Tag Archives: dogs

Chutney the somewhat magnificent

I have a little puppy

Who goes in and out with me

And everywhere that I go,

That’s where he wants to be.

He takes me out on walkies

through sun and snow and rain

And just when we get back

He wants to go again.

I love my little doggums

Though he can be a pest

Like when he eats my underwear

Or makes a garbage nest.

He’s begging now for dinner

he whines and scratches me

But I know I’ll give it to him

And he’ll turn away and pee

I really hate my doggums

I wish he’d go away

But then he gives me kisses

And I have to go and play.

Just hold it in! Or, why Halifax is just that little bit off perfect…

I just do not get people who don’t like dogs. I understand not wanting to share your home with them, and I hate barking, too, as Chutney well knows, but other than that, what’s not to like? And yet – it took me hours of searching to find an apartment that would let my wee poodle come with me. I’m paying a premium for the place I have, just because I have the dog. He’s good company, and most importantly, he makes me get out and walk and so has prevented my legs from coiling into corkscrews thanks to MS. Sometimes I don’t LIKE that he makes me walk, but it’s our deal.  I give him love, thousands of dollars worth of toys, and food, and he acts as my trainer. It’s hard to ignore something staring right in your face and saying “Owwwwt?” (which I really should tape to add to the many similar things on YouTube, as he does say it very clearly).(I have yet to teach the parrotlet to talk…)

The problem comes with meeting this request to go out. I blogged before about the woman in my apartment building who told me never to walk on her patch of land near her apartment and especially not with the dog or she would hate me forever.  Forever! Seriously. Today I was out with the pup and he was just WALKING on some of the grass around the corner from some condos. Nothing was coming out of him, he had already emptied himself.  Like a good owner, I’d scooped. I always scoop. I try to walk him different places so that his pee adds to the greenness of the grass, rather than detracting from it. I am polite when walking, smile at others, have Chutney trained to be polite.

Anyway, this old lady pulled up in her car and lowered her electric window. She asked where I lived, and I told her I lived right there. She explained that the grass didn’t actually belong to the apartment building (which I knew) and that “they” didn’t like dogs walking on their grass. I said, well, he was JUST walking. She pointed out that she really didn’t like dogs “urinating” on the grass. Then she rolled up her window and drove away in her huge boat like gas guzzling car to have her perm appointment or whatever.

So, seems to me I can’t walk my dog on my lawn or anywhere else. I wanted to ask her – “Hey – what about those birds, then? Hey?  Shall I chase them away so they don’t do that awful pooping thing they do?  Heaven forbid a blade of oddly green grass get splattered!” What do they think the violently green lawn is fertilized with? Nitrogen. Which is in pee.

I am sorely tempted to take poor Chutney and set him up with a basket to pee off the edge of my balcony, or take to walking him only after darkness. And then squeezing HUGE steaming lumps of poo out of him in all the places I’ve been told not to let him go. Heck, maybe I’ll join in. I could save up.

The thing is, these people probably own a cat or two. I love cats, don’t get me wrong, but kitty litter should be declared a toxic material and need special disposal, as any of you with a cat or three will tell you.  It makes the eyes stream, it does, it’s heavy, and it fills vast amounts of our landfill, where it repels the rats who might eat the rest of it (okay, nothing repels rats, true, but it’s a good line). Is it any worse to let a doggie have a wee pee in the grass and some sacs of poop in the garbage than to send gallons of pee and poo soaked sand to the dump?

I want to scream at these women: “Get a frikken life!” and “I used cloth diapers on my kids, dammit!”and “Got laid lately? Maybe you should!” and “Don’t get too close – I hate old ladies and tend to bite!” (though that’s not specifically true as I love lots of older women, and men. I just hate “old ladies” of either sex.)

The truly annoying thing is that she would never have spoken to me if I were a man. Or if I had a man with me.

Or if I only walked Chutney twice a day, but we go out several times for exercise and to keep my muscles moving. I am short, with grey hair, and recognizable. In the fog I’ve been known to wear hot pink. It’s the only raincoat I have. Keeps me from being squashed.

The thing is, we all cause some bit of stress on people living nearby us.  I have a screaming newborn upstairs.  Do I take the person aside and say in stern tones “We don’t like that sort of thing around here?” Other people have conversations in the hallway. Should I stick my head out and make disapproving shushing noises?  There’s a guy who smokes at the entrance door. Should I report him to the cops?

No, bloody heckness, I shouldn’t. If you don’t want to share space with people and their pets and children and their breathing and lovemaking and washing machine noises, go live in the country! Alone!

But then, there are all those damn birds to cope with.


Migods, it’s cold out there!

It is COLD outside.  The kind of cold that tastes like you have an icicle between your teeth and are breathing through it.  The kind of cold that dries your eyeballs when the wind blows (“it’s a DRY cold”), chaps your cheeks, makes you wish you’d brought that scarf, too, to wrap around any remaining skin.  It whistles up your pants legs, chews its way through the fabric, insinuates itself through your hat and hair.

It’s the kind of cold that makes me gasp when walking – especially as the wind grabs my face and whips it around. Everyone else is gasping, too, faces screwed up against the wind, no smiles today else teeth freeze.

Ice crystals are creeping up my windows…

Chutney, fluffy hound of great enthusiasm, has been feeling a bit down lately.  His fur is long, and he finds an apartment at temperatures suitable for me a bit warm, wearying. He keeps asking to go out on the balcony to eat snow. I daren’t leave him out there since the wind is howling and might blow his little self away, so I take him out for a walk.

It’s gotta be puppy love. I can barely stand the bitter wind and him, he is jumping in and out of the snowbanks, slurping up the crystalline snow with his tongue, exploding with joy.  He scoops up  piles of snow with his nose, leaps in over his head and pops out, lingers as the wind rearranges his fur in sealike patterns. He snuffles for smells beneath the frost, digs, ignores the wind.  He’s not even wearing his little embarrassing coat or his booties.

Around me, the walking frozen people stop, watch him, and laugh.  Sudden fierce joy is so wonderful to see. They smile at me, lips pale and at risk of cracking.  Then they shuffle on. Chutney doesn’t notice them.  He is having way too much fun.