No Trouble at all

In early 1998, my sister-in-law went away on vacation and asked us to look after her dog. She was a small dog, a Shih Tzu. We already had Kato, and the 2 dogs knew each other well, so it was no big deal.

But man, walking them was a pain in the ass. That little dog would snap at pant legs, and each time I’d turn red and say, “Oh my god, she’s never done that before.”

I distinctly remember saying to my husband that walking 2 dogs is just too much trouble, and that I’d never have 2 dogs at once.

That same day, I walked into the production office for the film I was working on, and as I made my way to my desk, I noticed a sign on the bulletin board advertising puppies for sale. It was the post-production coordinator’s sister’s dog, who lived on a farm, who’d had the puppies.

Without hesitating, I walked straight to her office and said, “I want a puppy.”

I went home that night and told my husband, then boyfriend, that we were getting a puppy. He thought I was insane, but was game for the ride.

Because I was in production, I couldn’t take any time off. So the sister brought all the puppies to the office, and we brought Kato in and figured we’d see who got along.

I had my heart set on the runt. That puppy was so small, and I figured all the others would get adopted for sure, but she needed us. But then, there was one other dog who kept chasing after Kato. I mean, they were all fumbling along after her, but this one dog was intent.

Tired of tripping herself up over her leash, she made a full stop, bent down and scooped it up between her teeth. And then took off after our dog.

We named her Trouble.

We figured, getting a second dog, we were asking for Trouble.

***

Over the years, she did many things to infuriate us, amuse us, baffle us, but most of all, make us love her. Wholeheartedly.

When we first brought her home, I refused to let her sleep on the bed. Kato had been given carte blanche as a puppy, and we’ve paid for it ever since. And I’ll never forget, in the weeks before we got Trouble a crate, she used to lie under our bed at night, whining and trying to claw her way up from underneath.

And then the cries in the morning when she woke up and realized she was stuck under the bed.

For the first bit of her life, she thought she was a cat. She used to walk along the back of our couch. It was sweet when she was 10 or 12 lbs, but when she grew to 40-45 lbs, it was just ridiculous – this almost full grown dog balancing along the edge of a sofa.

And then there was the time we were getting ready to eat in front of the TV. We were getting drinks in the kitchen and I said, “Hey – who’s watching our burgers?”

We raced to the living room and noticed that one of the burgers had it’s top bun slightly askew. We peered over the coffee table and caught her on the floor, gnawing away. At the onion.

She was left alone with a hamburger, and she swiped the onion.

***

When my son was born, that dog turned into an overprotective mother hen. She stood (or, more accurately, lay) guard in front of his crib or pack and play, making sure no strangers came near him. And when he cried, she would howl.

She loved that baby. I’m so glad she got to see him grow up a little bit, get a glimpse of the man he’ll become.

***

Her entire life, up until the past couple of years, when we took her on walks, she loved to chase the squirrels. For years, we had to walk her with one of those harnesses so she couldn’t pull us off on a chase. She was somehow able to double the mass of her 55 lbs when motivated.

It drove her nuts when the squirrels would scramble up a tree. She would try to climb each tree we passed, aching to get at that squirrel. It’s like she thought there was another level up there, where all the trees were connected and the squirrels just hung out.

***

I remember taking her on her first camping trip. We left Kato at home, a little unsure about how she’d take to the wild. That lucky dog. We had no idea what we were in for.

My husband doesn’t consider it camping unless it involves a minimum 45 minutes canoe ride away from civilization. So that’s me, him, a 55 lb dog, our coolers and our camping gear in a canoe. There was like, one inch of boat showing above the water.

And when we got to our little island, the skies opened up and the rain poured down on us for hours. We had to set up the tent in the rain, make a fire in the rain, load in all the gear – it was hell. When we were finally set up, I said, “How will we ever convince her to stay in the tent?”

My husband looked at me, opened the flap and man, that dog flew into that tent, curled up in a ball and shook the whole night long. But didn’t move an inch.

We really bonded on that trip; I was terrified, too. I kept wanting my husband to go outside and dig a deeper trench around the tent – I was certain we were going to be flooded out. What a scene – my husband snoring and the two of us, woman and dog, shaking and whimpering in the dark wilderness.

***

I remember how it seemed like she was always a puppy.

Until she wasn’t.

But she was at least 10 or 11 years old before she showed any signs of aging. She was prematurely grey, so I never worried about that, or used it as a gauge. But her spirit, her energy, her mastery at toppling over a full garbage can…

Man, she was something. That dog had heart.

***

When she was 2, she had kennel cough. I remember she used to leave the bedroom before a coughing fit. She was always good at never complaining. Never whining. Despite her sometimes flakiness, and the passion with which she lived up to her name, she was a really good dog.

And for the past 10 months, I’d been watching her die.

I didn’t realize how hard it was, how stressful, when I was going through it. It just was. She was getting older, her legs weren’t working like they once did. I remember the day in August, after a jaunt through the alleys, that she hard a hard time making it home.

I remember thinking, that’s the last time we’ll be in the alley.

We set markers for ourselves. We said, “As soon as she can’t make it around the block, we’ll put her down.” She stopped walking around the block.

“As soon as she can’t make it up the stairs, we’ll put her down.” She stopped coming upstairs at night.

“As soon as she has accidents in the house, we’ll put her down.” For months, we woke up in a minefield.

One time, about a year or so ago, I saw this guy in the vet’s office with a dog so old it could barely limp into the waiting area. I remember thinking, That poor bastard. He doesn’t even know it’s time to put his dog down.

I had become that bastard.

We would get up in the morning, clean up all the poop, help her stand up and then carry her outside. We walked at a snail’s pace, stumbling every few steps. I would carry her back into the house, help her up when she fell and fetch her a treat.

And this was normal.

I’m comforted by the fact that she wasn’t in pain. All feeling was gone from her back legs, so it wasn’t like she was in agony. There was just no muscle there anymore. And she had no clue what was going on – she still had lots of life, and lots of get up and go… she just couldn’t get up and go.

She would drag herself from room to room to follow the action. And about 3 weeks ago, she flew across the room to steal my husband’s steak and cheese sub off the ottoman.

She’d come a long way since her onion days.

But we got to a point where we couldn’t deny it any longer. She stopped wanting to go out. She stopped getting up. The accidents were getting worse and it was painful to watch her try to stumble around.

So last Monday, before taking the kids to school, I told them to say goodbye to Trouble. They knew the day was coming, and they knew what was involved. They had their moment with their dog, and I consoled them both on the way to school.

Then I came home and pet her for a bit. I carried her outside to our back alley, where she stood for a moment, not quite sure what to do. Then Kato came out, and just like old times, she trotted along the lane after her hero.

I wanted to give her a really great day. The weather was perfect for her – warm, but with a breeze and not too humid. I put her in the car and drove half a block to that old alley she loved. I carried her out and put her down on the packed dirt and dead leaves. She walked along, smelling everything in sight.

She stopped to sniff at all the dogs that crossed our paths. It was like an impromptu going away party. I felt bad I’d left Kato at home.

We spent about 25 minutes there, after which I saw she was really tired. So I picked her up, put her back in the car and drove home. I carried her into the house and grilled her a steak. Two actually, because I wasn’t sure if she’d prefer a rib steak or filet mignon.

In the meantime, she laid down on her favourite cushion, the one right by the sofa; the one Kato is constantly kicking her off of. So I cut up the steak, put it on a plate and brought it over to her. She devoured it in seconds.

And then I sat down next to her, and rubbed her neck. She fell asleep pretty quickly, but I stayed there, petting her and talking to her in a quiet voice, reminding her of all the stories I recorded here, in this post.

She didn’t even get up when the vet walked through the front door. She lay there calmly as he sedated her. We sat with her, holding her, petting her, telling her how much we loved her; thanking her for being such a good dog.

And then the second needle went in, and within seconds, she was gone.

I hope she went to find those squirrels.

Damn kids are too smart

A few months back, my son and I had the whole “where do babies come from?” conversation. It was quite explicit and detailed, as he was no longer satisfied with the stock egg meets sperm answer. But it was fine, and aside from wishing to be a fly on the wall in the kindergarten playground the next day, the whole thing never really came up again.

This morning, out of the blue, my daughter asked from the back seat of the car, “So. Where do babies come from anyway?”

You see, she’d heard the question those few months back, but never the answer. Obviously, she was feeling a little ripped off.

“This is not a conversation I’m going to have in the 2 minutes it takes to drive you to daycare. We’ll discuss it tonight.”

I dropped her off thinking, Whew! Dodged a bullet there!

You see, I had no problem having the talk with her brother, who’s 6, but I was a little hesitant to get into it with her, at 4.

But as soon as I picked her up, the first words out of her mouth were, “Remember this morning, when we were driving to school…”

“Yes, yes. I remember.”

“So?”

“So, what happens is this. The mommy has a seed, and the daddy has a seed, and when the 2 seeds get together in a woman’s tummy, it makes a baby.”

“Uh…” my son piped up, “that’s not exactly how it happens, Mom. There aren’t 2 seeds. There’s an egg, and there’s sperm. REMEMBER?”

“Yes. I remember, sweetheart. But your sister is not quite at an age where she gets all that.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“It’s called giving age appropriate information. I only tell you guys what you can absorb, and what’s appropriate for you to know at your age.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s easy,” his sister said. “Mommy’s saying that because you’re a few years older than me, you can understand more than I can. Right, Mommy?”

“Uh, yeah…”

Except suddenly, I wasn’t so sure.

State of the children

From time to time, we’re forced to reflect on the way we’re raising our children, whether we’re instilling the right values, and whether we’re leading them down the right path.

This is one of those times, and over the past few weeks, I’ve really put a lot of thought into this.

I teach my children to stand up for what they believe in. They’re each unique individuals, both so smart, so capable. They know how to express themselves, ask questions, speak out.

They know that crying when they don’t get their way does nothing to further their cause. If they ask for something, and I refuse, they understand – at the ages of 4 and 6 – that they need to come up with a valid reason for why they should get what they ask for. They understand that they need to explain their thoughts and that pitching a fit or crying will never, ever get them what they want.

I have taught my children to have respect for others and their property. My children wouldn’t dream of touching something that didn’t belong to them without asking. And if they did, or they broke something that belonged to another, they would apologize and do whatever was necessary to make things right.

They understand that they have to work hard for everything they get in this life. They understand that life isn’t fair. They understand that just because one person gets something, it doesn’t mean that they deserve the same thing – even if that other person is their sibling.

But they’re smart, and they rise to a challenge. I am fully confident, even at their young ages, that they will succeed at whatever they put their minds to in this life.

At 4 and 6, they understand the value of money. They know where it comes from, how it’s earned, and responsible ways to spend it. No, they don’t yet have a grasp on how the economy works or bigger notions of debt and fiscal responsibility on a large scale, but there’s still time for that.

And of course, even knowing all this, they still want the toy in the dispenser at the front of the restaurant.

The important thing is that they understand nothing is free. People don’t deserve anything. People aren’t automatically entitled to anything. Yes, birthdays and special occasions come and go, and they get gifts. Yes, they have grandparents who spoil them. Yes, my husband will come home from one of his frequent trips loaded down with guilt gifts. But they understand that these occasions are the exception, not the rule.

And yes, they’re still young. Too young to learn these life lessons? I don’t think so. I want them to grow up understanding how the world works, and have an appreciation for how we all get along, how we’re all connected, and how everyone’s actions impact everyone else.

We don’t live in isolation. We’re not protected by our little bubbles.

And this is why I’ve started talking to my son about the student strikes currently taking place in my province. I want him to understand that it’s okay to protest, to gather together in a democratic fashion and stand up for what you believe in. That he’s lucky enough to live in a country where this behaviour is not only tolerated, but encouraged.

But I also want him to understand the difference between negotiation and extortion, between civil disobedience and outright disrespect – for people’s time and their property. I want him to understand the difference between flat-out demands and intelligent debate.

For a long time, I marveled at the fact that I pay more to send him to a public kindergarten than students in this province pay for a year of university. And now, for the first time, I’m starting to think that’s money well-spent.

The Social Web: Are we all just wasting our time?

The other night, after the kids went to bed, I sat down on the couch intending to watch some television. It used to be that after the kids went to bed, I sat down on the couch to write a post, but lately things have gone in a different direction.

My hand reached for the remote, but instead picked up my smart phone. Oh, well, I figured. I’ll just play a few games of Draw Something.

A few games turned into a few more and after an hour passed I realized that it was too late to watch anything on television, much less start writing a post.

Oh, well, I consoled myself, at least I played a fun game with some good friends.

But that didn’t sound right either. I hadn’t actually played a game with any of my friends. In fact, in all likelihood, my friends probably weren’t even online while I was taking my turn. And this is completely discarding the fact that I considered spending time playing a game online spending time with friends.

How in the world did things get so fucked up?

Last week, I was at a conference where I had the privilege of seeing Clay Shirky deliver a keynote address. It was an inspiring talk and one of the things he pointed out was that some of the greatest things we’ve built on the Internet were done by people who were not employees of the site they contributed to – in fact, most of the most incredible things on the Internet were built by people in their spare time.

He used Wikipedia to demonstrate, as it’s the most obvious example. After some “back of the napkin math, but in the right order of magnitude” as he said, he figured it took 100 million man hours over 10 years to build Wikipedia. Sounds impressive, no?

So he compared that number to something else people do with their spare time: watch television. Once again he did the math and determined that we could build another Wikipedia in the same amount of time Americans spend watching television commercials. In one weekend.

And I whittle away my time playing Draw Something.

Now I’m not saying I should spend every spare moment creating something great and meaningful, but man, the amount of time I waste on games and dicking around the Internet, it’s insane.

I could be reading, or even watching TV. I know, I know, it’s television, but I get real pleasure out of watching great writing come alive on screen. I don’t watch nearly as much as I used to, but it is an art form, and I appreciate it as such. Plus, it’s a great way to just shrug off the ickiness from a bad day.

And of course, I could be writing. I should be writing. I have 2 distinct projects I should be working on, but I’m not. All my spare time is being sucked up by less important things. But easier things.

It’s easy to spend some time on Facebook, interact with a few people, and feel I’ve spent quality time with friends. But when’s the last time I went out for coffee, dinner or a even a drink with a friend? Hell, I barely even talk to them on the phone anymore.

It’s convenient. We all have such busy lives now, that it’s often impossible to connect at the same time. Varying bedtime routines, work schedules and general lifestyles interfere with being able to simply pick up the phone and call. So we text. Or leaves posts on each other’s wall. Or take the 5 minutes to write an email.

But is that really connecting?

Or are we just wasting our time?

Not so fast

Every year, my daughter’s daycare does 2 field trips – one to go sugaring off in the spring, and one to go either apple or pumpkin picking in the fall. Including my son’s stint at daycare, there have now been 10 trips in all. And up until this past Friday, I’d gone on every single one.

I used to love going with my son – we’d sit together on the bus and enjoy a great day out. I’m sure it was helpful for the teachers to have a few extra sets of hands and eyes around and I’m fortunate enough that my place of work allows for one Volunteer day per year.

This past fall was the first time I went with just my daughter, the boy having already started kindergarten. It was nice, but truth be told, she just wasn’t interested in having me around.

On the bus there, she wanted to sit with her teacher, and on the bus ride home she sat with her friend. My first reaction was Great! A seat to myself! A 30 minute nap! But there’s always that one kid whose parent didn’t come who’s desperate for an adult to cling to. I was a clear target.

And even at the apple orchard, she showed little interest in spending time with me. I shouldn’t have been surprised – she’s a social butterfly, that one. My son, the quiet one, was always happy to hang back and hang out with mom, but the girl? Forget about it. There’s dancing to be done! Apples to be picked! Friends to play with!

So when the sugaring off trip rolled around this spring, I didn’t sign up to go. I just changed departments at work and the timing wasn’t really right to be taking a day off. And I reminded myself of how invisible I was on the last trip. Throw in the fact that they went during Passover, and it was a no-brainer.

I didn’t go.

Of course, on the day, I felt miserable. My mind kept wandering to what might be going on at the sugar shack. I remembered the way she danced around the large recreation hall last time, big smiles on her face as she absorbed the music into her very bones.

But then I remembered who she was, and how she is, and realized that I can’t repeat the same experiences I had with my son with her. I’ve got to appreciate her for who she is, and who she is is one very independent little girl.

If anyone had told me 2.5 years ago that one day she’d have a life that didn’t include me at every single turn, I’d have thought them crazy, but now, some weekends, I can go for hours at a time without seeing her – even when we’re in the same house!

So that day, sitting at my desk in my office, I made a promise to myself that I’d let go. That I’d pick her up from school, ask her how the trip went without one lament of how I wish I’d gone. I would respect her need to venture out into the world on her own, and I’d have to satisfy myself with her recounting her experiences of the day without having lived them myself.

And I did. I picked her up, gave her a huge hug and asked her about her trip. She smiled, told me how great it was, looked me in the eye and said -

“But Mommy, next time, will you come with me?”

[photo by Eva Blue]

In which I feel beautiful

So a couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine sends me an email which basically says, “Hey, Julie, I’ve got to go to a photo shoot in Chicago and I’ve got some ideas I want to mess around with… mind if I experiment with you?”

“What kind of ideas?” I asked.

She then went on to explain that she planned on fashioning a red ball gown out of some dollar store plastic tablecloths, some twine and some blue crepe streamers. She figured if she threw in some make up, shoes and a set of false eyelashes, she’d be good to go.

What I heard: “Hey, Julie, let’s do a photo shoot for Jenny’s Traveling Red Dress series.”

What follows are a selection of shots from that day. I thought I was helping a friend. Turns out, she gave me the greatest gift possible. For one whole day, I felt positively beautiful.

Thank you, Eva.

[all photos taken by the marvelous and talented Eva Blue]

Bittersweet

Remember that guy from high school? You know the one I’m talking about – he was popular and good-looking, yet still remarkably down-to-earth? He always had a smile on his face and laughter in his voice?

He’s that guy that every girl had a crush on, and even though you didn’t have a chance in hell with him, he still treated you like the most beautiful girl on the planet, making you think that maybe, in a different place, at a different time, you might actually have had a chance?

And his guy friends. Remember how he was with his guy friends? He got along with everybody. So much so that when you think back, it feels equally comfortable pairing his name with half a dozen other guys as best friends. Because he was best friends with all those guys.

He wasn’t just one of the guys, he was the guy.

The one that always comes up in conversation, years after high school, with everyone asking, “Hey, have you heard from him lately? Do you know what he’s up to?”

Of course you know him. We all know that guy. Because every high school had that guy. It’s one of the few things that made high school bearable; knowing you might pass him in the hallway, or share a class at 6th period.

I remember that guy.

All my friends remember that guy, too.

He died 20 years ago.

In a car crash.

The details are too horrible to go into, but suffice it to say that the story of his life is so much bigger than the story of his death. Because face it, we all know someone who died way too young also, don’t we? It’s another one of those common factors we share – the friend who died, tragically, accidentally, at the very point in our lives when we thought we were immortal?

But how often does it happen that both those guys turn out to be the same person?

It’s almost too much to bear.

It is too much to bear.

For years, not a day went by that I didn’t think about him. Every day his face appeared before my eyes, his bright smile making my heart sing and shatter into pieces all at the same time.

Luckily, I had some pretty incredible memories to hold on to. I’ll never forget U2′s Unforgettable Fire tour in 1985, when a whole bunch of us snuck onto the floor of the Montreal Forum, hiding under other people’s seats when security came around. I eventually got kicked off the floor and found myself alone – until I bumped into him. He took my hand and brought me up to the reds, where we watched the rest of the show, side by side. Bono draped himself in the Irish flag for Bad and I stood next to the most handsome man in the world.

The other standout for me was a night, like any other, where a whole bunch of us gathered at one of our houses for an evening in. Those nights always consisted of some form of teenage debauchery and make up some of the best memories of my youth. This was at the height of my crush on him, and I’ll never forget how we cuddled on the couch, all night long, without saying a word.

I hadn’t been close with him for years by the time he died. But he was one of those people where that just didn’t matter. I could pick up the phone at any time and call him, or when I saw him, you knew there would be a meaningful exchange and deep, heartfelt hug.

Except there wasn’t.

The last time I saw him was in Plattsburgh. I spotted him from across the mall, and he saw me, too. But I didn’t go up to him. He was with an ex-boyfriend of mine and to say things had ended badly with that boyfriend would be an understatement. So I didn’t say hello.

How was I to know it would be the last time I’d see him?

My last chance to see that smile?

I’d like to think that one of us, or both of us, at least acknowledged the other, but I honestly can’t remember. That memory is so wrapped up in the ex that everything else is hazy. I just remember that he was there.

And then he was gone.

One night, a few years after the accident, I had a dream. I dreamt I was in the metro station, waiting for the train to come. I was sitting down on one of the skeezy benches, and he walked over and sat down next to me.

In my dream, I started to cry. He smiled at me and we talked. We talked and talked and talked for what felt like hours. I don’t remember the details that clearly anymore – I’m not sure if I ever did – I don’t even know if we touched in the dream. But when it was over, and I woke up, it felt like we had said goodbye.

After that, I thought about him less and less often. I’d come across a picture, or a car, or hear a song that reminded me of him and it would all come rushing back. But the instances were few and far between.

Last Saturday night, I went to a 20 year memorial evening that was put together by his sister. I went with one of my oldest and dearest friends and together we sat with other friends, some of whom I hadn’t seen since high school.

It was a wonderful evening of reconnecting and sharing and generally just being happy to enjoy each other’s company again. And I think he would have been so happy to know that, 20 years later, people were still gathering together in his name. That somehow, he was the impetus for us all to stay connected. Of course, there were moments when we remembered why we were there and he wasn’t, either privately or collectively, and those moments were hard.

But I’m glad I went. Because it had been too long since I had remembered. I realize now that I can’t even conjure up the sound of his voice anymore, so to surround myself with others who loved him, who had spent time with him, who were members of his family was special; somehow sacred.

I miss you, Dean.

I will always miss you.

[Photo credit: R. Roth]