September 3rd, 2010

Kitsgal Moved!

LOL….no, not from Kitsilano but from Squarespace (the past host provider for this site).  After a couple of years on Squarespace, I decided to move the blog to WordPress.org.  You are still be able to find it via the ever so catchy domain name of http://www.kitsgal.com/ but you may find that your old subscription feed is interrupted.  Unfortunately, you may have to resubscribe.  :(

Right now the site is in the moving phase so there are boxes everywhere!  I appreciate your patience.  I hope to have everything ship shape and ready for guests asap. 

Thank you so much for your support of my little stories.  I really appreciate it.  I hope to see you again soon. 

xo,

Maggie  :-)

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August 16th, 2010

Camping Outside

Camping Outside

The last time I went camping, I woke up soaking wet in the middle of a field.  I was in Girl Guides and shared tent with Lorna Ramstead.  The fact that Lorna and I had pitched our tent on a huge slope without enough tent pegs meant there was nothing to keep me from rolling out of my tent in the middle of the night during a sudden torrential downpour.  My dinner of Chili Surprise and my bubble mat air mattress (essentially the bedding version of a slip and slide) meant I was ripe for midnight wakeboarding.  The fact I lay on the field for about 45 minutes before I woke up is an indication that the conditions outside the tent were about equal to the conditions inside the tent.  Alas, I swore at that time, camping was not for me. 

When the boyfriend, Peter, suggested we go camping, I was excited.  In my mind, camping is something that occurs when you stay at a hotel of less than 4 stars.  In these tough economic times, I thought it would be fun.  When he clarified that we would be camping outside, I froze.  “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO…!” I screeched internally, while passive aggressively saying, “That would be fun,” externally. 

Pete’s version of camping is very different from most people…..even those who like camping.  If there is no risk of forest fires, bear attacks or tornados, he is really not interested.  He refers to the TV show Survivor as Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.  So as Pete packed oxygen masks, bear spray, and a harpoon gun, I packed life insurance, rosary beads and extra booze. 

We arrived at Birkenhead Lake Provincial Park just in time to hear reports of possible landslides in the area.  Pete was thrilled.  We set up our small hurricane proofed tent and proceeded to look around the grounds.  I was shocked at how much camping had changed.  We were the only ones in a tent.  Everyone else brought their homes with them.  The site next to us was occupied by a family from Langley.  Their RV was easily the size of the space shuttle.  It had a chef’s kitchen, a soaker tub and a 42 inch plasma TV.  The dad, Ralph, said they loved camping because it allowed them to return to a simpler time.  I guess the fact they could only get 145 channels returned them to the simpler time of 2008. 

Cooking meals on this trip was tricky because of the campfire ban due to extreme forest fire risk.  Pete was thrilled.  This meant we had to cook with his tiny survivalist camp stove – a strange contraption that most military officials would call an incendiary device.  We heated canned chili (no surprise there) and ate it with fresh Cobbs bread, real butter and a six pack of beer.  I must admit the food got better tasting with each can of beer.  By the end of the six pack, I could have sworn I was eating at Bishops. 

A couple of hours later, I faced my next real challenge.  Earlier in the week, Peter had given me the resource book “How to Sh*t in the Woods, 3rd Edition: An Environmentally Sound Approach to a Lost Art” by Kathleen Meyer.   Pete was mortified that I had no practical experience sh*ting in the woods.  I was mortified that he had a book on the subject.  I was also surprised (and pleased) that Kathleen Meyer’s editors could get that title past censors but I guess when you are talking about bodily functions, you can use medical terms like that.   Even though I studied the book and looked at the pictures from every possible angle, I could not see how any gal could possibly sh*t in the woods without sh*ting in her pants.  Perhaps the gals in the photos have better aim than I do.  This meant I was relegated to sh*ting in the camp outhouse.  Thank goodness Pete brought the oxygen masks. 

Entertainment in the evening consisted of hunting mosquitos, questioning why we were camping outdoors and gossiping about the neighbours.  I soon realized the campsite was a microcosm of a weird wilderness suburb….and I was the Gladys Kravitz of that world.  It didn’t take long before I got to know everyone around me.  I didn’t know them by name – I knew them by my personal judgement.

  • The trucker with tattoos in site 6 spent his time hacking down tree branches to make more poles for his awning.  I guess he liked to return to nature so he could destroy it.  Thus, I nicknamed him, Global Warming. 
  • The people in campsite 18 rode their ATVs everywhere – even to the campsite 17.  I called them the Jabbas after Jabba the Hut. 
  • The guys in camp 13 sat outside their RVs drinking beer for the entire trip.  I called them the Single Alcoholics

Pete made me stop speculating about people when I insisted on calling the Ranger so I could twitter a sighting of the Black Eyed Peas in campsite 72.

In the end, I actually really loved my time there.  And this trip, I didn’t roll out of my tent – mainly due to the ground staples that Pete put in my sleeping bag to stop it from being sucked into a twister – but I loved breathing fresh air, walking in the woods and watching people.  I can’t wait to camp outside again soon.

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July 3rd, 2010

Dress Codes

Dress Codes

I dread getting invitations to an event.  As a shy gal. any offer to socialize is met with a high degree of anxiety.   At any given function, it is only a matter of time before I will ask someone about his/her girlfriend in front of their their wife.  Or make some joke about dengue fever only to find out that everyone in the room has lost a loved one to that disease. Or bring chicken wings to a vegan pot luck.  My foot in mouth problem is a source of stress, but it is not the reason for the dread of invitations.  I truly dread invitations because most of them come with a suggested dress code. 

Yesterday, I was invited to a party where the dress code was clearly stated as smart casual.  When I think “smart casual”, I think of Stephen Hawkin in sweat pants.  Now, I am pretty sure that the hostess didn’t want me to arrive in a wheelchair waving the flag for lululemon but that is what it brought to mind.  After consulting Wikipedia, Cosmo and Oprah.com, I have come to the conclusion that no one knows what these dress codes mean either.  But I did learn that there are a wide range of dress codes. 

Common Western Dress Codes

Court Wear:  This is what you would wear if you are meeting the Queen or fighting a parking ticket.  In either case it is best not to wear a tube top and your Daisy Dukes.

Formal Wear:  This means that you must iron your outfit.  It is not good enough to throw it in the dryer for 20 minutes and pull it out the second the dryer beeps.  It is a myth that your body heat will naturally iron out the 14 deep creases still left in it. 

Semi-formal Wear:  This means mix and match.  Jacket and tie on top/  Hawaiian shorts and flip flops on the bottom.

Cruise Wear:  Try to recreate any outfit Tom Cruise has worn in a movie.

Casual Friday Wear:  Often businesses, will allow their employees the option of dressing casually on Fridays.  This means you will be spending the day on facebook, buying stuff on eBay, gossiping with co-workers and generally doing other tasks that ensure you have 0% productivity.  Dress to facilitate this. 

Street Wear:  Dress like a douchebag. 

Black Tie:  Wear a black tie.  Only a black tie. 

Club Wear:  Mix a tiny patch of shiny cloth with uncomfortable, ill-fitting  shoes.  You will need large amounts of alcohol to numb the pain in your feet and your soul.

Active Attire:  This means to wear sweat pants and a sweat jacket even though the last time you had any physical activity was Gym 8.  Wash the ice cream stains out before posing as a jock in public.

Vegas Wear:  Put together the most gosh darn awful outfit you can.  Then take a Bedazzler to it. 

These dress codes are frustrating and confusing.  Please, if you are throwing a party, just answer the one question we all have …Bottom line:  Can we wear jeans? 

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June 4th, 2010

Dog Park

Dog Park

All of life’s lessons can be learned at the dog park.  Having watched my big old dog Brutus interact with some of his peers at our local dog park, I can see a lot of truth there.  Here are some of the lessons, he/ I have observed.

  • A wagging tail will get a better response than growling teeth.

    The best dog sign ever!

  • You have to clean up your own crap.  No one else will do it for you.  It is the responsible thing to do.  You can pretend the crap didn’t happen but everyone knows it is your crap and thinks you are lame for not dealing with it.
  • You have more fun in life when you are off leash than when you are on.
  • Some dogs, no matter how hard you try to be nice, simply will not like you.  Stop struggling to sniff their butt.  Move on.  It’s their loss.
  • The other dog’s stick will always look more attractive than the stick you have in your mouth.  If you take that dog’s stick, he will just take the one you dropped and then you will want that one.  It is a vicious cycle to be avoided.  Be happy with the stick that you have.
  • Humping is fun at any time of the day.
  • Some times you just have to eat things that are not good for you.  Yes, that includes rotten dead squirrels.
  • Barking will get you attention in the short run.  In the long run it will get you banned from the dog park. 
  • There will always be dogs that can run faster than you.  Use your brain and your experience to get the ball.  If that doesn’t work, use your big barrel chest to bump the ball out of their mouth when no one is looking.
  • Cats can never be trusted. 
  • Digging for dirt will get you in trouble. 
  • You can teach an old dog new tricks…except for fetch. 
  • Your true friends will want to play with you even after you have been skunked.
  • Just because a dog is cute, it doesn’t mean he is nice.   If he is wearing an pretentious outfit, it means you should pity him.
  • The happiest dogs are the ones you want to hang out with the most.
  • Play every day regardless of your age.

If I had been to the dog park earlier in life, most of the mistakes in my 20s would not have happened.  Dogs are so wise.

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May 4th, 2010

Pet Funerals

Pet Funerals

When I die, I want to be taken to a pet funeral home.  Having my beloved cat Puddy pass away at home presented a bit of a problem.  When I was growing up, we lived on a big piece of property and so we had a pet cemetery in our backyard (not the Stephen King kind – a regular non-flesh eating non-mutant kind).  There we would lay to rest all manner of pets and road kill that would find themselves departing in our vicinity.  What didn’t seem right to bury, we flushed and it all worked out. 

Here in the city, I just didn’t know what to do with my cat.  I couldn’t picture burying him in the jungle that I call our backyard or taking him to the vet where I couldn’t be sure what they would do with him.  So, I called our vet and he told me about a pet funeral service called “Until We Meet Again” located in North Vancouver.  I honestly didn’t know what to expect but I called the number.  Jocelyn answered.  She had a kind voice and, despite the fact that the only word I could coherently blubber was “cat”, she knew what I meant.  I made an appointment to see her at 1pm. 

I arrived at the address Jocelyn gave me but the door was locked so I rang the door bell.  I didn’t expect to hear Amazing Grace but the doorbell made me smile.  Jocelyn was an older, lovely looking lady with a soft tone who invited me into their family viewing area.  I put Puddy, whom I had wrapped in his favourite fleece blanket and sealed in a blue Tupperware tub, on the viewing platform.  The music of Yanni was playing and there was a fireplace burning.  It felt like a lodge at Whistler….except with 100% more Yanni.

Jocelyn had a lot of experience in the pet funeral business and I instantly felt comfortable with her.  I am sure she didn’t want to hear about Puddy’s fur ball problem or my theory on why Justin Bieber is such a teen heart throb, but she listened patiently to my ramblings.  Then, we got down to the business of “the final arrangements’.  I chose cremation given that the insane cost of even a cat sized plot of land in Vancouver would require me to sell a kidney.  Soon  the experience became fun as I realized it was a lot like shopping. 

Hmmm…which urn would Puddy like best?  The white one.  He liked to sleep on the white desk…thus, the white one.  My logic was flawless. 

Then it was over and it was time to say good-bye.  I left Puddy in Jocelyn’s capable hands and would return the next day to pick him up.  His ashes will be scattered some place where birds are plentiful and there is long grass to eat.  It helps him with his fur ball issue.  I know some people will think I am going overboard for “just a cat” but to me, he was part of my family…my devoted companion and my loyal confidant.  I am so grateful for the joy he gave me.  Thank you Mr. Pudder-man. I will forever miss you.

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February 23rd, 2010

Meat Bonspiel

Meat Bonspiel

Curling was going to be my shot at Olympic glory.  Growing up as a kid in a small northern town, your talent on ice was always seen as your ticket out of there.  Since I was born a girl (and remain one to this day), my parents put me in figure skating.  Back in the day, girls didn’t play hockey.  They stalked hockey players.  Unfortunately, my Nordic roots did nothing for me and I was a dismal failure on ice.  My parents kept hoping that I would be a late bloomer but, after 4 years of lessons, a ton of money in skates and one disastrous fall where I took out the set of the local ice show, they resigned to the fact that their heavy set daughter was not going to get an Olympic medal in figure skating…or probably any other sport for that matter.  Instead, they rightly concluded that my ticket out was going to be via scholarships and education.  So they gave me books and I spent my days and nights studying, note-taking, and reading. 

One night, the babysitter failed to show up and so my parents were forced to take me along on their outing.  And where did we go?  To my town’s version of the Olympics.  Yes.   The Sixth Annual Bavarian Meat Bonspiel.  My dad, being the local banker, was involved in all the town’s activities.  We walked into the rink and it was magical.  One side was set up as a German meat buffet.  The other side was the rink.  Suddenly my mom’s outfit – a Bavarian short skirt, peasant top and ribbon head-dress – made sense underneath her parka.  All the curling wives were on duty as Bavarian serving wenches.  Their job was to add a classy, cultural element to the evening… and to bring meat and beer to the curlers and fans.  My mom, who had secret ambitions to be a B movie actress, loved the part – although her over the top Marlene Dietrich impersonation, along with too much meat innuendo, made the United Church Minster blush and made the other husbands stand in long lines for what she was dishing out. 

But that night was not about drinking beer and eating meat.  No.  It was about local victory, pride and the winning of more meat.  Did I forget to say that the winning team got a freezer full of meat?  Oh.  Well they did…so the stakes were high…in every meaning of the word. 

I had never seen curling before.  And, once I did, I was mesmerized.  While figure skating was a sport of athleticism, grace and co-ordination, I watched my dad’s team (and their opponents) engage in truly hard core competition.  And they played the match while smoking cigarettes, eating meat and drinking beer.  This was my kind of sport.  I instantly perked up.  These were true athletes.  Sure, Elvis Stojko and Patrick Chan can land jumps sober…but can they do it after eating five pounds of meat, drinking a flat of Molson’s and chain smoking a pack of Rothmans?  I don’t think so. 

Watching the tournament, I could see myself doing this.  As a Virgo and a granddaughter of a maid, I was really good at sweeping and I could chuck snowballs with the precision of a seagull over a freshly washed car.  I was enthralled.  Even when all the teams were so obviously hammered that half the stones started going into the wrong lanes, the competition was exciting.  I clapped. I cheered.  And  I cried when my dad’s team won the freezer full of meat.  I believed that I, a nerdy, shy, unathletic gal, could finally become a world class athlete at something! 

On the ride home, I begged my parents to let me become a professional curler.  But they were firm.   “No. Your future lies in your education,” they responded.   And with that decision, my Olympic medal hopes evaporated.  To this day, I still have a soft spot for curling….and, of course, for meat and beer.  They are three of my favourite things…and I am world class at two of them. 

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February 13th, 2010

Olympic Angst

Olympic Angst

The Olympics are stressing me out.  Not the games themselves.  No.  The Canadian energy around them.  It is true what “they” say.  We are a polite and a nice bunch of folks.  We want everyone to be happy and to like us.  That sentiment is becoming our undoing.  Cut it out already!

When I was in high school, I was so shy that if a teacher talked to me, I would start to cry.  And heaven forbid, if one of the cool kids gave me a compliment, I became overwhelmed, peed my pants and downplayed the achievement.   Growing up I often made decisions based upon what I though other people would like rather than what I truly wanted.  Granted, what I truly wanted was to have other people like me.  This explains my decision to buy a Firebird as my first car (even though I was scared to drive the thing over 40km/h) and my love of bangs when they did nothing for my overly square facial features.  However, in retrospect, those choices (and about a million others) were some of the worst decisions of my life.

As a city, it feels like we are stuck in high school again.  We are consumed with what the world thinks of us.  And, yes, things have not gone 100% according to plan.  We all felt mortified and saddened when we heard the news about Nodar Kumaritashvili’s death in a training run on the luge track.  That is not how anyone wanted to see the Games begin.  We are a nation with a lot of empathy and caring and we mourn the loss deeply.  We were also stressed when the TV cameras showed the royalty box half empty; when the fourth pillar didn’t rise up for the cauldron and when masked mobsters smashed the Bay windows so they could get some free red mittens.  We react as if we are the only ones to experience a live event glitch before.  Remember, Janet’s wardrobe and Kanye’s mouth?  Both of those malfunctions happened live too.  So we couldn’t get up one of our pillars.  We were tired and probably had a bit too much to drink.  It happens.   And I can assure you, it has never happened before. 

The social media age is allowing our teenage angst to become very public.  A summary of tonight’s Twitter tweets:

  • The buses were late. (when have the buses in Vancouver ever been on time?)
  • It won’t stop raining.  (it’s Vancouver)
  • My fries were cold.  (you shouldn’t be eating fries – have you seen your thighs?)
  • We only got silver.  (you’re kidding me, right?)
  • People are upset and complaining.  (it’s Vancouver – we love to grumble.  See reason: it won’t stop raining)
  • The thug protesters are going to start dating the Khardasian sisters.  (cool!)

Honestly, hearing the non-stop stress is stressing me out.  I have friends who are police officers.  I have friends who are protesters (the good helpful intelligent kind; not the kind who cover their faces so their moms won’t ground them when they get home).  I have friends who have spent the last four years volunteering for the Games.  I have friends who have spent their lives training for this event.  I have friends who are poor and rich and everywhere in between.  And I love them all.  Their differing opinions on these Games are what make it so amazing to live here.  History ultimately will decide whether these Games were a good idea or not.  Knowing Canadian history, the answer will lie some where in the middle between the two opposing viewpoints – and it will be long, rambling and boring. 

For the next 15 days or so, I am going to turn off what others think and focus on what I think.  At the end of it all, I am sure I will have an opinion.  And given my Canadianism, you can bet it will contain good and bad and poke fun at something or other.  Until then, go out and form your own opinion. Let’s not worry about the world thinks of us.  Let’s worry about what we think of us.  Be safe. Have fun.  Go Canada. 

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January 18th, 2010

Stormy Weather

Stormy Weather 

I have an intense fear of my roof being ripped off by a large bird.  It happened again last night.  I was lying in bed as a severe storm passed overhead, and my heart started to beat wildly. 

When I was growing up in Burns Lake, we had nasty electrical storms.  While incredibly beautiful from a distance, the fork lightening was known to be deadly and something to be avoided.  Of course, after each storm, the local news would profile the same guy who had been hit by lightening 14 times in a row and survived.  For some reason no one thought to fully question Reggie Stanson’s affection for playing golf in turbulent weather…nor did anyone do a suicide assessment on him. 

As a young girl, the storms were terrifying.  The house would shake.  The lightening would illuminate the whole house for long periods of time.  Tree branches would break  and fires would start wherever the fork lightening hit.  

One night, in a valiant effort to calm his scared daughter, my dad thought it would be a good idea to explain thunder and lightening – you know, to apply a more rational approach to the fear.  Did I get the traditional children’s explanation such as “Oh, don’t worry.  That is God bowling.  The lightening happens when he gets a strike!”  Or, “Oh, don’t worry.  That is Mother Nature pushing a hot and a cold front together. They are fighting over space in the atmosphere just like you and your sister fight over your play area.”  No. I got this tidbit of rarely used Scandinavian folklore.

Listen, Maggie.  Thunder and lightening are nothing to worry about.  What happens is sometimes, the Norse god Thor gets upset at the world so he opens up the sky and he sends a gigantic flying eagle down to earth and it lands on the roof of the house.  Sometimes the bird flies off with the house and takes it back to Thor as a gift.  See, nothing to worry about.  Now good night, Sunshine. 

With that jaw dropping anecdote, I was tucked into bed and left to worry about the dangers of thunder and lightening, our friend Reggie (and the fact that no one in the town thought he could survive one more lighting strike)….and now a giant eagle landing on the roof of my house and possibly taking it back to some guy with a weird name as a gift! 

To this day, I am still terrified of thunder storms.  Granted, I have a much more grown up understanding of thunder and lightening now – it is caused by space aliens who are doing a laser light show for friends - but the giant eagle thing is always in the back of my mind.   It is why I own two cats.  In the event the big bird shows up, I want to be armed with as much cat power as possible. 

As a post script, Reggie survived two more hits of lightening and to the best of my knowledge is still alive and doing well.  He has no hearing in his left ear and can pick up CBC North without a receiver.  He has given up golfing in stormy weather but has taken up skydiving.  Stay tuned.

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December 2nd, 2009

Cleaning Barriers

Cleaning Barriers

Most people have skeletons in their closets.  My closets are full of dirty laundry.  Not dirty laundry as in juicy family secrets.  No. literally, piles of dirty laundry. 

It happened again yesterday.  The phone rang and some friend-type person wanted to “drop by” for a visit.  That simple gesture created a frenzy of cleaning that resulted in me using a snow shovel to clear the living room.  At this point in time, I have three “emergency hide it” closets whose layers look much like an archaeological dig of visits past.  To find my pink fuzzy slippers, I had to excavate down to the “2002 surprise visit from Aunt Gretchen who was passing through town on her way to the airport” layer.

Every time it happens, I swear, it is the last time I will be caught off guard.  I promise to turn over a new leaf and keep the house so pristine that even the Pope could drop by at any time and not get his white robe covered with cat hair.  But it never happens.  I get distracted by the important things in life – eating cookies, watching TV and Googling for celebrity gossip. 

As a Virgo, I am supposed to be obsessed with cleanliness….and I guess in a certain way I am.  I love a clean house but, after much analysis done one afternoon when I was supposed to be cleaning, I now see that there are barriers in my way.  If any of the following situations exist, they create the perfect storm that can very quickly take my house from neat to nasty.

Barriers that prevent me from keeping my house clean

A dishwasher that is either full of clean or dirty dishes.  Either way, this situation does not allow me to put dirty dishes in the dishwasher, thus they pile up in the sink.  And, if they pile up in the sink, it prevents me from running the dishwasher which starts its own vicious cycle.

Fruit.  I often buy fruit with the fantasy of actually eating it.  Eventually, the fruit decomposes in the bowl and attracts a colony of flies and wine makers. 

Pets.  I love ‘em, but they are furry.  And most of that fur is on the floor, couch and walls of my house.  Once I spent 15 minutes grooming the cat only to realize it was a dust bunny. 

Laundry.  This is perhaps the biggest barrier to cleaning that I have.  It has its own sub-list.

A missing laundry basket.  Without this feature, clothes seem to enjoy frolicking in their natural habitat….the floor. 

A chair to hang gently worn clothes.  Some clothes by their nature can be worn again.  If they don’t have a chair to hang on, they end up on the floor.  This then makes them dirty, mainly because my cats will have slept on them.  Now they need to be washed.  This means more laundry.

Clean laundry that needs to be hung, folded or otherwise dealt with.  Clean laundry usually ends up on the bed when it comes out of the dryer.  At the end of the night, when I need to use the bed, the pile of clean clothes gets moved onto the floor with the promise that I will hang them tomorrow.  That promise is never fulfilled and pretty soon the clean clothes start mingling with the dirty clothes and I can’t tell which is which.  This then means I need to rewash it just to be sure.

The lack of a maid.  If I had a maid, my house would be cleaner.

Empty diet coke bottles and cans.  I drink a lot of diet coke.  I once put a days worth of empty cans out in the alley for the can guys to take and one guy said it looked like I must have had a great party.  Sadly, they were all mine.  Now I can only put out a few at a time so I don’t get a lecture on diet coke dependency from the can guys.

Napping.  I am genetically predisposed to napping.  If I had to choose between cleaning the bathroom and napping, napping would win.  You can’t fight your heritage.

Guests.  While guests coming over cause me stress, I think I don’t have enough guests over on a regular basis.  If I lived in the White House, I suspect I would be motivated to keep the house clean if George Clooney and members of the UN were dropping by daily.  I would clean for George Clooney.

So, if you are dropping by, please give me at least 24 hours notice and promise not to open any closet doors.  There is no guarantee you will be able to shut them again. 

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November 6th, 2009

Mutant Pets

Mutant Pets

I have an affinity for mutant pets.  All the pets I have ever owned have had something horribly wrong with them.  I currently own two cats.  Puddy is an old orange cat with emotional eating problems and a serious addiction to catnip and tissue paper.  Soda Fish is a Bengal mix cat with a gimpy paw, head injury and missing tooth.  He likes to gum the couch when he thinks no one is looking.

I went to the SPCA with the intent of breaking this pattern.  I wanted a small young, healthy, well adjusted dog to add to my menagerie of Chrysalides pets at home.  When I got there, the SPCA adoption gal Anne said, “Oh no….you don’t want that type of dog.  I have the dog for you.”

She led me to his cage.  Inside, was not my dog.  This dog was old, sad, and huge. His name was Brutus and he was a Rottweiler/ lab mix.  Unfortunately for Brutus, all the cute parts of both breeds missed his gene pool.  Think big, black drooling devil dog and you have Brutus.  Anne suggested I take him for a walk.  At 85 pounds of pull power, he more or less took me for a walk.  The entire time, Brutus did not look at me or wag his tail.  This was not my dog.  I retuned Brutus to the shelter and lied to Anne that I liked him but felt we didn’t connect so he would be best in another home. 

The following week, I continued to think of Brutus.  I kept checking the SPCA website to see if he was still there and every day I was met with his sad, drooling picture.  The next Saturday, with the image of this big, devil dog haunting me, I drove back to the SPCA to take him for another walk.  By then, Anne had more information on him.  Brutus had been chained outside by previous owners and neglected.  He also had a list of other problems:  infected teeth, hypothyroidism, social anxiety, stubbornness, fear of noises and dog acne.  This was seriously not my dog! 

I took him out for a walk anyway and, for about 20 minutes, he pulled me around the area. Then we sat on the lawn near the shelter and I looked at him closely.  He avoided eye contact for the longest time.  Then, he quickly looked me in the eyes and gave me the smallest of tail wags.  Sigh.  With that, I was smitten.  This was totally my dog. 

I adopted him that day.  Since then, I have learned a lot more about Brutus. 

Things I now know about my new old dog

  • He is a wimp.  He is terrified of the cats.  (Although, they do “work it” by circling him slowly when he is trying to sleep.)
  • He loves bunnies and will chase them if given the chance.  If you are holding the leash when this happens, it means you will also be chasing bunnies by default.
  • He likes to wedge his 85 pound body onto my tiny loveseat and pretend to look comfortable. 
  • His tail wag could be declared a lethal weapon.  It can clear the coffee table with a single sweep.
  • His devil dog appearance terrifies the good people of Kitsilano and they will pull their designer dogs away from him. Perhaps if he had a more hipster name like Tristan or Toby and wore a bandana scarf they would be more okay with him.  Chances of that happening is 0%
  • He has a brain aneurism if you pick up a stick and look like you might throw it.  His greatest joy in life is chasing a stick.
  • He whimpers when he is happy.  He whimpers when he is sad.  He whimpers.
  • Finally, he is a wonderful dog with a great loving personality.  I am very proud to say “Yes. This is my big old devil dog.”

Thanks Anne and the fine folks at the SPCA.  You were totally right.  Brutus is the perfect dog for me.

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