Tuesday, October 6, 2015

Montreal Walkabout

Missing Buddy something fierce today, so I decided to walk to Atwater Market.

Met a pleasant looking older woman who was walking her two little dogs, so I stopped to pat them.

Our conversation moved from dogs (nod nod) to Barbados (nod nod) to children starving in Haiti because 3/4 of the population believes in voodoo so they take babies into the woods and leave them to die because they're NOT CHRISTIANS (wait, wha-at?!)

After several minutes of this nonsense, I finally said, "Surely you don't believe that God punishes children because their parents are not Christians?" And she said, "No, no. It's not God. It's the devil."

The dogs were cute at least.

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

R.I.P. Buddy

Buddy died in my arms last night, at home, peacefully and quietly. He had been diagnosed with cancer last May, and it slowly invaded his body, ultimately affecting his heart and lungs. The vet said Buddy would not make it to see the summer, let alone live through it. But live he did, tail wagging and eyes sparkling, and I made sure he had the best summer ever. He ate steak and fresh strawberries, swam and retrieved endless sticks, chased chipmunks off the deck and napped on the couch. And then I had to let him go. I woke to my new reality of life without my beloved Budster. No gentle snoring in the corner of our bedroom woke me this morning, no nails clicked behind me on the hardwood floor as I made my way to the kitchen for coffee. My home feels so empty, and my heart is broken, the price one pays for loving so fiercely. We sign up for this reality when we bring that puppy home to share our lives, but damn it's hard to say goodbye.

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Summer flowers

Playing around with the Canon.

Love the sharper images this lens provides.

All under the watchful gaze of The Budster.

Monday, June 22, 2015

Carefree Summers

I WAS BORN in the fifties. Helicopter parents were non-existent. Most of our parents were barely out of their teens themselves, so benign neglect skirting the cliff edge of negligence was par for the course, which was usually where you'd find the young fathers on weekends. "Go outside and play!" was our mothers' mantra. "And don't come back until I call you for supper, the street lights go on, or you're bleeding." The moms slathered on baby oil, held reflectors under their chins and discussed the merits of Toni® home permanents while we made our own fun.

Someone always had a soft red, white and blue rubber ball, or an India rubber ball which bounced a lot higher, but left bigger bruises after Dodge Ball. We played Red Rover, Red Light Green Light, Tag, and a game with linked elastics pilfered from the junk drawer. Some called it...

to read the rest of my story, go to WATERSHED MAGAZINE

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Cycling Through Life

MICHAEL PALIN SAID one of the most important days of his life was when he learned to ride a bicycle, and so it was with me. 

And every spring since, there has always been that one day that marks the turning point, when a whiff of freshly thawed earth and new grass hits me, and it's so intoxicating I am as sun drunk as a gamboling lamb.

As a child, warmer weather meant two things: I could...

If you want to read the rest, pedal on over to my column in Watershed Magazine.

Press HERE and with a wave of my magic wand, you'll be in.

Saturday, March 14, 2015

Buddy is Busted

Doug and I had a date night tonight. 

A dinner out. 

A new place around the corner. (Lucille's. Very nice. Most Excellent plate of oysters on the half shell, calamari, steak and lobster rolls. A lot of extreme facelifts all around us, and I don't mean renovations to the restaurant. But I digress.)

We were gone...maybe two hours, if that. We were with Buddy all day, and in fact, when I went to the gym this afternoon, Doug waited until I got back before he did his errands so Buddy wouldn't get lonely. 

I took him for a long walk, fed him, and played fetch the monkey with him for twenty minutes. Even though that monkey was soaking wet with dog saliva and smelled like corpse, I picked it up and flung it over and over again because it made my furry little friend happy.

To Summarize: The Budster was well fed, amply walked and played with, so he wouldn't have the energy to get into mischief.

And yet he still felt compelled to do this tonight. How did he get in there, I hear you asking? Don't you make sure all doors are closed securely, knowing he has a history of murdering paper when he's alone? Well, someone (hey, no names, no finger-pointing, but there are only two people living here and it wasn't me) left a door ajar.

You tell me. Guilty face? Or unrepentant miscreant?