet. But - I'm all on my own on this one. Every time someone suggests to me that I should just go for it, I want to yell at them and tell them it's my decision to make and I'll make it when I'm ready. I know they mean well, really I do. I think I have Gwen to thank for this stubborn streak - but really, I want to do things MY way, not anyone else's. That way, if it all works out, I get ALL the credit.

I haven't made too many bad decisions in my lifetime - I don't think. I hope I make the right one this time. Yikes! Is it bad to want to cross my fingers that **I** make the right decision?

Just Me and My Gramma

Thursdays Suck!

Thursdays suck. I like Mondays, because they're the start of a brand new week. My desk is clean, my head is clear, and I love the feeling of turning to a fresh page in my office notebook and writing the date at the top, then underlining it in red (thanks Mr. Lunney, wherever you are, that one stuck!). Logan is home with me on Monday nights and we always do something 'special', either supper out, or a walk to the park, or a round of video games.

Tuesdays are exciting because they're traditionally busy days at the office. After work I hustle down to Aurora to have supper with Evelyn and Theresa before Evelyn and I head to the council meeting. I've met so many interesting people from hanging around at the town hall. Apart from the geographical challenge; had there been a by-election for the recently vacated council seat, I may have certainly put my name in as a candidate. If nothing else it would be a great experience.

Our Tuesday nights are ridiculously late, so Wednesday mornings always get off to a slow start. But... by the time I'm at work I'm hopped up on caffeine and sugary breakfast cereal, and I'm good to go till the day's end. I use Wednesday night's for me. Simply put, I do just exactly whatever I want to do. Oftentimes I curl up in a corner with a blanket and a book.

Thursdays are Logan's return. I look forward to seeing him on Thursday nights right from the time I get up out of bed in the morning. I think that's why Thursday's suck - because I spend it in anticipation of going home to my family. Tonight we're having a family supper, and then, barring rain, or a deluge of homework on his part, I'd like us both to go for a walk. Once he's snug in his bed my plan is to clean my room like the good 'kid' that I am. I also have to find a battery for my smoke detector - the beeping nearly drove me insane on Monday night. I will have to check the unit itself. It's entirely possible that I damaged it in my frenzied effort to stop the ear-splitting beeping.

Tomorrow is Friday. Friday's are easy going. Friday night is often quiet. Every once in a while I get invited out, or invite someone to go somewhere and make the best of the fact that I do not have to go to work the next day. Not that I sleep in very late on Saturdays - but the idea that I am able to if I so desire is pleasure enough.

Saturdays are 'get stuff done' days. Shopping, etc. Family time when Logan is home. Social time when he's not. This Saturday is going to be a blast. Theresa and I are running in the Mitsubishi City Chase in Toronto. I can't wait. It's another one of those things that I'm excited about and I know will be a great experience.

Sundays are my catch all. I love Sunday. Sundays are for nothing at all. If I'm not at home, I go home on Sundays. If I am home on Sunday, I stay home - frequently in my pj's. No staying home this Sunday. I've been invited out for brunch with friends. I am looking forward to it, and hoping that I'm not too sore from all the exercise on Saturday. We'll see.

And then, all of a sudden it's Monday all over again. I love how when I was typing this, I could detail exactly what happens on any given day of the week - and yet each day is always a surprise.

Arggghhhhh!

I just spent nearly 20 minutes typing out a wonderful series of thoughts that I've had in my head for a couple of days. I highlighted the entire thing and was just about to click the 'font' window to change it to arial font, and the WHOLE BLOODY THING disappeared.

Drat!!! Don't you just hate when that happens. That will teach me to type my posts somewhere else and simply paste them in to the blogger interface. Or, I should say, that MAY teach me - because this isn't exactly the first time I've done the same thing.

Oh well. C'est la vie. But I don't have to like it!!



So instead, I'll post a picture of someone that I do like! Here's our Charlie:

The Best Mother's Day Gift......

I have had the very best Mother's Day ever this weekend. It started on Friday night with homemade pizza. Logan did a fine job of slicing pepperoni, spreading sauce and cheese, and peering through the oven door till everything was cooked and melted. The only thing he didn't do was remove the finished product from the oven. Mom helped with that step.

Friday night when I tucked him into his bed he was busy setting his alarm for Saturday morning. We didn't have to go anywhere, but knowing that he likely had something up his sleeve, I didn't ask too many questions. I did check his clock once he was asleep - he had set it to wake him up at 5:27 in the morning, so I shut it off. That's way too early, even for a weekday. I did NOT want to get up that early on a Saturday, and normally once he's up, so am I.

When I did finally get up on Saturday morning, it was about 8:30. There was a lot of very industrious sound coming from the kitchen. Minutes after I arrived upstairs, I was served a delicious breakfast of strawberry pancakes, juice, and coffee. Am I spoiled or what?

We spent the day with family, and for supper Logan made "Ready Already Alfredo" from the Magic Bullet cookbook. He went a little overboard with the garlic, but the sauce was good nonetheless. All I had to do was boil some pasta. I had picked up a broccoli salad, and some pomegranate juice that we sipped from wine glasses - just to romanticize the whole evening further.

So, I had breakfast, family time, supper, more family time on Saturday. Today Logan and I were outside most of the morning, then we headed over to the mall to ride the charity Ferris Wheel. The Persechini Run-Walk-A-Thon is sometime around the 28th of May - so this weekend they had the midway running in the mall parking lot to raise money. $5 each for a ferris wheel ride is a VERY GOOD deal when the money goes directly to a charity. That's the same price we'd pay for a ferris wheel ride anywhere else, and who knows where the money goes if you're somewhere else.

Then (and this is the best part), Logan and I went in to the mall, and wandered around Coles book store. FOR TWO HOURS. TOGETHER. We read snippets to each other. We sat on the floor and read side by side. We meandered around looking at books that interested us individually, and we always seemed to meet up just a second before my sense of panic set in. We each chose a book to buy, and tonight after supper, we sat side by side on the couch. Reading. Together. I'm absolutely thrilled!

Charles Hamish Aloysius Sisman IV

My last post was incredibly hard to write. This one is going to flow much easier, I'm sure. Lots of changes in the last few weeks.... losing Muffy was the toughest one.
One night this week we drove up to Victoria Corners to pick up this little guy. His name is Charles Hamish Aloysius Sisman IV - we call him Charlie for short. Finding the puppy for us was easy - there were two left, one black pug, and one fawn pug. For a long time my folks have always said they'd like to have a black pug. That was the easy part.

Naming him presented other challenges entirely. I looked through websites listing "popular dog names", determined NOT to use any of them. Jaime and I emailed back and forth one day trying to come up with something suitable. I like the idea of using a human name for a dog. I liked Hamish. Dad didn't like Hamish. Mom thought it was "Hammish". But I still really liked the name Hamish. I thought I was the first person to transfer this name from the human population to the canine family - but no. Evelyn's son has a dog named Hamish. I am not confident that I knew that though.

This poor puppy was so small, and so sluggish, and so chubby that I thought Lummox was also an appropriate name. Dad didn't like that on either. Mom suggested all kinds of girly names. I don't want the poor dog to have identity issues when he's all grown up. Imagine...three or four years from now when he's sitting at the pub, drinking ale and smoking cigars. Some cute cocker spaniel would approach and ask him his name.

"Momma calls me Angel."

Nope. That wouldn't work at all.

At least with a flexible name like Charlie - he can vary his name to suit the company he's keeping. I have no doubt he'll be Chuck when he's watching football with the guys. He'll introduce himself as Charles when he goes for his first job interview, and when he gets accepted into the Political Science program at the university. But, for right here and right now, he's just plain ol' Charlie. And we're all wrapped around his little paws!

Our Muffy

Today is a very sad day. Our little Muffy has gone to dog heaven. To me, she wasn't just a dog, she was my little sister in a dog costume.

Muffy has been in our family for fourteen years. We got her from Blanche's family when she was only a few weeks old. I went up to Sutton with Mom and Grandma Edie to bring her home on New Year's Eve that year. Muffy rode home in the back seat of the van, nestled into my coat. As a young puppy, she had the colouring of a Rottweiller. As she grew, so did her hair, and its colour changed from black and brown to silver and blonde.

I'd often joke about how it was so obvious that Muffy was related to me; we had the same hair colour afterall.

Fourteen years is a long life for a dog. And Muffy had a good one. From trips to the cottage, rides in the car, squirrel hunts in the backyard - she was well travelled, because she was easy to take everywhere. When I first moved out on my own I used to bring her to my house for sleepovers. Sometimes they ended at nine o'clock when she'd stand at the front door and look at me as if to say, "Okay, you, it's time to take me home." Other times she'd curl up on a blanket or a pile of clothes on the floor, and just go to sleep.

A few years back a lady stopped on her walk by the house and asked Mom how old our dog was. Mom told her that the dog was seven, and the lady chatted for a while and continued on her stroll. i knew Muffy wasn't seven, because we'd adopted her when our friend's son, Garrod, was just a baby - and now he's a teenager. I rummaged around in the filing cabinet until I found her registration papers, and discoverd that no, she wasn't seven, she was thirteen. We laughed nearly every day about what a spry dog she was for being as old as seven.

I came home at lunch today, fearing the worst, and yet knowing that prolonging her suffering would just be selfish, and wrong. I sat and cried with Mom and Dad for a while, ate some lunch that had no taste at all (funny how shock does that to you), and went back to work where I tried to keep myself composed all afternoon.

I was afraid of how to break the news to Logan... but by the time I got home, Dad had already told him. Logan greeted me with a big hug when I walked around the house to the backyard.

"Are you sad about Muffy, Mom?"

That's when I lost it. After a lot of tissue, lots of sniffles and a few more hugs, we talked about Muffy and how she was old and it was her time to go.

"Poppa told me that it's okay to be sad, but that I shouldn't be too sad because Muffy's gone to a better place...so I'm not too sad, even though I'm sad", was Logan's synopsis of how he was feeling. Then he wandered off to play some more.

I'm proud of my father for knowing when it was time to end Muffy's suffering. If I ever get to the point where my body is failing, I'd like to think that someone who loves me can help me to get to a better place where there is no pain, and there are no struggles.

I shouldn't be too sad either. And I know that with each passing day, the grief that I'm feeling, and the empty sound of the house when someone rings the doorbell, and the little corner of the livingroom where Muffy's bed is - well, that will all turn from sadness into memories. I won't ever forget her.

I think I'll get to a point where I can talk about her, and all of the memories that I have, without tearing up. It's strange how grieving makes you remember all of the other things that you've lost. Muffy wasn't the first fur-person who was a part of my life, and she won't be the last, but she was with me the longest.

"Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened." Anatole France.