What a day. Off to the park in the morning with Spot then to Wal-Marts (shame on me) later in the morning where I purchased four lovely short sleeve shirts for ten bucks a piece. You will find this hard to believe but they were NOT made in China! They were made in Bangladesh. I would sooner support child labourers in Bangladesh than I would child labourers China. If work was available for children in Canada I would buy local.

In the afternoon I took our car to Firestone at Scott & Vine where they changed my snows for regulars and changed my oil. From there I dropped the tires off at my daughter’s, picked up Spot from the Brockton, dashed up town and picked up granddaughter Jessica from work then we headed out to Charles Daley Park where we met my chum Pat with his dog Jackson. We weren't on the beach more than five minutes when the rain began. Spot was already soaked, having dashed into the lake as soon as he hit the beach. Jackson was busy peeing on everything that could or should be peed on.

The rain was just a sprinkle to begin with but soon became a cold downpour the likes which have not been seen since Noah floated off with two of every creature on earth on some magical, mystical, mythical voyage of survival. Why the man brought two spiders along is beyond me. I am glad he brought two dung beetles. Well, no matter what Noah did or did not bring, it was too late for us to bother turning back so we trekked on along the narrow spit of beach, heading to the far eastern end.

Amid the cold, slashing rain it was uplifting to get a historical report from Pat on every rock we came across that looked a little different than the several hundred thousand that we were walking on top of. As wet and uncomfortable as we were it was a delight to stand in the hurricane while Pat explained that ‘this rock here originated up in the great Canadian Shield and was deposited here about twenty thousand years ago.’ Thanks for that Pat but I think ‘in class’ would have been a better place for the lessons.

Jessica had to clear her eyes of mascara to get a real look at the various rocks, thus blackening her mittens which she was fortunate enough to have forgotten in her coat pocket from another one of our adventures a few chilly weeks ago.

Meanwhile the dogs were in their glory. Every single piece of driftwood had to be marked; every shrub standing over two inches in height had to be marked. Periodically they would come back from their explorations to make sure we were still there and, of course, see if one of us might have a cookie.

Spot, in his quest for adventure, stepped into the pond side of the spit only to find the bottom wasn’t where it should have been. A floundering bulldog is not exactly a vision of elegance in motion.

Thank God (or whatever) we reached the far end of the beach. Now, with no face to lose, we beat a hasty retreat along the water slashed sand, struggled up the long hill to the parking lot and the shelter of our vehicles. The dogs were soaked; I was wretched; Jessica looked like she had been pulled out of the lake but put on a brave face. Pat enjoyed the walk but was a little put out because he couldn't keep the joint going in the rain. "Next time we go on this walk I'll check the Weather Network," sez he to no one in particular. I was happy because I had found a bobber for my beach junk collection and Jessica found another perfect rock for me to use as a canvas.

Then off home we went. Ahhhhh, the comfy smell of wet dog. . . .

Blaming pigs.

During the past couple of weeks I've eaten a couple of bacon sandwiches, a ham and egg breakfast and one pork chop dinner. I have yet to throw up, develop a cough, a headache or the trots. I have not experienced any of the above because this Swine Flu has nothing to do with eating chubby pigs and everything to do with catching the flu in a normal manner. Yet having said that, here we have a number of countries banning the importing of pigs because ‘they are carrying the Swine Flu virus.”. Surly one would think that in the 21st century one’s elected leaders should have a grey cell or two which might have a smart gene in it. Then again with some of the leaders we have elected I might suggest that some of us are lacking smart genes in our little grey cells.

Our government would probably ban farmers.

Now take the above embedded picture. To some people in other counties it would set off a panic, thinking this was a flu carrying pig coming ashore illegally to spread the terror amongst the masses. It is not. It is Spot.

I might add that Spot has shared in my bacon sandwiches, ham and egg breakfast and pork chop dinner and the only thing he has gotten from it is a case of wind. Bad wind!

Speaking of bad wind, I have to comment on the recent box of Alpo dog treats that Spot’s friend Mr. Bob sent out to him. Besides giving him gas (Spot not Mr. Bob) the cookies were 90% broken in the box. I thought perhaps they had been crushed whilst in transit from Edmonton with Canada Post but have since heard that crushed Alpo treats have showed up in St.Catharines. I’m thinking we might have another pandemic on our hands here.

I am out of home made marmalade.

News of Deployment

So the phone rang at eight o’clock this morning. It was the grandson calling from his ship just before he puts to sea. “You are not going to believe this but my application for service in Afghanistan has been accepted!”

How does one respond? Firstly I have to say that I am really excited for him and quite proud that he would volunteer for a war that is losing its popularity at home. Secondly I think, “Oh, crap!” Thirdly I say, “Damn, wish I could go with him!” Then I think, “Oh, crap” again.

I do know what I am really feeling now, and that is how quickly my heart went out to my daughter and her husband. I mean we are talking about a mother and father here who now will have a year to think about their son’s deployment then a terrible 6 months of him in the war zone. But I also think of how proud they will be of their boy and how this next year and a half will strengthen the mutual love that is so strong to begin with.

As Cathy said when talking about my heart condition or lack thereof, “Mom or Carolyn will do all the worrying for the family.” Certainly mom or, ‘grammy’ will hold up her end in the worry department on this occasion. Such is love of family. After all, that’s what life is all about – family.

I’ve started the count down all ready.

Here it is the 28th of April. I awoke this morning thinking of my eldest grandson Robert who is sailing this morning aboard the Canadian frigate HMCS St.John’s, and how it has been about 45 years since I went to sea for the first time on my old frigate. What I wouldn’t give to step aboard alongside him and head to sea again. Alas, I couldn’t even take the wheel again because they don’t have a wheel any more; it’s just a little gizmo the size of a video game controller. Furthermore, they don’t have any steam aboard her except maybe when water is boiled for coffee or tea. I would be lost.

I can still recall that first time I went to sea – November, 1961. It was not to go out on patrol but to take part in a burial at sea.

After home leave I arrived in Halifax and reported to HMCS Stadacona, the main East Coast shore base. My ship, the frigate HMCS Cap de la Madeleine, was still at sea and would not be in for about another week. After several days in ‘Stad’ I noticed my name, along with a few of my Cornwallis mates, up on the Watch and Quarter Bill with an order directing us to report to the duty petty officer. It seemed an ex sailor had passed away and his family had requested a burial at sea. We were fresh out of basic training, knew the drill, and better yet, our uniforms were complete and clean. We were the ideal candidates for guard duty.

We were driven out to a local scrap yard where we picked up a slab of steel that had been cut to fit into the bottom of the coffin. The four of us wrestled it into the truck and delivered it to the undertaker where it was placed into the coffin.

The day of the funeral was dreary. It was now November in Halifax and the rain and snow swept the harbour. Eight of us manned the brow of HMCS Fort Erie as the casket was lugged aboard. We stood to attention, and, I think, we probably looked rather good in our Great Coats, white belts, gaiters and our F.N. rifles. [F.N. -- Fabrique Nationale, NATO issue rifle made in Belgium] The coffin was placed on supports on the quarter-deck, a White Ensign draped over it.

We split into two groups of four. The first watch would guard the coffin (one man on each corner, heads bowed, resting on our arms reversed) for the first half hour then get relieved. This routine would last until we had reached a position at least 50 miles off shore. Suffice to say steaming at about 12 knots; this was going to take some time. The plan was sound. The sea did not cooperate.

We cleared the harbour and the swells picked up. Before long the frigate's quarter-deck was twisting like a cork screw and it was becoming impossible to keep one’s balance beside the casket. We were finally called in after one violent lurch sent me toppling over the coffin. As the ship’s bosun’s mates lashed down the casket we made our way down into the cafeteria and held on for dear life.

It wasn’t until about 1300 hrs (1 p.m.) that we arrived at the burial position. Engines were stopped and lower decks were cleared (that is, every man came up on deck and formed a hollow square around the coffin) and our guard took up positions by the coffin. The after guard rails were broken down and the widow and chaplain approached the casket. The ship was still rolling but we picked up the timing and swayed with the movements.

I was watching the minister as he read the service. His face grew ashen then took on a greenish hue. He then bolted to the side and vomited over the rails. Unfortunately this was done into the wind and when he took up his position to finish the readings he was in quite a state. The service finished, the coffin-rest was tilted and the casket with its cargo slipped from under the Ensign and dropped below the waves. The Ensign was then folded and presented to the widow. She proceeded to the wardroom, the guard rails were put back in place, the screws [propellers] began turning and we headed back to Halifax. It is a strange and lasting memory of the sea. And it was my introduction to the navy rum tot but that’s another story.

Art Supplies

During this economic downturn I have had to learn how to be frugal. One might say ‘cheap’. Being as I am not receiving a stimulus package from our government and seeing as I am running low on art supplies I had to make a decision yesterday in regards to frugalizing (new word) on equipment.

Several years ago I had to give up painting on canvas because I was ruining too many paintings and was spending much more on supplies than I was earning by selling the end product. Since then my ‘canvas’ supply has come from Home Depot in 8’ X 5” X 5/8 pine boards. These I cut in eight inch lengths and wind up with enough painting surfaces to see me through for several months.

Alas, the price of wood has hit the ceiling so I’ve reverted to the prehistoric canvas. These can be found in the guise of flat rocks which can be found by the hundreds or more along most any beach and are free for the taking. Yesterday Spot and I went on a ‘canvas’ search at a nearby lakefront park and came back with enough ‘flatrock canvases’ to see me through until the end of June. A sample flatrock canvas can be seen embedded besides this entry. If I can figure out how to make a link on this blog I’ll display a number of pieces that are without a doubt highly collectible and will certainly be much sought after.

If painting in the field you might want to consider taking no more that two flatrock canvases with you. Any more than two and you should consider bringing along some Nitro spray. You should also consider that though hernias are treatable they can put a crimp in your flexibility.

I have painted rocks before and find them quite a nice texture to work on. One of my faves was a piece of mine tailings I picked up from the Shania Twain Centre in Timmins a few years ago. Perhaps it is a little heavy for its size, and very difficult to frame (so I didn’t), but a nice example just the same. Slate from an old roof makes an excellent painting surface also. I painted a portrait of Spot on a roof slate from the Rodman Hall gallery in St.Catharines. It is now in a private collection and the holder could probably retire on the price she could get for it at auction.

A good feature about a flatrock canvas compared to pine canvas is that a rock usually doesn’t have knot holes, or knots that will eventually dry out and drop out of the board. Today I will probably use my bulldog as a model.

I made a run to our local shopping centre yesterday. I had planned on spending more time with Spot but sometimes I have to recognize the fact that I should spend time with Maria too so with Spot left snoring on the couch, off we went shopping. A quick stop at the Dollar Store (which is now really the dollar-and-a-quarter Store) then over to the Penn Centre.

Maria stopped at The Bay and picked up a little jar of eye shadow that had to have a gold or platinum base it was so expensive, then informed me she was finished shopping and we could go home. What?? It hardly seemed worthwhile going to The Penn then leaving after one purchase so we decided to do the ‘circle route’ on our way out. And right glad we did because we came across an amazing bug, beetle, moth and butterfly display.

Bugs of every species! Tiny, huge; scorpions, spiders; walking sticks and crawling thingies. And much to my joy, a shadow box displaying my most favourite bugs of all – dung beetles! All kinds of dung beetles – big and small.

The poor things have always reminded me of Sisyphus who was doomed to roll a rock up a hill only to have it roll back down. Dung beetles spend their life rolling poop around, though, admittedly, they do have more success in their life’s quest than what Sisyphus did. At least when the dung beetle has enough poop rolled into a fair sized ball it can lay a few eggs in it, whereas Sisyphus was obviously too thick to stop rolling that rock in order to find time to procreate.

I have always thought if one is of an eastern religious persuasion, what kind of caper must have he/she have pulled to be reincarnated as a dung beetle. Surely just knowing that dung beetles exist would be enough to keep one on the straight and narrow. And if Judaeo-Christian, one would have to ask what in the name of Him/Herself was He/She thinking of when He/She created a dung beetle. Darwin probably has the answer. No matter the reasoning, my life seems complete now that I have seen a dung beetle up close and personal.

The accompanying photo is not that of a dung beetle rolling a ball of poop but my bulldog rolling in a load of goose poop at Lakeside Park yesterday.

Oh, yes, regarding the anti-snore nose strips I was trying on Spot. I have plenty left over if anybody needs them!

During the first warm day of 2009 my thoughts turned to getting the old 12' aluminium boat out, start up the 1976 Evinrude 6 h.p. motor to see if I can get another year out of it; try to remember where I put the oars, anchor, life jackets, bailing pail; find my fishing gear; change the line which I meant to do over the winter; purchase snap swivels which I meant to do over the winter; dig out Spot's life jacket which I purchased for fifty dollars and he has yet to wear it, then get some help to put the boat on the roof.

I enjoyed a lovely nap instead. Later I painted the above masterpiece which depicts Spot and I after a day of fishing and the absence of the 1976 6 h.p. Evinrude motor.

Snoring Bulldog: After seeing an advertisement for Breathe E-Z, a mechanical device placed on the nose to alleviate snoring, I will be going to my local pharmacy to purchase a box. The remainder of the day will see me trying to reason with my bulldog, Spot, as I try to fit him with a Breathe E-Z nose strip.

Montreal: I understand 500,00 doses of Effexor have been delivered to that city after the Montreal Canadiens loss the other night.

Pirates: The UN, in its fight against piracy, will air drop 100 Jolly Roger flags on the beach near Mogadishu, hoping the pirates will fly them out of fair play.

Heart Health suggestion.

For anyone who has just recently had their femurol artery breached for cardiac catheterization, I might suggest they refrain from lifting a 48 pound (whetever kilo) bulldog out of the back of their car.

I will return to this subject at a later date when I have rested my leg and am sure healing is complete.

A blog plan

I have just determined that anything I might have had in mind to write this morning has drained out of my left ear overnight therefore I have decided to write entries shortly before turning in.

One thing I can speak positively on is that over dosing one's bulldog on a certain brand of dog biscuit can certainly ruin one's sleep. Spot has been sounding off all night, though, admittedly, the sound is not the culprit for the poor sleep.

I will discuss dog biscuits at another time.

The beginning

The Spot Journal

Cleaning out some of my files the other day I came across this journal I had kept during the first year of my bulldog Spot's adoption. He is now going on 8 years old and it is time I think he needs some of his story told. What better way than a blog. Until recently I had no concept of blogging. I still don't but here goes.

I began this after Spot’s trainer suggested I try the ‘tough love’ method of getting my baby to understand that it is I who has the keys to the car, not HIMSELF. Spot refused to come and refused to spend any time in training. He’d been a good boy (smart too) as far as other training items were concerned (sit, stay, and etc.) but he would not come on command.

Day One: 29 November, 2001 (half day, actually) Spot's Personal Trainer -- Cathie [Cat] Cino -- left at 1315 hrs. I gave Spot one final hug then went on my computer. He followed me in and poked, pawed and bumped me. I did not acknowledge his prodding.

A terrible afternoon and evening. Poor thing (poor me) looked totally at a loss, and in dire need of many, many hugs. I refrained. Only when we went to bed did I break down for a second and gave him a cuddle.

Day Two: He has been absolutely terrible. He is one great chewing machine. I suspect he is doing this to gain my attention, but the only thing he is receiving is a resounding "NO" from me. As per instructions I have been giving the "Come Spot" command at varied times throughout the day. Probably responding only 35% of the time. On a couple of occasions he came the first two times but only barked the third time I called. I walked away and didn't make eye contact with him until the next series of three I attempted. This is very, very difficult for me. I guess I just love the little guy too much. But I am resolved to carry through with the plan. He is now on my bed, sitting, staring at my back as I type.

Day Three: (a.m.) Will he ever forgive me?? I never even rubbed and fussed over him when he woke up this morning. Just picked him off the bed, took him to the back yard (which looks like a World War One battlefield, there is so much mud from this horrid weather), left him there then awaited his return to the back door. He came in with no trouble, wiggling his bum about but still I avoided him. Wiped his feet, carried him up stairs and walked off. I turned and called him and he came tearing right over. Hugs and snuggles and praise galore. I did this a further two times and he came each time, though a little slower on the third. He has been over to the park where he tore-arse around with his buddy. Now home and receiving no attention from me, has retired to his crib, er, crate where he snores peacefully.
I must comment that when we were getting ready to return from the park, and while my daughter Cathy hitched up her dog, Spot stayed seated right by my leg. This was outstanding because there was another 'park person' with his dog standing right by us. I had to praise Spot for being so good.
Later: I'm so depressed. Spot is so depressed. I think I will go out and buy myself a new Honda CRV -- beats jumping into the Niagara River. What to buy Spot so he knows I love him?? What the heck, I'll take him to Henley Honda and tell him I'm buying the new CRV for Himself.
He was very good after his nap this afternoon. He actually came to me three times when called. So far that is seven out of nine times he has responded. He doesn't exactly break any speed records in his dash to come to me but I guess I can't expect miracles. Speaking of miracles, when sitting in church tomorrow I'll ask HIM to perform a miracle on SPOT, thus transforming him into a wonderfully obedient, yet silly boy upon my return. Then again, I suspect HE might be a little busy to bother with me and Spot. Maybe I'll catch HIM at some better time.

Day Four (Sunday): What a great boy at the park. Came at every recall (at least two sets of three) and at one time when he was surrounded by a bunch of 11/12 year old hockey players I called and he came. I think he has turned the corner. Went to church and as noted in my last entry, I had a word with Him about Spot. Came home and Spot has not once responded to my recall (it is now late in the evening). I think my prayer got sidetracked and went down rather than up. Very frustrating. Maybe Spot isn't an Anglican????

Day Five: (morning). I can't believe it!! Spot has not responded once this morning (now noon as I write)!! He just sits and looks at me thinking "Yeah, right!! No way!!" He went into his crib, er, crate to give me the cold shoulder so I politely closed the door, put on my jacket, beret and running shoes and went out the door, returning in about an hour and a half. Upon my return he was wiggling and snorkeling and making quite a fuss over yours truly. But would he come on command?? Nope! Went back to his crib.
Later in the Afternoon: After a short nap I gave him a call and, Shazam!!!!, he came a'flying, Two more calls, same thing. Couple more and he came leaping and bounding and trying to kiss me. For a reward I put him in the stroller and we did a walk through the downtown core.
Near Montebello Park a van pulled up and a chap jumped out. "Could my wife and I have a look at your dog?" (Spot was out of the stroller and having a pee by an ancient Elm). "Sure," sez me, always willing to show off my Bullie. Well, they both oooo-ed and ahhhhhhed and rubbed and tickled him. Suddenly the lady looks over at the stroller and then back at me? "Is that stroller for your dog??" she asked. "Well, yeah," sez me, "why else would I have it." "Right on!!" her husband hoots, giving me the high five while doing so, "I've finally met someone nuttier about his dog than I am about mine." I didn't know whether to take that as a friendly compliment or a kind of 'Nyah, nyah, na, nyah, nyah', towards his wife. Stopped for a visit at the antiquarian book store where my one daughter Cathy works, and Himself was fussed over there. Onward to the health food store to visit my daughter Carolyn's boss Karen. Himself was again much fussed over by all within the store. Could hardly keep his eyes open on our journey home. When we got home he dashed to our back room, stood by the couch, squeaked, I put him up on the couch and he fell fast to sleep. And there he remains snoring.
Later: After his nap he was a very good boy. Came to me immediately. In fact I was able to get a response from him five times in a row. Next time I attempted the exercise (after supper) he refused to acknowledge that I was even in the room. Cold shoulder time for the next hour. I went to my study to work on my newest manuscript, followed in by himself who proceeded to get into any and all sorts of trouble. Again I'm sure this was just to get my attention. Well, he did. And it was in the same form as last time. "No, Spot!!"
8:30 p.m. I tried it again and he was very good. So I quit while we were both ahead. He later joined me on the couch and I'm afraid I broke down and gave him a cuddle for doing nothing. This seemed to hit the spot with Spot and he fell fast to sleep with his head on my leg. After taking him out for a pee at 11 p.m. (about 15 minutes ago) I put him in bed and he now snores peacefully and happily on my pillow.

Day Six: Just had him out for his morning pee (7:30 a.m.). Gave him his tasks and he responded (probably too sleepy to realize what he was doing!). He is now back in bed and will remain there until Cathy and Digger come to call on him in ten or fifteen minutes. Roll on Thursday!!
Bed Time: He has just completed his worst day. Only about two successful responses. A battle of wills which I don't know whether I can out last him or not. He needs to be cuddled desperately but I know I can't. Here's hoping for a better day tomorrow. Maybe I should take him up to St. George’s for a talk with the rector?????

Day Seven (Wednesday): Thank God, Allah, Yahweh or Jehovah that the Cat and Jack gang will be here tomorrow. Spot has had a total relapse and has responded but once since about nine o'clock this morning. He was very good first thing in the morning and I thought, "Aha! he has had an epiphany over night and has seen the wrong of his ways." After much congratulating and hugs, I rolled out the stroller, he hopped aboard and off we went to Summit Direct Computers where I hoped to find a new fan for this blasted computer. I wheeled Spot in and received no complaint whatsoever that I had brought a dog into the store with me. I suspect that it was his cuteness and the fact that the owners were too stunned at seeing a dog in a stroller that they never bothered kicking me out. Needless to say because my computer is so old (four and a half years), they did not have a fan available. So Spot and I headed down to another computer shop on Carleton Street only to find it closed. Back to 60 Beech, Spot dozing in stroller.
Roused him when I had the stroller parked in the garage and played with him for several minutes before I gave the now ubiquitous, "Come, Spot!" He did not come then and has not come since.
He has chewed on everything within sight and is constantly getting in to trouble. So between getting hooted at, getting ignored, sitting in "his special place" or running off to his crib, he (we) have not had a good day. I just suggested to him that he not chew on the mouse cord and he has taken offense and taken to his crib. A long night ahead of me.
Oh, yeah, the fan. I cleaned the blades and the cowl, hooked it back up, and lo and behold, it works!
Later: I'm exhausted with stress. He sits on the couch watching Investigative Report. Well, he's for a pee then to bed!

Day Eight: It has been quite a day. Once again the day started off in a confrontational manner. Mainly, He didn't even want to get out of bed!! At last Cathy and Digger came in the house and His day began. Much the same as these past couple of days. He just seemed to get worse and worse. He wouldn't come to me for any reason, and he began avoiding me all together. When in the house He would not play, spending all His time either in His 'special place' or with His face to the wall in His crib. I was near tears all morning. Finally giving in, I made a phone call to His PERSONAL TRAINER, Cat. After describing my condition (and HIS) and the steady deterioration of our relationship, Cathie suggested we go to Plan B. That is, give up and call him the winner! I jest. After a lengthy discussion and supplying me with a number of new ideas, she wished me luck, told me the name of a good Psychiatrist ( I jest again) and said she would see me Tuesday. I immediately put the plan in motion.
When Spot woke up and looked warily at me, I gave him a happy Hi, Spot and did not say any word that even sounded like "Come". After he came out of the crib and mooched around my feet, we went outside and played in the back yard. Still no Come Spot orders given. I think he was confused. Back into the house where we played like we use to and I popped the odd goodie to him. While out in the kitchen and with HE in the front room I gave a "Come, Spot" and he came. Praised him then went on with something else -- didn't try another recall for at least an hour. Later we were back outside just "foolin' around'" and he seemed to be coming around to his old silly self. I new he was thinking, "Nyah, Nyahhhhhhh, I won, I won!" Little did he know that Plan B was already subliminally at work. No way was that little Bullie brain going to figure out that it was indeed I who was strategically placing myself for utter victory. The evening was spent re-bonding and much happiness. He sits contented on my pillow while I am finishing this entry. Now to sleep, perhaps to dream.

Friday: There is a God!! Spot has done a complete turn around. He is once again my little boy and I, obviously, am his hero! We played, we worked. He did not turn his back to me nor gnaw any further on the main support beam. His recall has been pretty good so far, but certainly not 100%. However, after those past few days, just seeing him thinking about coming is a relief. As Cathie suggested I have been using a lead, and using treats when he has responded. I still can't believe the change in him!!
Friday Night: This has got to have been the best day he (ergo, me too) has had for some time. Cat's Plan B gets an 'A'! Let's hope we will see further good behavior tomorrow. For now he is once again at the head of the bed, snoozing on my pillow. Him dominating me?? nah. . . . .

Saturday: Very, very pleased with Spot. He responded quite well -- but still not yet like a rocket -- to the "Come, Spot" call. I attempted it five times today and he came five times. One time even while at the fence with his four-legged Teutonic neighbour he actually bounded over to me. Funny, though, we are again having trouble getting him to enter the back door, and again he is acting up when I try to get him to come out of the car. Today we had him up town and he absolutely refused to come out. I recalled that he did not really seem interested in getting into the car in the first place. I think Cathie is correct again in thinking that he has just too much stimulation. I must really start paying attention to my Spot's body language. Brought him home (didn't force him out of the car up town) and when I brought him into the house I sat with him for a while then suggested he go to his crib. This he did quite willingly so I closed his door and Maria and I went out and did some Christmas shopping. We left him for about an hour and a half and when we arrived home he was as happy as a clam to see us. Bounced around when I let him out of the crib and was a great boy for the remainder of the day. Mind you he kept wanting to run off with strings of Christmas lights as I was attempting to untangle them, but other than that he was great -- nutty and foolish at times -- but great. Right now he is snoring at my feet. Let's see what tomorrow brings.

Wednesday, 12 December: Oh, the joy!!! I have been somewhat remiss with these journal entries (last entry, Saturday the 8th) mainly because He has been such a good boy. To fill the pages with praise of his genius would, by proxy, be singing praise of myself (not that I don’t deserve it). Since Cat left on Tuesday (she was delighted with his progress and said we were both very good boys, though she chastised me for copping out of doing his nails by taking him to a groomer) Spot and I have been working on walking together and How to Brush a Gnawing Machine. The walking is a fun thing though I know he prefers the stroller. I must look an absolute fool walking along the street with Spot, stopping every five or six feet to let him attack a dying dandelion, sniff a hedge, look at a squirrel, look at a blowing leaf, mark an exact spot on a lawn, attack a blowing Dorito bag (sans Doritios) or just letting him la de da along beside me. But therein lies the brilliance of the exercise. He does tend to walk beside me when not stopping to smell the roses (something I decided to do after my heart attack)! And, really, this morning on our way back from mailing a ton of Christmas cards, he did spend more time walking along beside me than he did mooching along on his own agenda so I think he will get the idea in no time at all -- probably by the time he is eight or nine years old!!
I came up with a sheer genius way to keep him on my left side for our stroll to the post box and back. I blocked the right side of me with the empty stroller (well, not exactly empty -- I had his toy monkey and several poop bags riding in the seat) so he tended not to wander in front of me. Tomorrow I think I will use the lines at the tennis court (in HIS park) for a guide. That way I can work on him if he does his normal cross-over wanderings.
I spent some time with him at the tennis court yesterday afternoon. “Nobody is ever at the park in the afternoon,” I assured Cat, “he will have no distractions at all.” Two minutes on the court and over came a couple of young fellows who decided to make a section of the backstop a soccer goal. Spot was completely infatuated with the stupid soccer ball. Perhaps it was the shape of the ball (which was very similar to his own shape) and he thought it was another Bullie. Whatever, the training period was a study in patience. We came home and both had our naps. I don’t know who was snoring louder.

The grooming . . . well, suffice to say we will work on it.

I really must think about getting a bigger bed. He sleeps at my head, hogging not only my regular sleeping pillow but my reading pillow also. I wind up with a kink in my neck from reading on the flat bed. My legs are becoming deformed because I don’t have enough room to stretch out so I’m laying in a fetal position all night. Meanwhile he is just perfectly formed and well rested, thank you.

Spot missing this morning. I found him behind the Christmas tree -- happily munching on the lower bows. I suppose he thought he was too obvious sitting at the front of the tree.
Oh yes, MAJOR ACCOMPLISHMENT on Monday night. HE barked to be let outside for a pooh!!!!! Maria and I did a couple of Cape Breton jigs and reels in the kitchen and sang praises to our Lord for conveying such a favor upon us. We haven’t experienced such joy since we saw our children take their first steps. (Funny, I just had a flash back of seeing my mom and dad doing a couple of jigs and reels on the platform as the train I boarded to take me off to the navy pulled out of the station. . . . )
It is now 1500 hrs. My baby sleeps soundly (but not quietly) in his crib, er, crate. While he is thus occupied I think I will bring The Book of Spot up to date. Have about a dozen pictures to add plus one of his baby teeth to tape onto a page. Found two of them yesterday but now I can’t remember where I put the one of them.
So, journal, I shall close for now and be back when further revelations can be revealed.

Further along the line to Christmas. We have now spent about $20.00 extra on wrapping paper and gift bags -- to say nothing of Xmas bows. No matter how deep a sleep He may be in, or no matter when and where Maria and I decide to wrap presents, His selective hearing picks up on the crinkle of the wrapping paper. From nowhere, out he barrels. Sit, Stay commands are out the window. “I must get at that wrapping paper!!” thinks He. And, “Oh, what’s this??” I can hear those Bullie thought-gears clunking as he espies the bag of shiny bows and ribbons.

Too late, he’s got them and off he goes, that silly head held up high so he doesn’t trip over the bag, roaring down the hallway, and totally ignoring the “Come Spot” command. Under Maria’s bed he goes (the only thing he can fit under now) and we can hear the rattle and tear of the cellophane wrap as it is shredded by those new little teeth -- the snorkeling and snuffling noise from his older nose emanating from the darkness.

No sense trying to reason with him so I jamb myself under the bed but he scurries out the other side and back out the bedroom door (ribbons and bows trailing behind him) before I can extract myself. He whizzes past Maria who has climbed up on a dining room chair, her arms filled with wrapping paper, figuring she is out of harm’s way. Under the tree he goes, needles dropping, tree swaying, lights flickering.

I pull the couch out so I can get at him from the side. He scoots out the other side and back down the hallway, into Maria’s bedroom and back under the bed. I count eleven bows scattered along his route. Only one thing can bring him out and sitting before me -- a Puppy Drum Stick Cookie.

Out to the kitchen I go, take his cookie jar from off the top of the fridge and rattle the lid. The snorkeling from under the bed stops. I rattle it again. I can hear his chubby little feet scrambling to pull himself out from under the bed. In seconds he is sitting innocently in front of me -- the perfect little Spot again. I roll the cookie towards His dish. He takes off after it and I take off into the bedroom to reclaim the bag of bows -- or at least what is left of it.

We give up, put the wrapping supplies away (such that are salvageable) and come out to the living room where we’ve decided to sit and watch Biography, or if we are desperate, we will turn on CNN’s Greta Vansustern (or however you spell it). But where has He disappeared to??? The tree shakes. . .

“Jim!! YOUR dog is under the tree again!!,” announces She Who Must Be Obeyed (Maria).

“Get the Puppy Drum Stick Cookies, dear,” I reply, “ I’m going to get some boxes out of the basement. Off we go. I can hear his cookie jar’s lid rattling as I make my way down the steps. Anon I hear his toe nails clicking across the kitchen floor. “Keep him busy until I get back up there,” cries me from below decks.

Maria leads him into the back room (mine and His) with a couple of Puppy Drum Stick Cookies and I make a dash to the living room, a stack of empty cardboard boxes swaying in my arms. They are strategically placed across the front of the tree and at the back of the couch. He is foiled. He roars out of Our room and stops dead in front of the tree. He looks to the fireplace. He leaps at a stocking which has been hung with care. The stocking comes off the hook and down the hallway he dashes.

We have had to remove the stockings. We’ll hang them up again shortly before the gang arrives on Christmas morning.

It is now Monday, the 17th of December. The tree is secure, he is sleeping in his crib. Regardless of his madness as reported above, he actually is doing fairly well with the commands. Still getting somewhat excited around other dogs, but he really does try and stay at my side. Not always successful but I can see that he is trying. He is ‘coming’ fairly well also. Not perfect but we keep on working on it. His walking exercise seems to sink in as much as does his barking at the door to go out for a be. i.e. it isn’t happening too well. For a break we are working on the ‘lay down’ command. Amazing how he performs so well for a little nibblets of his dog food.

I feel so sorry for Him. Our neighbour’s dog, Forrest, was attacked by a Pit Bull Saturday night (out for a walk with at about 9 p.m.). When Forrest broke lose he took off and has not been seen since. My heart aches for the owners. Every time I put Spot out for his pee or pooh, he goes right over to the fence and looks up at the neighbour’s porch for Forrest. Then he walks along the side of the fence, stops where Forrest sometimes might lay and has a look.

People who own Pit Bulls should get a life.

I shall end this entry on a good note. At 0700 hrs I put Spot out in the back. He dashed around, peed, pooped several times and came tearing back to the door. I picked him up, cleaned his feet off and set him down in the kitchen. He didn’t bother with his food or water bowls, he just made a bee-line to Our room and plunked himself sitting by the side of the bed. I picked him up, sat him on the bed and he immediately went to the head of the bed and snuggled into MY pillows (which he believes to be His). He did not stir again until 10:45 a.m.

“Wanna go for a walk, Spot??” He lay down again. “Wanna go in the buggy, Spot??” Up and bouncing so out and strolling in the stroller we went.

I’ll return to the journal at a later date.


Just after the festive holidays: Spot the Wonder Dog picked up some kind of a bug over the holidays and is on meds and confined to barracks for the remainder of the week. It is some kind of sinus infection and though it doesn't seem to have curbed his appetite or curtailed his sauciness, it has interfered with his stamina (gives me a break!). So rather than sleeping twenty-two hours per day he now sleeps twenty-two and a half.

I am very pleased with this vet staff I am taking Spot to. After inspection and diagnosis, Spot's doctor has called each morning to see how he is doing. I almost fell off the phone when I received the first call.

You will not recognize Spot when you next see him. As of Thursday last he weighs in at 25.6 pounds!! The doc said that that is a good weight for him but as he matures a little more I will be wise not to let too much beef build up on him. I'm am still not allowing him any human food, and I am sticking to the suggested diet amount so hopefully his weight gain will remain natural.

As for training, all aspects still go slowly. His 'come' response still leaves something to be desired but I believe he is showing a steady improvement. As far as behaving around other animals, he has certainly had a relapse and I find the only way that I can control him is by leashing him, stepping on the leash, leaving him about a two foot lead -- something like using a tie-down. I know he knows he is suppose to sit by my foot, and I can see that he is desperately trying to behave . . . . but. I'm hoping it is just his puppiness taking control.

House training. He actually barks to go outside for a poop!! He started doing this on a regular basis about three or four days ago. I am just so proud of him. And, he seems pretty proud of himself!

As far as peeing goes, this is how I read him. "La, la, la, lah, lahhhhh. Hmmmm, I think I will pee right now." And he does. He always looks quite guilty and tries to slink away, so I know that he knows, blah, blah, blah. I think he is just being a Bully.

Begging: When we are at the table he is great. He sits at the corner by the dining room/kitchen door (you know his security spot) and watches us eat. Eventually his eye lids start drooping and he falls over asleep. Snacking is another story. He will try to get up at the goodies but after a few scolds he will throw himself down in a huff and resign himself to the fact that he will receive nothing. I usually give him one of his cookies as a treat for being a good boy.

Walking: No progress to report on that. Perhaps by Spring he will get the idea.

Crate training: Excellent. When he sees that Maria and I (or just me on a weekday) are getting ready to go out and that he is not being invited, he turns his back on us (I'm use to it now) and goes to his crib, er, crate. There he sits with his head turned away, leaving me feel like I should be prosecuted for child abandonment. Obviously he doesn't hold a grudge because he is all over Maria and I when we return home and let him out of his prison.

Maria: I find her talking to him in the mornings while she is doing her hair or whatever it is she does in the morning. She will carry him outside or stick him on the couch when I'm not around, and I have even caught her throwing a toy for him. Just the other day she said, "You know, he does kind of grow on you." She still runs for cover when he has a burst of energy and starts tearing around in circles. But at least now she realizes that he has not gone mad.

Maria's sister and her husband invited us down for a visit just before the New Year. "Please bring Spot along," they asked. Well, I was delighted that someone would actually invite our baby along to a family function. I brushed him up, put his little red coat on and off we went. Do you remember when your children were about two years old and you took them along on your visits?? Do you recall that no matter how well you taught them how to behave, they just kind of forgot everything and became quite inquisitive in new surroundings? Well, I had a flash-back of some 35 years when I took Spot into my in-laws house. Down went the nose, off he went, and off I went after him -- for about two hours straight.

The Christmas tree was still up and my sister-in-law had a nice little nativity scene set up beneath the bows. When Spot came around the corner with the baby Jesus in his chops I knew it was tie-down time. Like a two year old, one just can't take one's eyes off them.

I doubt we will get another invite from Margaret the sister.

Saturday, 12 January: Maria and I took Spot over to Pet Smart this afternoon to buy him a new bed, one that we could have in the front room with us so he could snooze with the family in the evening. After receiving the statutory ‘oooohs’ and ‘ahhhhhs’ from Pet Smart customers we made our way back to the Dog Bed Section. Man, they run into the hundreds of dollars!! Maria and I settled on a sheep skin covered foam bed that we thought Spot would just love to relax in. (In the back of my mind I could recall Cat saying, “Whatever you do, don’t buy your Bulldog a foam filled bed. Bullies eat foam filled beds. But what the heck, this is Spot we were talking about!) The size we wanted was a mere $69.95, so I stepped up on the bottom shelf and grabbed hold of the bed. I slid it out of the shelf, stumbled back down to ground level and placed the beautiful off-white sheep skin covered bed on the floor. Maria was holding Spot on the lead and she walked him over to the bed. Boy he jumped right into it, spun around a couple of times, grabbed the edge of it, shook the daylights out of it, squatted and peed.
Maria let out a scream and yanked poor Spot darn near off his feet and out of the bed. I quickly grabbed the bed, hopped up on the first shelf and fired the now yellow-spotted off white sheep skin covered bed onto the top rack. We beet a hasty retreat from the store, popped him in the back of the Honda and sped off home.
No to give up, I suggested that “you know, dear, why don’t I just get one of the old comforters we have stashed in the closet, fold it, and place it on the living room rug. Surely he won’t pee on that!” Twenty minutes later the comforter was in the wash (cold, gentle.
Sunday, 13th: Our oldest daughter Cathy and her husband Jim dropped by around noon. (Gosh, are you folks just having lunch??) and we were telling them about our experience with Spot over at Pet Smart on Saturday. "Hey, we just were at Price-Costco and they have great big dog pillow beds on sale for $19.00. They have tartan covers!" The tartan cover sold me more than the price. We talked about Spots habit of spotting things that he considers his but both Cathy and Jim assured me that if I were to lie on it for a while and play with him on it, he would not mark it, believing it to be mine.
Over to Price-Costco we go. The place is packed with people pushing giant buggies filled to overflowing with just about everything under the sun. Two, I notice, have big tartan covered dog pillows in their buggies. "Crikey, kids," I let out a holler, "they'll be sold out of them before we get near the display!!" Jim grabbed the buggy and forced a pathway through the crowds of people who have nothing better to do on a Sunday than stand around Price-Costco getting in the way of people who have nothing better to do than actually shop at Price-Costco. (aside: I had been to church prior to the kids coming by and had noted that the place wasn’t quite as full as a church should be. Upon seeing the crowds at Price-Costco I now realize where the people were. An enterprising minister might want to consider setting up a pulpit in Price-Costco on a Sunday. Or any shopping mall for that matter.)
We reached the bin of pillows and thankfully a number are left. I grabbed one (it is huge) checked out the seams for faults, nod my head knowingly and stuffed it ( the pillow, not my head) into the buggy. Cathy thinks her Golden Retriever, Digger, would like a pillow too and she stuffs another one in the cart. Just to show Maria that all my love is not directed at my Bulldog I purchased her a set of kitchen and bathroom stainless steel garbage cans (I guess I’m just an old romantic). Into a line-up a mile long and finally out to the car and back home.
In the house I go, pillow under my arm, into Spot and my room, release the monster from his manger, er, crib, er, crate, rub him and cuddle him and generally make a fuss over him then we take the pillow to the front room. Spot dashes off to say high to the kids and receive his just dues, then I take him outside just make sure he is well drained. Back inside where I flop on the dog pillow, squeaky toy in hand. He hops on the pillow, hops on me, bounces around, bites the squeaky toy, pulls my hair, gives me a sloppy kiss, squats and pees on the pillow!! Aaarhhhhhhhhhggggggggg!! Cathy suggests that she might have been wrong in thinking Spot wouldn't pee on something he thought was mine. Anyway the cover can be removed so I unzip the thing, toss the cover in the wash (gentle, cold cycle) spray some dog-pee-cleaning-deodorizing-sanitizing stuff on the inner workings of the pillow and await the end of the wash and dry routine.
About an hour an a half later the dog pillow is back in shape and we are back on the floor again. I guess you know the end of the story. The cover is washed and dried again. The inner workings deodorized and sanitized again, the whole works reassembled and crammed onto the top shelf of the hall closet. He snoozed in front of the fire place -- on the rug where he had been sleeping quite contentedly for the past month anyhow.

January 14: Journal, I have been agonizing whether I should record the following entry. Far be it from me to try and embarrass any future reader of this chronicle, but I feel I must record all important happenings in the growth of Spot. So with that in mind I must now state that my boy has taken a step into puberty. Yes, he did. He made an amorous pass at my leg this morning. I was shocked, yet delighted in some strange, though, goodness, not perverted, way. After a few fatherly words of wisdom he seems to have reverted back to his innocent self. This episode or future episodes of similar activity will not be reported.

Since when do Bullies dig?? The weather has been so fine this January that I have been able to allow Spot the freedom of the back yard for longer spells than would be normal. I of course close the gate and keep a careful eye on him through my study window. When on one occasion I looked up from my monitor, I noticed his bum sticking up in the air and wiggling about. His head and shoulders were behind one of the fence-line bushes so I could not figure out what he was up to. I clicked the “save” icon and went out the side door to the back yard to find out what he was up to, or, raher, in to. When I opened the gate, the accompanying ‘click’ of the catch wised him up to my arrival and he jumped and hopped around to face me. And face me he did. His nose, jowls and chin were covered in dirt. On closer inspection I noticed that his front feet were dirt to his wrists. (Do dogs have wrists??). He seemed proud as punch and wiggled and hopped over towards me then wiggled and hopped back to the bush where his head and shoulders disappeared and his bum once again assumed the up-in-the-air position.

As I neared his wiggling bum I notice his little shoulders vibrating great guns and the picture of concentration on his face something to behold. He looked up and smiled that Bullie smile, made even more lovable by the dirty face around it. I could have sworn I heard him say, “Look at this dad! I’m digging a neat hole!!”

Well, to scold or not to scold. What would Cat do in a case like this. I didn’t want to call or email her -- she already thinks I’m an inmate on day pass from the Norris Wing. [psychiatric wing of our General Hospital] I decided to fall back on the teacings of Doctor Benjamin Spot, er, Spock and have a talk with him (Spot, not Spock). Having completed the little discussion I then hunted up a couple of boulders from behind the garage and dropped them into the hole.

So far Spot has been worrying the boulders to death and wearing his nails away on the them, not quite having figured out to shift his efforts a couple inches either side of the stones.

House Training: He has not peed in the house since he had his marking bout with the pillow-bed, which, incidentally, is still stored in the closet. He doesn’t run to the door and bark, nor does he give much body language to indicate that he is in some discomfort -- he just kind of squeaks. Of course I seem to have tuned into his biological clock and have a general idea when he should be going. I tend to take him out rather than go through the agro of scolding and cleaning up. I always praise him when he does pee after I put him out -- “Oh, Spot, Wadda good peeeeeeeeee! Good boy, etc. In fact I have recollections of mother saying that to me. . . . .

Pooping is always interesting. He has two ways of letting me know. Sometimes he will just sit behind the couch and bark -- once. That is a definite sign and I had better carry him outside -- quickly. The other one happens usually when he and I are tearing around the house chasing toys. All of a sudden he will stop, spin around and sit down square on his bum with his hind feet sticking out either side of his front feet. This too is a definite sign that he has had a twinge. He has been an excellent boy in this phase of his training and has not had an accident in the house for at least 6 weeks.

I still have to carry him up and down the stairs. My family is getting very worried that my supply of Nitro spray will run out while I’m on the steps between the kitchen and the back entranceway. To alleviate this problem (since we don’t know if he will ever decide to try the steps himself) we have just had a carpenter come by to give an estimate to put a back door in where Spot and my bedroom window is. Of course that will mean adding a back porch, but rather than stairs, I will be putting in a wheel-chair ramp! Clever, eh? So when Spot has to go out, I open the back door, out he goes and down the ramp to his back garden. I’ll put non skid strips on the incline so I won’t have to worry about him slipping on the wet wood. The gate will remain in the closed position and only be opened when I deem it necessary to drag out the lawn mower or hammock. The carpenter will be back to us in a couple of days with an estimate and I suspect it will be in the range of $2,000.00.

Strange though, when I take him up to see my daughter who works in an antiquarian bookstore, Spot has no trouble bounding up the three steps to the second level of the store where the owner’s desk is. After he wiggles and hops by way of greetings, he barges under the proprietor’s escritoire and snuffles up all the cookie crumbs lying about.

He is now sleeping under my work station.

On a Friday morning I noticed that he would soon be in need of another bag of Eagle Pack Premium Dog Food. After supper I said to Maria that, “I’ll take the boy with me and pick him up a bag of food at Ryan’s Pet Store.” With that, I put his coat on him, placed him in the back compartment of our Civic and drove off into the chilly night.

The Grantham Plaza on a Friday evening is a zoo. Commisso’s has just built and opened a giant food market there and the traffic is like trying to survive the Don Valley Parkway in Toronto on a July 1st weekend. We found a parking spot and strolled over to Ryan’s -- Spot thankfully pooping before we got into the store. I tossed the bag into a convenient waste bin.

In Ryan’s he was a pretty good boy but became a little saucy when he felt the manager should be giving him one more treat. I, of course, corrected him, so he sauced me. We got his bag, paid for it and out the door we went. Taking our lives in our hands we dodged plaza drivers and made it safely to the Civic where I popped open the hatch-back and deposited the bag of his special brand of Eagle Pack Premium Dog Food. I was going to put him in also but thought, what the heck, we’ll take a walk around the plaza and see what other changes or additions have occurred recently. Fifteen minutes later we were at the car and I put him in the back.

Into the traffic I nosed my way. Then with the flow! Cars are coming at me from every direction. But what’s that sound coming from the back of the car?? “Scratch, scratch. Rip, tear, scratch, snuffle!! Rip, tear! Snuffle, much, munch, munch. . . . .” Good grief!! he has torn into his bag of Eagle Pack!! (Premium)

“No, Spot!” I command. “Snuffle, scratch, munch.” “Spot!! No!!” “Munch, munch, munch.” There is no way I can stop the car to get the bag out of the back. I keep going with the flow as I am inexorably swept along Scott Street. “Munch, munch, munch,” from the back. “Spot!! No!!” from the front. Aha! the Petro-Can service station is just at the corner. “Munch, munch, munch.” On directional light and into the Petro-Can lot. Stop car, pop back hatch, fling myself out of the car, dash around to the back, open hatch, grab bag (munch, munch, munch) and slam the hatch before his nibs is aware of what I am doing. I take the bag around to the passenger side of the car, open the door and set the ravaged bag of Eagle Pack Premium Dog Food on the floor. A little pyramid of pellets builds up beside a hole in the bag. A trail of Eagle Pack Premium Dog Food pellets can be traced from the back of the Civic to the passenger door.

I closed the door, picked up the pellets from the ground, opened the back hatch, throw them in to Spot, who was keenly aware of what had just happened, jumped back in the car, started it up and off home we went.

Spot barked. I said, “No!” Spot barked at me again. “I said, “Spot! No!! Stop Being so saucy. The food is all gone!” He turned his back to me and didn’t utter a word all the way home. I’d had this silent treatment before from him so my feelings were not hurt. Once home, I removed his coat, related the story to Maria who replied, “What’s that, dear?”, got my coat off and his bag of food in to the basement. I came upstairs with his measuring cup about half full of food, washed both bowls, refreshed his water and put the half a cup of Eagle Pack Premium Dog Food into his clean bowl. He sniffed it, turned his nose up at it, looked at me and wandered out into the front room where he lay beside Maria’s couch and went fast asleep. Obviously content -- and full!

Owning a Bullie makes it impossible to shovel snow when he is outside. His bull-bating instincts come back and he attacks the shovel -- charging, bouncing, hopping, darting and chomping. Also very difficult to toss a shovel full of snow off the walkway when one has a Bullie hanging on to the business end of the shovel.

Owning a Bullie makes it impossible to vacuum the house while he is inside. His bull-bating instincts, etc.

Owning a Bullie makes it impossible to sweep the kitchen floor while he is in the house. His bull-bating instincts, etc. He has destroyed two brooms (1 nylon; 1 straw) and a bench brush.

Owning a Bullie makes it impossible to plunge the sink or toilet -- the rubber business- end of the plunger is no longer airtight.

Do not keep antiquarian books on the lower shelf of your bookcases if you have a Bullie in the house. Bulldogs, at least, Spot, enjoys chewing on old spines and bindings. He has devalued my library by about $400.00 already.

I encounter a Hidden Bullie Expense.

Spot is now six months old. Spot will neither go up nor down stairs on his own. At least at 60 Beech Street he will neither go up nor down stairs on his own. Take him over to his auntie Cathy’s and he bounds up her front stairs (probably because he knows Digger [Cathy’s foolish Golden Retriever] and Buster [Cathy’s killer cat] live within.

What to do? I can’t possibly keep carrying him up and down the steps. With each lift my angina grows worse. I have probably spent as much on Nitro spray as I have on dog food recently. So, we have set a plan in motion. First step was to set up a Line of Credit with the bank. Then, Step 2: The carpenter was down earlier this week and gave us an estimate for the renovations required to enable Spot to leave and enter the house without putting me in the ER or, worse, Hulse and English Funeral Home.

The window in Spot’s and my room will be converted to a back door. This conveniently leads to the back yard which is nicely fenced and with a side gate. Outside the new doorway will be a deck with a wheel chair ramp leading to the ground. No-skid runners will be glued to the ramp so Spot (or myself) will not slip when entering and leaving the house. The ramp gradient will comply with government specs. I mean, who knows, if my back goes out from carrying Spot around before the renovations are completed, I might need that ramp for my own wheel chair!

Anyway, the carpenter (thank goodness he is a personal friend) returned on Friday with an estimate of $1,812.37. That is $187.63 less than what I paid for Spot!! How could I turn down a deal like that?? The job begins later this week (mid February as I write).
Next Week: The door is in place, as is the porch and ramp. Will HE, cross the threshold and step on the porch?? Nope. He slinks up to the opening, sticks one hand on the edge of the porch, pulls it back, bounces and hops around, barks, wiggles, barks, hops, bounces, sticks his hand out again, bounces back in, woofs, runs around and then sits and looks at me as if to say, "Nope, I ain't goin' out there."
Today I exert my rule. Even if I have to leave a trail of Cheesies out the door, along the porch and down the ramp!
Spot conquered his ramp fear without the use of Cheesies. The truth is, as soon as the carpenter guy placed another rail about 12 inches off the ramp deck, Spot feels quite safe, and, in fact, is now becoming a pain in the arse with it. "Hey, look at me, dad! I can run up and down the ramp, bark to come in, immediately bark to go back out, run up and down the ramp, bark for you to come out and play. Standing on the porch I can actually see into many neighbour's yards and I can bark at them, and I don't have to listen to you telling me to stop barking if I don't want to. Dad, let me in. Dad let me out." Gad zooks, I've created a monster. Or rather, I've let free the monster within. All with a stupid porch and wheelchair ramp.
And too keep the economy on the upswing, Spot went in for HIS OPERATION this past week. His ‘outy’ belly button was also tended to and now he looks like a Dr. Frankenstein creation, what with the scars, and a bunch of belly button sutures sticking out of his tummy.
His operations took more out of me than him (and I don’t just mean my wallet). While I have been a nervous wreck during his day of surgery and for several days after, he has shown no reason to be tended to at the same time.
Late March: Having secured a Line of Credit from the bank for the use of building a Spot Friendly Home, we decided to keep my friend employed by redecorating the house. This entailed stripping wall paper, repainting, purchasing some new furniture, and pulling up the broadloom in the living room and dining room and revealing the original hardwood floor.
My chum had just given the final coat of paint to the living room and dining room ceilings and had pulled up the rug and underpad from the front room. Unfortunately the staples which were used to join the sections of underpad still remained, so I grabbed a pair of pliers and a screw driver and began to help Tim remove the staples. We were both hindered at every move because Spot was forever running off with either his screw driver or pliers, or mine. Finally his feelings must have got hurt because he disappeared for a few minutes. I should have know that would be a harbinger to disaster.
Free of Spot’s jaws, Tim and I were chatting as we worked our way along the rows of staples. Suddenly Tim stopped, sat up straight and said, “Do you hear that?” I listened and heard a bit of a “clunking” noise. Time looked around the couch and hollered, “Spot! No! Put down that paint brush!” Then “Ohhhhhhhhhh, noooooooooooo!! He just walked through the roller tray!!” Unfortunately as soon as Spot heard his name he must have figured someone wanted to play with him so he came bounding into the living room, his four feet looking like paint brushes, and leaving a trail of ceiling-white paw prints behind him. I dropped my tools and scooped him up, not stopping until I was out the door and down to the bottom of the Spot ramp. I dropped him in the wet grass and let mother nature clean up his latex coated feet.
Tim and I spent the next half an hour cleaning up the hardwood floors.

Summer has arrived!! Too hot to take Spot for any lengthy walks (anything over 30 feet is lengthy!) so I have polished up the stroller wheels and we have been touring the town for the past two days.
Made a stop at the MTO building and chatted with the OPSEU strikers again, then Spot and I walked a couple of circuits with them. Off down the sunny side of the street we went and stopped to chat to our new friends -- the less fortunate winos and crack heads loitering in front of the Leonard Hotel. If nothing else we again brought gap tooth smiles to their unshaven faces, and a twinkle to their blood-shot eyes. I guess they figure I am about as good as shape mentally as themselves as they didn't even try to hit me up for a loony or a 'smoke'. Just as well 'cause I only travel with a water bottle, bowl, Spot cookies and my health card in the gas bag. Oh, yeah, poop bags. On down St. Paul Street we went, leaving smiles in our wake. Trekked down to Montebello Park where we rested in the shade. Well, I rested. Spot was too interested in the zillions of squirrels in the park, plus, moms were bringing their little kids over to see Spot. Spot is developing a taste for Arrowroot Baby Biscuits!! We are usually back home in time for an early afternoon snooze.
I strung the hammock the other day but have had to give up trying to get any rest in it what-so-ever. Spot seems to think I have been enveloped by some garden monster and attacks the thing. Unfortunately he goes after the bumps which he can see poking out of the canvas. The bump that gets the most attention is the biggest bump, and that happens to be my bum!! When I hauled myself out of the thing, he tried his darndest to get up into it! He would put his front feet on the edge, pushing the hammock away from him. He would keep following after it, his arms (legs?) rising further and further until he was standing right up, his arms straight above his head still pushing on the edge of the hammock. Losing his balance he would flop forward and the hammock would come swing down and hit him. This, of course, only spurred him on to further attacks. He went through that exercise about three or four times then gave up and came and sat on my lap -- (memories of Pal. . . ).
Yesterday afternoon (after a snooze) I decided to clean out one side of the garage. This entailed getting all the cardboard together, cutting it to uniform size for the garbage, transferring yard debris from several garbage cans into clear plastic bags, sorting out various bits and pieces of wood and giving the place a good sweep. All the above proved virtually impossible to do with Spot in the picture. Down on my hands and knees to cut the cardboard, guess who is biting my hair or gnawing on my foot?? Try to tie the cardboard in a bundle, guess who is running off with the string. Try to sweep. . . . . impossible. Can't sweep anything with a Bulldog hanging off the end of the broom. What to do?? Aha! I'll give him a chew thingy.
Into the house I went, rummaged through his toy box until I found a chew in reasonably good shape. Back out to the garage and handed it too him. He grabbed it and off he trotted through the gate and into the back yard. I had a good ten minutes on my own, then realizing I had not seen Spot for a bit (usually he won't leave me for more than two minutes (if that!), I peaked into the back yard to see what he was up to.
Well, there he was, under the porch, using his snout and jaw as a shovel, trying to bury the chew!! He looked up at me and I roared with laughter. There, peering from under the porch were two eyes. Above the eyes was the usual white, wrinkled forehead and his silly ears. Below his eyes was nothing but mud. He looked like one of those old cartoons of an African cannibal (racist and politically incorrect as they are today). He came bounding out to see me, obviously happy as a clam at his clever way of hiding his chew. (Spot still can't wag his tail so his whole rear end wiggles like mad when he is happy.)
I thought of the other chews I had given him and how he had immediately dashed outside with most of them. That in mind I took a slow tour of the fence perimeter. I found three more ratty, dirty, filthy chews buried along the fence. Well, not exactly buried. They were shoved against the fence, a little mound of dirt in front of each and perhaps a few leafs or sticks pushed on them. I don't believe he had a clue where he had buried them, but he seemed quite pleased when I pointed them out. In fact they were all moved to other secret spots before the end of the tour. What a happy little guy.
Well I must have my morning coffee then begin my day. Looks like we are in for another beauty so I'd better oil the buggy wheels.

Spot at the Armoury:
The Battle of St.Julien is always celebrated by our local artillery unit -- 10th Field Battery -- in memory of the Battery’s stand near the village of St.Julien in Belgium on April 22nd, 1915. It was at that battle that the militia gunners from St.Catharines stayed at their guns, firing over open sights while nearly surrounded by the enemy. They stopped the advance and saved their guns. Anyway, the 10th Battery Association of which I am a member, and the 10th Battery host a banquet on the Saturday closest to the date, and a parade to the Cenotaph on the Sunday.
Making ready for the banquet entails mustering a work party at the Armoury at 1300 hrs (1 p.m.) where we set up the tables and chairs on the drill floor, decorate the area with flags, banners etc., and move the guns and limbers on the floor for display. This year I decided that Spot should be introduced to the guns so I brought him along. I had had him at the Armoury on two other occasions but he had only been there for a few minutes. Saturday (20th) would be the big behavioral test.
We arrived at about 1310 to find most of the work party already there, plus a number of gunners in work dress cleaning their guns and jockeying vehicles around. Spot’s rear end immediately began to wiggle at a mile a minute so I slipped the clip and let him -- with a caution to “be a good boy.”
All work ceased on the guns as the young gunners dropped their cleaning rags and scrub brushes to pay homage to this funny little beast that was wiggling and hopping in their general direction. He wiggled his way around to every single one of them, then all of a sudden he stopped -- a look of panic on his face. It was obvious that it had just dawned on him the “dad” wasn’t at his side.
He hopped around like he was boxing the cardinal points of a compass until he saw me over by the Quad gun tractor. Down went his round rum and away his legs started pumping. Lips flapping in the breeze he made his way to me in seconds flat. Much wiggling and kisses then off he went again to inspect the gunners. While heading back to the young chaps he made stops to see a couple of the guys he knew from the dart gang who meet at HIS home once a month to help fold and stuff the association’s newsletter. the off he bounced. I carried on placing chairs, getting the candelabras in place and basically doing this and that.
An officer came in with the wreath that we always place in front of a small table we set up in memory of our departed comrades. This table is draped in black and is a most hallowed tradition. The wreath was brand new, the imitation maple leafs and poppies looking as bright as new.
Being pretty much occupied with what I was doing and feeling pretty secure that Spot was behaving extremely well, I neglected to look his way, or look for him, for about two minutes. When I did stop, it was because he was standing by my side -- a poppy hanging out of his chops, and a “Look at me, dad,” kind of look on his face. “Good grief, he’s eaten the wreath!,” thinks me as I quickly remove the poppy from his mouth and slip it into my pocket. We nonchalantly made our way over to the wreath and I replaced the poppy, picked up and replaced half a dozen maple leaves and cleaned up whatever green material the wreath was made out of. You know, it looked pretty good, considering.
I had a quiet talk with Spot, leading him away from the wreath as I did so. He eventually spied somebody with a broom in his hand and ran off after him.
A couple of minutes later I heard, “Spot! will you leave the broom alone!!” “Spot!!” “Jeez, Mr. Steel, can you please get Spot to let go of the broom??” I used my trainer tactics to get his attention. When that didn’t work I stuck a biscuit under his nose, producing the affect we were after. Several attempts were made by Spot to ambush the broom again but my “No” or “Hey, Heys!” kept him away from tool.
Finally he tired of the broom, or at least trying to get me to let hi at it, and wondered off to where the Quarter Guard (a group of soldiers forming an honour guard to greet the visiting Lieutenant Colonel) was practicing their rifle drill. Spot broke up any semblance of their discipline by wondering in and out of the ranks, bumping shins, snuffling boot toes and trying to chew on rifle butts. “Mr. Steel! Could you please get your dog??” This from the Battery Sergeant Major. Mr. Steel and Spot retreated to the Gun Shed.
Much to my delight, Spot exited the Gun Shed to the back of the Armoury, went to the fence which runs along Elizabeth Street and had a pee. I had been worried that he might pee on the drill floor -- which is probably one of the most sacrilegious things that can happen to the floor. Excepting maybe when a soldier drops his or her rifle on it.
He came rushing back up the slope, through the Gun Shed, on to the Armoury floor, bee-lined it to the wreath, took another great chomp out of it, wrestled it to the ground then went bouncing over to see the girl who was setting up the bar. “Hi, Spot. Need a drink of water?” She set a bowl of water out for him. He slurped it, gave her a big sloppy kiss and headed back towards the wreath. I intercepted him, slip his leash back on, told him what a good boy he had been, said good bye to the fellows and off home we went.
All in all he was a delightful companion to have, and regardless of his infatuation and the ruination of the wreath, almost everyone asked me where he was later that night.
The next day when forming up for the parade the general question was, “Hey Jim, isn’t Spot on parade?”
Maybe next year.

May:
Spot goes to the beach: Just back from an invigorating stroll with Spot. The only reason it was invigorating was the fact that I put Spot in the stroller so I could make some half decent time.
What a blast we have been having the past few days. The other morning I had to drive Maria to work in order to have the car for a doctor’s appointment late in the afternoon. This left me and Spot lose with the car, albeit the weather was somewhat wet, windy and cool. Well, later that morning the rain eased off so Spot and I headed down to Lakeside Park. The waves were breaking over the pier, and on the beach side, sweeping about twenty feet onto the sand. Spot displayed no fear of the water and made a mad dash for the edge of the sand -- only to run into a breaker (well, not exactly a Hawaii-type breaker) which soaked him. He came bounding back to me, shook himself (all over his father) and dashed back to the shore line, grabbing and tossing all sorts of flotsam and jetsam as he hopped along the shore.
After helping him to extract several mouthfuls of sand, I thought it best that we make an attempt at walking the pier. It was a toss-up who was getting the wetter, so we dashed back to the beach for another stroll. From the pier we made our way up to the main street of Port Dalhousie where we noticed a bunch of fire-fighters milling about one of the old taverns. Spot and I paid them a visit, me being totally ignored, and he getting all the attention. Sheesh!
By the time we made it back to the car, most of the sand had fallen off of Spot, so after giving him a drink of water, I hoisted him into the back, gave him a treat and off we went home. Him to sleep. Me to immediately follow suit.
Next day I commandeered the car again and we went this time to Municipal Beach. Now, that is the beach to be. Few if any people at it during the week days, at least twice as big as Lakeside Park and at least 100 yards of sand between the parking area and the water’s edge. Spot was in his glory.
The wind from yesterday was probably buffeting Cape Breton Island, but the waves were still rolling in with a bit of woomf behind them. Spot totally fearless and even chased a stick in up to his elbows. We beach-combed for an hour or so, he did a few more dashes into the lake, shook himself on me a few times, then off we went home. Him to sleep. Me to immediately follow suit.
On Sunday, my daughter Cathy, her husband Jim and their dog Digger, joined Spot and I (separate cars!!) for an afternoon invasion of Municipal Beach. The sun was out, the wind was up, the waves were rolling in. Digger, being a retriever -- along with being somewhat mentally challenged -- spent most of the time chasing sticks in the lake and bobbing for rocks (he puts his head right under water to try and find the rock that has been thrown!). Spot, not necessarily mentally challenged, but just a little too young to realize he is a Bulldog not a retriever, followed Digger as best he could. He even stuck his head under water!! Not for long, but stick it underwater he did. The little guy was totally soaked. Not a dry spot on his body -- not even his spot.
At one point I noticed him snuffling around in the sand. Good grief!!, next thing I know he's got a dead seagull in his chops! (Maybe he is part retriever because on Friday he turned up a dead Teal.) I convinced him to drop the disgusting corpse, but not before we had a very sick game of tug-of-war. Yeeeeeeeuck!! (Later that night Maria , sniffing, sez, "Jeez, Jim, something smells a little off." "Hey, Hon," replies me, "I don't smell anything.")
Anyway, as we were leaving the water's edge, and I was about fifteen feet away from Spot -- depositing a little bag of pooh in a receptacle -- Spot took a notion to visit a Chinese couple who were sitting on the beach about 30 feet from him. Off he bounded, lips and ears flopping. Would he listen to my "Come!" command? Nope. Thank heavens the people were not frightened of the chubby little creature with the big teeth! They laughed and scratched and rubbed him. The lady let out a squeal when Spot shook himself all over them. I finally got hold of him, offering apologies as I clipped the leash to him. They were quite good about it and smiled and bowed and nodded as I led Spot away. Of course what they were saying could have been most derogatory and I wouldn't have had a clue. It was all Chinese to me.
I was going to use the car again today, but the morning looked somewhat threatening so I didn't bother. Once in a while I get things right. The day has been rather cruddy.
Spot and I are now awaiting an application form from the Confederation Bulldog Club. They meet in Mississauga every summer and brag about how Bulldogs Are The Best. I'm sure there must be something more to it than that, but that's all I know about it for now for now.
Yesterday afternoon (7th of May) I made the mistake of laying aside the corn broom in the back yard while chatting to my neighbour. Returning to the yard I found the corn broom nothing more than a stick -- the corn thingy straws were strewn all over the yard. Spot, looking his most innocent, still had straw sticking out of his chops. Of course when I attempted to rake the straw, or corn, or whatever the heck a corn broom is made out of, Spot merrily attacked the rake. No wonder I can't get any work done in or around the house.
I'm covering the vacuum cleaner's power-head in boiler plate.
This morning Spot enjoyed a one hour buggy ride. He seldom sits down in the buggy now, preferring to stand and survey all before him. I feel like I’m driving a living Mack truck. Maria still will not walk with Spot and I if he is in the buggy. I can’t understand why. . . . .

June: Spot made his debut in Niagara-on-the-Lake Saturday morning. And what a hit he was! That little guy had more pets and rubs and snuggles than most dogs would get in a life time. In fact, he probably received more pets and rubs and snuggles than I have had in my life time!! Sheesh, when I slip this mortal coil I want to come back as a Bulldog -- preferably owned by someone as nutty as me.
Met a chap with a Bulldog (Tootsie) so we had a good bragging session while Tootsie and Spot became acquainted. Not to sound like a proud father, but I must say that Spot was the far better looking Bulldog of the two. In fact, I felt a little sorry for Tootsie because her grooming looked rather neglected and she appeared a bit of a sorry sight. But she hopped happily into the guy's Mercedes so I guess you can't have everything.
The big laugh I had at NotL was when Spot spotted a horse-drawn carriage. Well!! "What the heck is that big thing??!!" he must have thought. He spread those front and hind legs, strained his neck (such as it is) forward, bounced a bit, shaped those silly lips into a kind of O and went, "Woof!" Then he dashed behind my legs, peeked out around me and "Woofed!" again. I could not entice him to move until that huge, evil smelling beast had clip-clopped around a corner and out of sight. Even then, he kept stopping every ten feet and hopping 180 degrees around to stare back in the direction of where the horse was last seen. Took us about twenty minutes to get back to his new Spotmobile. Normally he is really good during his walks (ambles, really) but I guess that monstrous thing threw him off a bit.
Tried to stop at Port Dalhousie on our way back but there wasn't a parking spot to be had. Carried on to the Green Ribbon Trail off Martindale Road where a back water from the Martindale Pond has formed a beautiful wetland. Here we had a lovely stroll until we came to The Bridge. The stroll of discovery came to an end. He refused to cross it! So I sat at the water's edge while he puddled around in the water looking for frogs, turtles and other denizens of the pond. A flopping carp had him out of the water and by my side in seconds. Home by mid afternoon and we both dashed to the hammock and fought over snoozing rights. Gave it up, came in and both crashed on the couch.

Several months ago our city decided that a number of schools in the city had to be closed for lack of numbers. Unfortunately the old school I attended during my primary education was on the list. Yesterday an open house was held at Maplewood School so I thought, "What the heck, I'll take Spot with me and do a bit of a nostalgia trip." If I wasn't allowed in with my boy, well, so what, the school is only a building. So, off we went.
One of the first teachers I met in September of 1950 was a Miss Campbell. She was very tall and seemed very old back then. She was also the principle throughout my eight years at Maplewood School. Quite amazing, I met her in the hall yesterday and when I called out, "Hi, Miss Campbell, it is me, Jimmy Steel!" Her face lit up, and she went down on one knee and addressed Spot with, "Oh, hi, Jimmy, I would have recognized you anywhere!" Sheesh!! Well, she is still very tall and now very, very old! And, when the old gal finally realized Spot was not me, she apologized and asked if he was my grandson! Anyway, we wandered the halls and went in to two rooms of which I could remember had been my class rooms at some time. I didn't meet anyone else from "the old days" so I said a quiet farewell to that part of my past, and Spot and I headed across the field to our new/used Japanese CR-V we bought for Spot which was parked on Maplewood Drive -- where my old childhood home still stands. Seriously, Spot was the perfect puppy. When I did stop to speak to people or look at an old photograph, he would sit patiently by my side. He never tried to tug away from me, though he did cause a bit of excitement with one or two ladies when he was able to get near enough to lick their legs. Rather embarrassing, but interesting to see the reaction.