Rose's Cantina

Scott chose Finnigan from a dysfunctional litter. His mother was a Bernese Mountain Dog, purebred. His father came from unknown lineage. Papa was a rolling stone. He rolled into Finn's mother's yard, did the deed and escaped without offering any child support. Finn may look and smell like a Labrador Retriever, but undoubtedly, there is something else in there. The vet thought Daddy might have been a Great Dane. Still, his offspring masquerades as a Black Lab. And he's good at it. It's always hard to pick from a litter. I mean, all puppies are cute, right? Finn made a good impression. He nuzzled Scott's hand and licked him all over. Clearly, he was far superior to his brother who spent our visit chewing wires on the tractor. Finn, on the other hand, seemed sweet and loving. That was until he got in the car and promptly puked all over Marissa. Since adopting him four and a half years ago, we have had many names for him. Idiot. Asshole. F!@kh...

Boxing Day is one of my favorite holidays. It's not because of all the shopping. I only went out yesterday to get chips and dip with my last five bucks. Nope, I like Boxing Day because we always have a barbecue, no matter the weather. There's nothing like a rack of ribs and a pile of homemade baked beans after a week of blond, bland food. They wake up the tastebuds like nobody's business. Last night, we invited a couple of my old friends from high school, a couple I hadn't seen in 20 years. I was the maid of honor at Ed and Wendy's wedding 37 years ago. Thirty-seven years! That was over three husbands ago for me. It was like old times. We talked about the old gang, reminisced about the good times at my mom's apartment jiving to the eight tracks. We even had a couple of spirited arguments with Ed who Wendy finally let out of the basement where he's been working as a mad scientist over the years. All in all, it was a great time and I managed to sco...

Whaddya mean there will be NO snow at Christmas?     Does this parka make me look fat?     Grandma's little boy     Thirteen and still a baller     

On Sunday, Scott went to the dog park with the pug Sophie and the lab Finnigan in tow. He was going to take some photos of the hounds against the backdrop of the wonderful burnt orange leaves and brilliant red Sumacs. After an hour of hard running, Finnigan was happy to climb in the backseat. Sophie wasn't ready to go it seemed. She ripped free of her harness and tore off into the parking lot. After several minutes of skirting cars and milling hounds, Scott managed to grab her and get her back into the car. In the meantime, he had forgotten he'd left his $1,000 camera on the roof. Scott was halfway home when he remembered his camera, which represented more than a hobby for him. It was both his livelihood and his passion. That camera has documented the birth of our granddaughter, the marriage of my daughter Marissa, the ages and stages of the kids growing up. It had also made him money from time to time. Just this past week, he'd gotten a contract to take picture...

Having three dogs is like having three kids. No matter how wonderful their worlds appear to be, one of them is always out of sorts. This week, it's the junior pug, Sophie, who has developed a kind of honking sound, like the noise emanating from a flock of Canada Geese as they bid farewell to the North in the fall in search ways to irritate our Southern neighbors. Like all pugs, Sophie has her peccadilloes. She has been itchy for a year and has developed a rather unsightly sore on her right ear. Itchiness is a permanent condition for some pugs; Ming had it her whole life and had to be on steroids in her latter years to prevent her from self-harm. Sophie is going the same way, I'm afraid, but we've managed to keep her off the medication by holding her, calming her, using the tried and true Temple Grandin squeeze box technique. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn't. The itchiness is bad, but the honking makes the whole thing worse. The new affliction is un...

For two years, Scott has been telling me that Finnigan, our Black Lab, would settle down...eventually. At that point, all of my dreams would come true. There would be no more menacing guests and crawling all over them, no more punching me in the face or ripping me a new butt hole when I turned my back on him. No more of that high peeled, incessant barking when he wanted out, or simply demanded attention. No more dropping saliva-coated twigs on my leg while he shook nervously. Sometimes, Finn has been hard to love, especially during the times he's put me in real danger, like that time at the dog park when he nearly knocked out my front teeth when he hit me in the face whilst running full boar. I had two black labs before Finn. Mandy died after eating an entire bowl of oatmeal chocolate chip muffins the babysitter had left out. Maggie was given to my friend Derik after many failed attempts at training and one scary event in the dog park when she pinned me on the grass with ...

I rolled over in bed last night, and my foot landed on a wet spot. Normally, in a loving adult relationship, this would be seen as a good thing. Alas, neither of the adults could be held responsible. Earlier, Sophie had been running in and out of the bedroom and decided it was too cold to go out, so she left me a nice warm present which quickly turned to an icy cold and revolting dagger on which I placed my right foot. So there I was, half asleep and too tired to change the sheets, too kind to wake Scott who was snoring on the other side of the mattress. There are times like these when I wish we were characters on one of those TV Land programs where couples slept in two separate beds. At least there would be a warm place in another bed whenever something awful this way comes. So I was awake and annoyed at one thirty, which is always a dangerous time to be awake. Mid-morning wakeage often means that the night will be long and sleep will be fitful, not ...

We changed veterinarians after the last one put down Hannah, our golden retriever, for cancer (legitimate) then killed my pug Ming. When I say "killed," I mean one of the colleagues of our chief vet guilted us into getting dental surgery for Ming even though the chief had told us months before she wouldn't survive it. She didn't and died on the table. It was horrific. As a result, Gordie, who was also undergoing dental, became an only pug and we were out three grand. Another time, the chief vet nearly killed Gordie when she was operating on him for crystals in his bladder. She sewed him up wrong and had to pay another vet to re-operate on him. That should have been our first clue that we didn't hire the Vet of the Century. In response to killing Ming, Dr. Kevorkian told us how very sorry she was, then sent a donation to the Ottawa Humane Society on our behalf, then sent us a grief card. I'm always amazed at these "random acts of kindness...

There is another use for the SodaStream that Marissa bought me this Christmas. It will reduce, substantially, the overflowing recycle box, that one that fills to the brim with soda water cans each week. The SodaStream should reduce our carbon footprint. With fewer cans, there will also be fewer cardboard boxes to throw out. But the real reason I'm happy is that we may finally manage to thwart Sophie Scissorhands whose primary occupation is shredding paper. She could be the inspiration for the saying "the dog ate my homework". Leave out a box, an LCBO bag or have a thesis lying around and you will find bits of it in the bathroom, under the blanket or simply where it used to be. Leave the Vanity Fair in the can and you will find the head of Amy Adams dismembered in another location. And don't even get me started on toilet paper, her favorite of all. By the time I find a toilet roll, it is more or less cement, made so by Sophie's over-active pug saliva ...

I got a brand new soda maker for Christmas, which was a terrific present, all things considered. Many of you will know that pouring soda water on a carpet is an effective means of stain removal. We used an entire bottle of it last night to get at least four stains out that were made by Finnigan who used his tail to clear the coffee table of pop, Scotch, red wine and tea. This morning, I discovered a few trails also left by Sophie who took the late shift, clearing the coffee table of leftover butter tart wrappers and napkins which she pre-chewed. Young dogs make excellent hosts at Christmas. They greet the rellies at the door, keep them at bay until they remove their shoes, jump all over their good Christmas togs, then puke on the humans, just when they are about to reach for their drinks. The pups also thrill at the responsibilities of chewing guest shoes if they are left on the floor, instead of locked in a cupboard somewhere, and opening presents if they are...

At about 4 this morning, I woke up and Finnigan was standing on my head. I moved his paw from my face and tried to make him get off the bed, so he crawled on top of me. An 80 pound black lab is a hard boulder to move. Was Sophie under him? After several tries, I got him to roll over. We began to spoon as he lay his big stupid head on my bladder. Okay, okay, he wants out, I thought. I looked at Scott who wasn't much help and staggered to my feet. Finnigan bounded off the bed and outside into a ridiculous windstorm that was churning in the yard like a mini-duster. He went to the end of the yard and just stood there, inanimate for fifteen minutes. He peed, then came in, but wouldn't leave the front hall way. I realized how deeply he had been affected by the television we had been watching. Get yourself to a sheltered area at the lowest part of your house. Which was exactly what he was doing. He just looked at me. What? You hear about dogs who save their masters from cer...

Sophie has invented a new game. She gets under my two hundred pound leather sofa and starts to wimper because she can't get back out. If I were a patient person, I would wait until she figures that she can get out the same way she got in. I suspect that would take months. So I have to lift the couch to let her out. Is this the curly tail wagging the owner? Finnigan lost his red ball somewhere -- perhaps under the couch! -- and we went to Pet Valu to get him another one. The clerk shrugged and said they didn't have any. So we bought him this Kong instead. He likes to bring it to company after rubbing it with spit and dirt, then drop it on freshly washed and pressed pants. Subsequently we have lost all of our friends. Thanks, King Kong. Gord remains unimpressed with both of them.  

I don't know how she did it, but Sophie the Pug got up on the table, traversed the countertop and dropped the recyle bin onto the floor this morning. We've taken all the chairs away and anything she can use as a platform but she still manages to get on the counters. She steals things. We find cutlery under the couch and Gordie's thyroid pills in her bed. I hope she isn't thinking of becoming an endocrine addict. Sophie and Finnigan are starting to remind me of Rocky and Bullwinkle. Sophie is the hyperactive flying squirrel with the high pitched bark. Finnigan is the dumb accessory-after-the-fact. I guess that means Gordon J. Blackstone is Boris And I'm Natasha. I can't imagine what Finn and Sophie would do if we left them together alone. The food fight in Animal House comes to mind. For that reason, leaving the house involves sequestering Finnigan who is now so big he can put his chin on the counter. He can't be trusted to be left a...

The Red Ball is a hit at our house. Thank you, Kong. Thank you so much. I've been trying to curb Finnigan's bad behavior. The barking. The menacing. The jumping. Nothing worked. Nothing. Until the Red Ball. Finnigan is now obsessed. He sits at the bottom of the stairs waiting for it. He lays on the ground rolling it over in his gob. He won't even bark anymore lest he lose control of the Red Ball. Instead of a high pitched woof, his bark is like someone stuff his mouth with something. Which in effect, I did. What's best about the Red Ball is that he likes to play fetch with me. He brings it to me -- but only after he's smeared it with dirt, drool and foam. Good boy, Finnigan. I'm going to need new chairs.  

Finnigan taught me how to play fetch this weekend. Here he is with his new red ball. Before this summer, Finnigan had no interest in the fetching process. He was content to bark and jump and menace the pugs and the children. But something's changed in him of late. It sounds corny but it was like a switch went off in his reptilian brain. Finnigan was looking for a connection. I will admit in front of a jury that Finnigan is not my dog. He is Scott's dog. I have pugs. Finn waits at the door for Scott to come home and hugs him. Me, he barks at. Sometimes, he bares his teeth. There is no respect there, none. He is a punishment from God, at least that's what I think sometimes. But about a month ago, Finnigan began to reach out to me. He began interrupting our Dominoes games by bringing me twigs, drooly, foamy twigs laced I am certain with E coli. It was a real nuisance. The twigs landed on my pants or my bare thigh and as many times as I tried to throw them out ...

Over the ten years that Scott and I have been together, we've been apart maybe a half dozen times. For years, we have lived and worked together, two peas in a very small pod. I take this all for granted until he disappears on a caper. That's when I realize how much space he takes up in my life. This last weekend, Scott set off in the squeaky Subaru to pursue his culinary dream, with a VIP ticket for an audition for Masterchef Canada. I was left alone with the dogs. Secretly, I was looking forward to batching it and stretching out in the bed. Having three dogs and a large husband means that I slumber on a tiny sliver of mattress, and half a pillow. By morning, I'm usually bare-assed with no covers. The dogs serve as punctuation, with Sophie curled up behind my knees like an apostrophe, Gordie on my feet like a period and Finnigan between us like an exclamation mark. You get my drift. There is no spooning in our bed unless it involves a snoring black...

    A kid never forgets her first dog or the first time she pees herself in public. I got my first dog in my sixth year. It was also the year I couldn't get to the outhouse in time to relieve myself and found myself standing in a puddle of wee, in my best dress, in front of granny's house. This is first memory of life on this planet. My mom named my dog Penny. She always gave our dogs plain girl names, not like mine which was Rosalie. Why, I always wondered, did the dogs get better names than I did. Penny was an adult Golden Retriever we got from one of those families that dumps their dogs on a farm when they are too much trouble. She was an excellent, good natured dog, as all Goldens are -- unlike Labs, mentioning no names Finnigan. She was the color of sunshine and she lit up my lonely little existence. My Uncle Vern used to hook her up to my wagon and troll me around the property. I felt like a little princess in second hand shorts. Trouble with...

"Dogs have a different digestive system than we have," Scott explained as I cleaned up a mound of puke from in front of the Laz-y Boy chair. There was actually a hunk of wood in it. "How is that possible?" I asked him remembering the day my two-year-old Black Lab did her final curtain call after eating a dozen oatmeal chocolate chip muffins. "I think they're just stupid eaters." Finnigan eats poo for one. Any mound he can get his stupid black mouth around. And he eats sticks. He also jumps eight feet in the air to sample the tender shoots on the maple tree in our side yard. Last year, he killed another tree by whittling it down during the winter months. He is a constant gardener, ingesting all forms of flora and fauna, twigs and berries. Note to self: we must rethink his diet. When he was a puppy, he ate our prized tulips, the ones we had hoped to show off during the Ottawa Tulip Festival. He's such a voracious eater, I've simply b...

I was sitting on the couch talking to Nick last night, when it happened. Finnigan was all excited about seeing the Baby Skylar and had been barking incessantly. I told him to stop and he started toward me, not with the happy Lab swagger but charging me like a bull after a cowboy who was stupid enough to get in the ring with it. He lept over two chairs and the ottman, approximately three feet in the air, sailing straight toward me. It's hard to describe the feeling when 100 pounds of taut black muscle is about to crush you. Perhaps only wrestlers know this feeling. My body certainly knows the imprint.   Finnigan has body slammed me before. He nearly knocked out my front teeth twice at the dog park once when I was trying to pick up Sophie the pug, another time when I was putting a leash on her.   That was bad and it hurt, but this time, this time could have been a whole lot worse. Miraculously, he managed to land in the tiny square of...

It was my daughter Marissa's 24th birthday celebration yesterday. Wouldn't you know it? I forgot to charge my camera. No matter, she wasn't the star of her own party anyway. Finnigan kept barking in her ear and drooling on her clothes. Fortunately, Marissa knows enough not to wear her good clothes over to our house. Here is Finnigan giving me a stick. So much for those pants. When the party was over, the hounds decided to settle in for a small libation.   Too bad Sophie can't hold her wine. All in all, we had a fabulous time. Too bad Marissa and Jeff missed the after party. But they were on hand when Finnigan decided to do his favorite party trick.