The Online "Wake" For Bosko The Dog and The Pets Who Came Before; A Happy Ending

Tom Cat Angus

Chutney named after the preserves of the same name

Mommy Beasley the stray that came to stay forever

Zappa named after musician Frank Zappa and recognized as such by Zappa's son Dweezil

SOME FESTIVE PET STORIES THAT COME WITH POSITIVE OUTCOMES - AMIDST THE SADNESS, IS A HECK OF A LOT OF JOY - AND CRAZINESS

ANIMALS DOING THE BEST THEY CAN TO COMPANION AND ENTERTAIN US THROUGH THE DAYS OF OUR LIVES

     ON SUNDAY WE LOST OUR DOG BOSKO. I WISH IT HAD ONLY BEEN THE CASE SHE WAS TEMPORARILY MISSING FROM THE HOMESTEAD. IF THAT HAD BEEN THE CASE, WE WOULD HAVE UNDOUBTEDLY BEEN ABLE TO FIND HER, SITTING ON THE EDGE OF THE BOG, WAITING FOR THE INHABITANT DEER TO AMBLE BY ON THE OPPOSITE SIDE. YES, AFTER MANY YEARS OF COMPANIONSHIP, AND GOOD FUN, SHE SUCCUMBED TO THE CYCLE OF LIFE. I WROTE ABOUT IT IN YESTERDAY'S BLOG, AND AS WRITERS CAN DO BETTER THAN MOST TO VENT INNERMOST FEELINGS, GOT A LOT OF ANGUISH OUT OF MY SYSTEM, BY OPENING UP TO YOU KIND FOLKS. AS SAD AS IT WAS, AND ALWAYS IS, WHENEVER A PET PASSES-ON, YOURS OR OURS, YOU HAVE TO TURN IT ALL AROUND EVENTUALLY, AND BE THANKFUL OF THE RELATIONSHIP YOU DID ENJOY, WHETHER IT WAS A LONG ONE, OR A SHORT RUN. AS SUZANNE AND I HAVE QUITE A BIT OF IRISH IN OUR BLOOD, AND OFFER THE DECEASED OUR RESPECT, BY ALWAYS HOLDING A PROPORTIONAL WAKE, I THOUGHT IT THE RIGHT TIME, TO TURN SOMETHING SAD INTO A FITTING MEMORIAL TRIBUTE. CONSIDER THIS A SORT OF WRITTEN WAKE, AND YOU ARE ALL INVITED TO PARTICIPATE. I BET BY THE END OF TODAY'S BLOG I'LL HAVE YOU LAUGHING, AND WE WILL ALL THINK MORE POSITIVELY OF THE GOOD TIMES WE'VE HAD WITH ALL OUR PETS, BIG AND SMALL, IN AN AQUARIUM, OR IN A BIRD CAGE. THIS IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO BOSKO, A DOG THAT LIKED OUR HOUSE MOST, WHEN EVERYONE WAS IN A GOOD MOOD. CURIOUSLY, IF WE WERE ARGUING, BOSKO WOULD PULL BACK INTO A CORNER, LIKE A CHILD, FRIGHTENED OF WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN WHEN HIS OR HER PARENTS STARTED TO FIGHT. SO WE'LL KEEP THIS LIGHT AND LIVELY IN THE OLD GIRL'S MEMORY. SHE WOULD HAVE LIKE THAT SORT OF THING.
     MY MOTHER AND FATHER, ESPECIALLY WHEN WE LIVED IN BURLINGTON, WERE NEVER WITHOUT A BLUE COLORED BUDGIE. I GREW UP WITH A CIRCA 1950'S BIRD CAGE HUNG OFF AN IRON FLOOR STAND, AGAINST ONE WALL OF THE KITCHEN. WE HAD FOUR BIRDS BUT I ONLY REMEMBER THREE OF THEM. ED USED TO LIKE TO BRING TINKER-BELLE OUT OF HER CAGE, ON HIS FINGER, AND HIS TRICK WAS TO PUT IT ON THE END OF HIS BIG NOSE (BROKEN IN MANY FIGHTS IN THE NAVY) TO MAKE ME LAUGH. I WAS SCARED TO DEATH OF THE BIRD BECAUSE IT USED TO BITE MY FINGERS. I ALWAYS THOUGHT THAT TINKER HAD A FOUL DISPOSITION, THAT MADE HER WANT TO PECK AND BITE AT THINGS, BUT MY DAD THOUGHT IT WAS OKAY; EXCEPT THE DAY SHE POOPED RIGHT IN HIS MOUTH WHILE HE WAS LAUGHING; THE BIRD DIGGING ITS TINY TALONS INTO HIS BULBOUS BEAK AT THE SAME TIME. THE NEXT BIRD TO COME HOME, AFTER TINKS DIED, (NOT AS A RESULT OF MY FATHER'S RETALIATION) WAS NAMED SAM, AND ED, FOR WHATEVER REASON, WOULDN'T TAKE HER OUT OF THE CAGE THE SAME WAY AS HE DID WITH TINKER. WHEN MY MOTHER WAS CLEANING THE CAGE, SAM WOULD MAKE A BREAK FOR IT, AND FLY AROUND THE ROOM LIKE A BAT ON FIRE, AND CHASE ME UNDER A TABLE. SAM WAS A MUCH BIGGER BIRD, AND COULD POOP LIKE A LANCASTER BOMBER, DELIVERING ITS PAYLOAD ON ENEMY-HELD TERRITORY. SHE GOT ME A COUPLE OF TIMES, AND IT WAS FUNNY TO WATCH MERLE RUNNING AROUND THE HOUSE WITH A WET RAG, TRYING TO MOP UP THE POOP BEFORE IT COULD STAIN THE SOFA, OR MARK UP HER HIGHLY POLISHED COFFEE TABLE. LET'S JUST SAY, SAM FOUND AN OPEN WINDOW ONE DAY, AND I NEVER REMEMBER MERLE SHEDDING A SINGLE TEAR EITHER. WE GOT ANOTHER BUDGIE NAME TINKER BELLE, THE SECOND, WHEN WE SET UP OUR APARTMENT IN BRACEBRIDGE, AFTER THE MOVE NORTH, AND I REMEMBER IT BEING A CRANKY LITTLE BUGGER, THAT DID BITE THE HAND THAT FED IT. ALL THE TIME. IT REFUSED TO COME OUT OF THE CAGE, AND IT WAS QUITE A VOCAL COMPLAINER AS I REMEMBER, ESPECIALLY WHEN MY MOTHER WAS TRYING TO LISTEN TO SOMETHING THAT WAS EITHER BEING PLAYED, OR SPOKEN FROM THE FRIDGE-TOP RADIO. WHEN THIS BIRD PASSED AWAY, CLAWS-UP BY THE WAY, MY MOTHER GAVE THE BIRD CAGE, AND STAND, AWAY TO A NEIGHBOR IN OUR APARTMENT BUILDING. I WAS MAD ABOUT THIS, BECAUSE IT WAS A HIGHLY COLLECTABLE PIECE OF INTERIOR DECORATION. WE SELL SIMILAR ONES TODAY FOR UP TO TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS.
     MY FATHER WAS A DECENT MAN, AND HE WAS ALWAYS GOOD TO ME. MY MOTHER WAS IN CHARGE OF ADMINISTERING PUNISHMENT TO HER ONLY CHILD, BUT ED WAS A PACIFIST. WHICH IS STRANGE, BECAUSE HE HAD A TERRIBLE CHILDHOOD, IN AND OUT OF ORPHANAGES, WHEN HIS FATHER AND MOTHER WOULD JUST ABANDON HIM AND HIS BROTHERS IN REGENT PARK. BUT HE WOULD TELL TALL TALES, AND I COULD CATCH HIM ON THESE, EVEN AS A WEE LAD. LIKE THE TIME HE TOLD ME, THAT MY HAMSTER HAD DIED SUDDENLY, BUT I KNOW FULL WELL, HE SET IT LOOSE IN THE BACKYARD OF OUR BURLINGTON APARTMENT. IT WAS BETTER THAN FLUSHING IT DOWN THE TOILET WHICH I HATED TO THINK ABOUT. I THINK HE MAY HAVE THREATENED THIS ONCE, WHEN HE GOT MAD AT ME FOR SOMETHING, UNDOUBTEDLY REGARDING MAINTENANCE OF ITS CAGE. AS FOR LETTING IT LOOSE OUTSIDE, HE WOULD HAVE KNOWN IT WAS A DEATH SENTENCE, CONSIDERING THE NEIGHBORHOOD CATS THAT WANDERED THROUGH THE ABUTTING RAVINE. GOLD FISH DIED INSIDE A WEEK EVERY TIME, AND MY MOTHER WOULD REMIND ME, IT WAS BECAUSE I OVER-FED THEM. APPARENTLY, I KILLED FISH OUT OF KINDNESS ALL THE TIME. IS IT REALLY TRUE THAT A GOLDFISH WILL LITERALLY BLOW UP ITS STOMACH, IF THERE IS TOO MUCH FOOD DROPPED INTO THE BOWL OR TANK? IF THAT ISN'T WHAT SHE USED AS AN EXCUSE, ON THAT PARTICULAR DAY, IT WAS THE CLAIM THAT THEY DIED BECAUSE I HADN'T CLEANED THE FISH BOWL AS OFTEN AS I WAS SUPPOSED TO, WIPING THE SCUM OFF THE CASTLE INSIDE. THERE WAS A TIME WHEN THREE OF THEM DISAPPEARED ONE MORNING, AND SHE CLAIMED THEY MUST HAVE JUMPED OUT, AND SOMEHOW FOUND THE TOILET BOWL. I LOOKED HER IN THE FACE, AND ASKED IF THEY ALSO FLUSHED THE TOILET, TO COMPLETE THE MISSION OF ESCAPE. "DON'T GET SMART WITH ME TEDDY CURRIE, OR YOU'LL NEVER GET ANOTHER GOLD FISH." WHAT HAPPENED, I THINK, WAS THAT A GUEST IN OUR APARTMENT, OVER FOR A GAME OF EUCHRE, MAY HAVE DROPPED SOMETHING INTO THE FISH BOWL, EITHER INTENTIONALLY OR ACCIDENTALLY, THAT KILLED THEM OVER NIGHT. MERLE WAS PROBABLY TRYING TO SPARE MY FEELINGS, BY REMOVING THEM FROM THEIR BELLY-UP SITUATIONS, AND FLUSHING THEM TO WHAT SHE THOUGHT WAS A BETTER PLACE. NOT A GOOD THING TO DO FOR OUR SEWER TREATMENT PROCESSES. I PRETTY MUCH GAVE UP ON TRYING TO KEEP FISH ALTHOUGH I DID HAVE AN AQUARIUM FOR A SHORT TIME, THAT MY GIRLFRIEND PURCHASED AS A CHRISTMAS GIFT. I DIDN'T HAVE ANY BETTER LUCK, THAN WITH THE FORMER FISH BOWL, AND EVENTUALLY I GAVE IT TO A COLLEAGUE, WHO PLANNED ON SETTING UP THEIR YOUNGSTER WITH GOLD FISH AND GOOD INTENTIONS.
     I DIDN'T HAVE A GOOD RELATIONSHIP WITH DOGS IN MY CHILDHOOD. THE BENNETT FAMILY, ON HARRIS CRESCENT, HAD A CRAZY IRISH SETTER NAMED "DOOLEY," THAT SCARED THE BEJESUS OUT OF ME, EVERY DAY ON MY WAY TO AND FROM BURLINGTON PUBLIC SCHOOL. DOOLEY WAS A HUGE DOG, AND I WAS A SCRAWNY KID, AND IT COULD RUN LIKE THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN'S STEED, IN ALL KINDS OF WEATHER, AND ALL TIMES OF THE DAY. THEY NEVER TIED THE RED BEAST UP, AND ALTHOUGH, TO MY KNOWLEDGE, IT NEVER BIT ANYONE, THE FEAR IT CAUSED IN US KIDS, GAVE US ALL A TERRIBLE OPINION OF IRISH SETTERS. THEY'RE LOVELY DOGS, EXCEPT IN OUR CIRCUMSTANCES BACK THEN. WHEN MY PHYSICAL EDUCATION TEACHER ASKED ME I TRAINED TO RUN SO FAST, IN RACES LIKE THE HUNDRED YARD DASH, DURING OUR SCHOOL FIELD DAYS, I CALMLY STATED, "I HAVE TO RUN FROM DOOLEY TWICE EVERY DAY SIR." THERE WAS NO OUT-RUNNING DOOLEY, OF COURSE, BUT I LEARNED HOW TO DUCK INTO NEIGHBOR DRIVEWAYS, AND CLIMB UNDER THEIR VERANDAHS, UNTIL DOOLEY FOUND SOMEONE ELSE TO HARASS. THAT'S WHEN THE REAL RUNNING CAME INTO PLAY. GETTING AS FAR AWAY FROM THE BENNETT HOUSE AS POSSIBLE.
     OUR GOOD FRIENDS, JACK AND AGNES, WHO LIVED NEAR BURLINGTON, HAD TWO ENORMOUS AND IMPOSING DOGS, BUT THE ONLY ONE I REMEMBER BY NAME, WAS "MEG." I KNEW THEY HAD OWNED ANOTHER SIMILAR GIANT BEAST OF A DOG, THEY CALLED "COCOA," BUT IT HAD BEEN HIT BY A PASSING BUS, JUST OUTSIDE THEIR HOME. WHEN MERLE AND ED WOULD BRING ME TO THEIR OLD FARMHOUSE, I BEGGED THEM TO KEEP MEG AND HER PARTNER AWAY FROM ME. THESE DOGS LOOKED LIKE GIANT POODLES, BUT PROBABLY WEIGHED A HUNDRED AND FIFTY POUNDS EACH, AND MADE ME FEEL LIKE A MORSEL OF FOOD WAITING TO BE EATEN. THE PROTOCOL WAS LIKE THIS. JACK WOULD PUT THE DOGS IN THE BASEMENT, WITH A GATE ACROSS THE ENTRANCE, UNTIL WE CAME INTO THE HOUSE, AND FOUND A CHAIR IN THE LIVINGROOM SUITABLE FOR A LONG EVENING SOCIAL. I WOULD TRY TO SIT REAL CLOSE TO MY MOTHER, WHO ALSO WASN'T CRAZY ABOUT THESE HUGE BEASTS, BUT BECAUSE THEY DIDN'T WANT TO INSULT THEIR HOSTS, HELD ONTO HER FEELINGS WITH CLENCHED PATIENCE. JACK WOULD YELL OUT TO US, ASKING IF WE WERE OKAY WITH HIM LETTING MEG AND THE OTHER DOG, OUT OF THE BASEMENT, TO SOCIALIZE WITH THE GUESTS. MEG WOULD MAKE A RUNNING BEE-LINE RIGHT TO ME, WHILE I WAS COWERING, HEAD FIRST AGAINST MY MOTHER. "DON'T BE AFRAID TEDDY," AGNES WOULD CALL OUT TO ME, AS THESE BLACK DOGS WOULD POSITION THEIR MUZZLES INCHES FROM MY FACE. AGNES AND JACK DIDN'T HAVE KIDS, SO THE DOGS WERE THEIR FAMILY. THEY UNDERSTOOD THEM, AND I CAN SEE WHERE THEY WERE COMING FROM, WHEN THEY DECLARED THAT THE DOGS WOULD NEVER BITE ANYONE. I JUST HAD THIS FEAR OF BEING THE "ONE" TIME, WHEN THAT RECORD WOULD BE BROKEN. I MADE A PACT, SECURED AND REINFORCED ON EVERY TRIP TO THAT OLD FARMHOUSE, TO SEE JACK AND AGNES. IT WAS THE FOUNDATION OF A LIFELONG COMMITMENT, TO NEVER, EVER, EVER, FOIST MY PETS ON A HOUSE GUEST, WHO SHOWED EVEN THE SLIGHTEST FEAR OF PET CONTACT. I WOULD NEVER THINK OF TELLING A GUEST, THAT MY DOG, FOR EXAMPLE, WOULDN'T BITE THEM, BECAUSE THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN A LIE ON MY PART. OF ALL THREE DOGS WE'VE OWNED, DAMN-STRAIGHT, THEY WOULD HAVE BITTEN SOMEONE, ANYONE WHO TOOK THE LIBERTY OF PATTING THEM, WITHOUT A LONG, SLOW INTRODUCTION IN OUR COMPANY. MEG WOULD HAVE BITTEN ME; I KNOW IT, AND I WAS MAD AT MY PARENTS FOR YEARS, PUTTING ME THROUGH THIS TERRIBLY DIFFICULT IMMERSION WITH DOGS I DIDN'T LIKE. BUT I DID LEARN HOW TO MANAGE FEAR WITHOUT PISSING MY PANTS.
     THERE HAVE ALWAYS BEEN FAR MORE HUMOROUS ANECDOTES ASSOCIATED WITH PETS OUR FAMILY CAME IN CONTACT WITH, THAN STORIES ABOUT MISFORTUNE AND MISADVENTURE. IN THE ALICE STREET APARTMENTS, FOR EXAMPLE, THERE WERE ONLY A FEW EXCEPTIONS MADE, BY HILDA AND WAYNE WEBER, TO ALLOW RESIDENTS TO OWN PETS. THE DAVIS FAMILY HAD MOVED OUT OF THE APARTMENT BUILDING, SOME TIME EARLIER, (CIRCA LATE 1960'S) AND TOOK THEIR LITTLE HOUND DOG, "SCAMP" WITH THEM. SCAMP REALLY LIKED THE OLD DIGS, AND SEEING AS HE WASN'T TETHERED AT THEIR NEW ABODE, HE MADE THE SEVERAL BLOCK TREK TO THE APARTMENT BLOCK, ON MOST AFTERNOONS THAT FIRST SUMMER. MERLE HAD JUST PURCHASED A BRAND NEW LOUNGE CHAIR WITH CUSHION, FOR HER USE ON THE FRONT LAWN; AND HAD AFTER WEEKS OF USE, FINALLY DECIDED IT WAS TOO UNCOMFORTABLE TO SIT ON, WITH THE PLASTIC WRAPPING STILL COVERING THE MATTRESS. I SAT IN A LAWN CHAIR BESIDE HER, AS SHE RIPPED THE PROTECTIVE PLASTIC OFF, AND THEN SAT DOWN AND RECLINED WITH A GREAT, AND STRESS RELIEVING SIGH. IT TOOK HER A FEW MINUTES TO GET POSITIONED COMFORTABLY, WHICH WAS MUCH EASIER THAN WHEN SHE HAD BEEN SLIDING DOWN ON THE PLASTIC. I LOOKED EAST UP ALICE STREET, AND THOUGHT I SAW SCAMP COMING AROUND THE CORNER. I STARTED TALKING TO MERLE, AND FORGOT ABOUT THE DOG, AND WHAT MERLE MOST FEARED ABOUT THE DAVIS FAMILY'S PET. MERLE CALLED SCAMP "A LITTLE PISSER." HE MARKED EVERYTHING AND IT'S ONE OF THE REASONS MERLE HAD DECIDED TO KEEP THE PLASTIC ON THE CUSHION. SHE CONSIDERED IT "SCAMP PROOFING." WELL SIR, I DON'T KNOW HOW HE GOT FROM THE CORNER, WHERE I HAD FIRST SEEN HIM, TO THE SIDE OF MERLE'S LOUNGE CHAIR, WITH SUCH AMAZING STEALTH, BUT BEFORE MERLE COULD YELL OUT HIS NAME IN VANE, SCAMP HAD LIFTED HIS LEG, AND PISSED ALL OVER THE EXPOSED CUSHION. MERLE GOT UP OUT OF THAT CHAIR LIKE AN OLYMPIC HURDLER, AND I WILL NEVER FORGET WATCHING HER RUNNING AFTER SCAMP ALL THE WAY DOWN ALICE STREET, WAVING AT HIM, YELLING AT THE TOP OF HER VOICE, "WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU, YOU LITTLE SON OF A BITCH." WELL, SHE NEVER CAUGHT SCAMP, BUT COMPLAINED TO HER OWNERS, ABOUT THE BIG PEE STAIN ON HER LOUNGE CUSHION, THAT SMELLED LIKE THEIR DOG. FROM THAT POINT, MERLE SAT WITH A SPRAY BOTTLE FULL OF WATER, AND SCAMP NEVER CAME NEAR AGAIN.
     WAYNE WEBER, OUR LANDLORD, LIVED WITH HIS WIFE HILDA, IN THE HOUSE BESIDE THE ALICE STREET APARTMENTS. FOR WHATEVER CRAZY REASON, AND IT HAPPENED A LOT, WAYNE WOULD COME HOME WITH SOME VARIETY OF ANIMAL. WHEN HE WAS UNDER THE INFLUENCE, HE SEEMED TO ATTRACT STRAY ANIMALS. HE FOUND A GERMAN SHEPHERD ONCE, AND DECIDED THAT HILDA SHOULD HAVE A GUARD DOG THAT WOULD KEEP HER COMPANY, AND BAD GUYS AT BAY. NOW WAYNE WAS A HEAVY CONSUMER OF ALCOHOL, AND WHEN HE GOT A LITTLE TIGHT, HE SEEMED TO FIND BIG DOGS MORE INTERESTING AND CUDDLY THAN WHEN HE WAS SOBER. HE BROUGHT HOME THIS HUGE GERMAN SHEPERD THAT SEEMED HOMELESS, BUT MAY NOT HAVE BEEN, AND HILDA WAS HORRIFIED AND SCARED OF THE BEAST WHICH WAS ALMOST AS BIG AS HER, WEIGHING TWICE WHAT SHE DID. WHAT HAPPENED, OVER THE WEEKS FOLLOWING, WAS THAT HILDA TOOK A SHINE TO THE DOG, AND FOR ONE SIGNIFICANT REASON. AS SHE EXPLAINED TO MY MOTHER ONE AFTERNOON, THE DOG, THE NIGHT BEFORE, HAD DENIED "SATCH," (THE NICKNAME SHE HAD FOR WAYNE WHEN HE WAS DRINKING), ENTRY INTO THE HOUSE. FOR REASONS UNKNOWN, THE DOG DIDN'T LIKE THE FACT THAT SATCH WAS COMING INTO THE HOUSE DRUNK, AND DISORDERLY, AND AS HILDA WAS IN BED, AND SOUND ASLEEP, HER HUSBAND WOULD HAVE TO SLEEP IN THE CAR OR CAR PORT, WHICH WAS KIND OF NIPPY IF IT WAS IN DECEMBER. AFTER ABOUT THE FIFTH TIME HE WAS DENIED ENTRY TO THE HOUSE, ON ACCOUNT OF OVER CONSUMPTION, THE DOG DISAPPEARED FROM THE HOUSE, AND HILDA NEVER DID FIND OUT WHERE IT WAS DISPATCHED.
     ON ANOTHER OCCASION, AFTER HILDA GOT A PUG DOG, NAMED "CINDY," I WAS WITH MY MOTHER AT HER HOUSE, WHEN MERLE SUDDENLY ASKED WHY THERE WAS A HOLE IN THE DRYWALL, ON A SECTION OF WALL AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS TO THE SECOND FLOOR BEDROOMS. "OH, THAT, HAPPENED WHEN SATCH WAS COMING DOWN THE STAIRS, AFTER A SNOOT-FULL, AND TRIPPED OVER CINDY; AND AS YOU CAN SEE, LITERALLY PUT HIS HEAD THROUGH THE WALL." IT WAS TRUE. WAYNE HAD TO GET FIFTEEN OR MORE STITCHES AT THE HOSPITAL, FOR THE GASH TO HIS HEAD. FORTUNATELY, IN THIS CASE, HE DIDN'T HURT THE DOG, AND HIS HEAD MISSED A WALL STUD BY SEVERAL INCHES.

THE CAT CAME BACK THE HARD WAY

     My parents were given a kitten, when we were living at the former home of Dr. Peter McGibbon, in Bracebridge, back in the late 1970's, that they decided to call "Pierre-Margaret," and yes, named after the Prime Minister of Canada and his wife. I had taken the kitten with me, to play in an empty apartment, that I was helping to clean after a family had just moved out. I did a careful look around, to see if there was anything the kitten could get into, or up to, that would be dangerous for it, or me. From the moment I set the kitten on the hardwood floor, it took no more than five seconds, for it to climatise to the new environment, and then find the fireplace, and then proceed to jump up into the chimney, while at the same time, closing the damper with him on the other side. There was no way of raising the damper, without squeezing the kitten against the side of the chimney. Pierre-Margaret was sitting on the opposite side, and I was challenged with getting my hand through the slight opening, to try and grab her, so that I could pull her back through to the hearth. The little bugger kept biting and scratching my hand, but there was no way I could use gloves because I'd lose my sense of feel, and that might have caused me to injure the little beast, hauling it back through the narrow opening. It took my father and I over an our, to get a hold of her two front legs, to then turn her over fully, in order that she come down through the narrow slit head first, as she had gone up the chimney in the first instance. When I yelled to Ed, to come closer, because I was laying on my back, with my arm up the chimney, he hunched over me, ready to take the kitten as soon as it made the re-entry to the room. I should have known what was going to happen next, but being prepared for the explosion of soot, would have taken away so many of my fond recollections of this precious father-son-cat moment. When the kitten came sliding through the chute, it brought with it about a pound of chimney soot, and it kind of exploded as soon as the animal was past the damper. The kitten, black to begin with, was loaded with soot, and when she shook her body, just as I handed it off to Ed, hovering over me, there was a giant plume of soot spewing through the small room. Ed and I looked like coal miners, and the cat's white portions were completely black. Every time it shook, as it walked around the room, soot clouds were sent into the air. That one misadventure, resulted in two days of hard cleaning, to remove soot from the walls, the ceiling, the windows, and the rug in an adjoining room. The kitten was unscathed, but it took several baths to remove all the soot that had sunken into her fur.
     Our first dog Alf, came to us at about four years of age, and had already produced two litters for a previous owner. The dog had been surrendered to the Humane Society. I was a director of the new Bracebridge chapter, and Alf was one of the first dogs for shelter staff to make comfortable. She was a terrier-hound cross, and was a very good family dog. As I noted yesterday, it was an exceptional guard dog, and I never worried about leaving Suzanne and the boys alone, in any of the houses we resided, as long as Alf was on duty. Any intruder would have been attacked. I always had to identify myself clearly, when I tried to enter my own house, because Alf used to lay down right by the front door. A former owner had kept her tied out, which was pretty rotten, considering she wasn't spayed at the point we adopted her. Alf, formerly named "Princess," was a survivor, and had learned how to employ techniques for securing food, just in case she wasn't being offered any. There was a rule in our house, because of Alf's ability to scavenge. One day Suzanne lost about ten strips of bacon, walking the short distance from the fridge, to the counter, where she was frying-up breakfast in an electric pan. There was the happiest dog on earth, sucking back all this thick bacon, which meant a serious reduction in what we were going to have with our eggs. Alf had a lot of good opportunities for snacks, following behind the boys, when they got their lunch from the kitchen, and headed to the livingroom to watch Saturday morning cartoons. If the food dropped below a certain level, lets say knee high, she felt no compunction whatsoever, grabbing a peanut butter sandwich off a plate. It was hilarious watching her try to navigate the thick peanut butter that stuck to the roof of her mouth. Alf had also been able to hustle some steak portions, pork chunks, and turkey slices, when we'd make the food preparation error, of carrying the food too close to the boundary line. She wouldn't just snatch it, and gobble it up. She actually thought it was a fair play situation, that we understood as well, being more of a kind offering, than a meat heist on her part. She didn't run away, or give any kind of look, that would be appropriate to having done something she knew was wrong. We just had to be more careful how we transported food in the house, and the distance from her lips of any plate of food. The only mistake, was when she got a piece of meat with some hot sauce we were using, at the table, and there was a lot of wild lip smacking at the water dish immediately following.
      On a trip to Algonquin Park, one late September, we had a final lunch at the Tea Lake campsite before we left. Beans. A big feed of Suzanne's famous campfire baked beans. This was still risky business, for the humans, considering the long drive back to Gravenhurst, and because of how cold it was, we would have been awfully uncomfortable to have the windows open. One of the boys, decided he didn't want any more of the beans, and without letting us know, fed them to our second dog, Cosmo Kramer. True to the Seinfeld sitcom, and the character Cosmo Kramer, who in one skit feeds the horse of his handsome cab, "beefarinos," our dog, at about Dwight, on our way home, started farting a blue streak. Every few miles, I'd stop, to take him out in case he had to poop. It wasn't until the misery we'd experienced, by time we hit Baysville, that Andrew told me the flatulence must have had something to do with the bowl of beans he'd given him at the campsite. It was the most awful road trip we've ever had as a family, and we had to brave the cold in order not to get sick ourselves. Every time that dog dropped one, it seemed to smile, and then chuckle, seeing us with our heads out the windows.
     Our recently deceased dog, Bosko, named after the police officer from the television show "Third Watch," was a social farter. Whenever we had guests or were sitting down to dinner, Bosko would saddle up good and close, and break wind with considerable gusto. No, he was never fed Suzanne's backed beans. In social circumstances, I'd just fob-it off on one of the boys, out of consideration for the dog's feelings, and our house guests seemed more forgiving than it was human, and not a dog fart. They'd immediately think I didn't bother walking the dog to alleviate the pending bowel situation, but instead think the boys were just having some bodily recreation. I would sit down with a slice of pizza, as a little evening treat, and Bosko, as was traditional, would sit to my left side, knowing that there would be a morsel tossed her way; whether a slice of pepperoni, or small portion of cheese. Then I would hear the one cheek sneak. I'd look at Bosko, and she would look away, or at someone in the room, as if to lay blame elsewhere. I'm convinced she knew farting was socially unacceptable even for the family pet. Getting back to Cosmo Kramer's handsome cab, and the horse named "Rusty," that he had fed the beefarinos. The riders who had paid for a carriage ride around Central Park, had to abandon the handsome cab because the horse kept farting, and gagging them in the buggy. Well our livingroom could get just as bad, depending what dog food Bosko had been eating. Out of our three dogs, Bosko had the foulest wind of all. It could clear the room, or have us gagging at dinner. If we put her out in the yard, she would start whining when she saw Suzanne moving in the kitchen, filling plates with lunch or dinner. As we never inflict our pets' bad habits on our neighbors, we'd hurry to let her back in the house, and it would be a truly good event, if we could make it through a meal, without hearing what you would expect emitted from the arse of a drunken lumberjack after twelve draft beer and ten pickled eggs. But we loved her dearly.
     On the morning we picked up our dog Kramer, Andrew, Robert and I, took him over to The Bog, to familiarize the new arrival with the place he would walk most often in the neighborhood. We were all standing up the embankment above the lowland, which is the dividing topography between the adjacent woods, and the bog below. It isn't a high elevation by any means, but a tumble down wouldn't be pleasant, and there is a narrow, winding creek directly below. We didn't know Kramer (formerly known as Simba) at that point, or what triggered her curiosity in the semi-wilds of Gravenhurst. All of a sudden, as happens frequently here, a couple of deer poked their heads up from a dense area of bullrushes, and Kramer saw them. Being part Lab, and part Huckleberry Hound, I should have expected something adverse to happen. He didn't bolt at that moment. Instead, he seemed to be pointing at them with his body, like a pure bread Pointer. For whatever reason of negligence, on my part, that I handed off the leash to youngest, and slightest son, Robert, the pleasure of being in care and control of our new dog, could have had a really bad end-result. Like a flash, Kramer took off like he had wings, and down the steep slope he went, dragging Robert face first through the hillside shrubbery, and landing in the creek at the bottom. The leash got caught up in a branch, so it stopped him from getting across The Bog. Robert was laying outstretched at the base, with his face close enough to the water flow, to stick his tongue into the water for a little refreshment, after an exciting drag. Andrew and I criss-crossed to the bottom to help the wee lad out, and untangle the dog leash. Robert was a little bruised, scratched and embarrassed by the misadventure; but this for Kramer, was what we had to get used to from that point. We had been warned, before we adopted him, that a previous owner had kept him locked in a basement, where he fed on the scraps of food tossed down the stairs, and garnered from pawing through bags of garbage the owner throw to the base of the stairs. On our first walk at the shelter, she ate a large Tim Horton's coffee cup in front of our eyes. We had a lot of backtracking to do with Kramer but she came around after the first year, and would actually turn down the chance to put the kill on a hamburger wrapper, or empty ketchup package, which apparently, she had lots at her former place of residence.
     We came home one night last week, and after our usual cat count, at dinner call, we found Black Angus to be missing from the others that were feeding. Suzanne and I looked in all her usual resting places, and in the bedrooms. He likes to sneak in when we open the door in the morning, so if we don't check thoroughly when we leave, we might well expect there will be a pee incident when we get home at night. You don't want to cut off access to the litter box. Or else. We just assumed he was hanging back because of some mood he was in, and we went about the business of preparing for supper. Suzanne asked me to turn on a corner light in the living room, and in the process, I knocked her knitting needles onto the floor. When I went to pick them up, something licked the top of my head. Startled, I looked at Suzanne knitting bag full of wool, hanging off a press back chair. I could see an ear poking up, and then a second, when I rose a little higher. Son of a gun, he had somehow, through a tiny opening, managed to slip into the bag, from the position of another chair beside, and got her self situated like "Rusty," in the famous Canadian children's television show, "Friendly Giant." Rusty was a little puppet character that lived in this bag hung near the fireplace. Or at least this is how I remember it from my hazy youth. It was a cute picture for the family photographer, but it was obvious, if anything had gone wrong with her entry into the mouth of the bag, she could have been easily strangled by the cloth handles. Angus, by the way, is a huge Tom cat, and this is a very small bag for carrying around balls of wool. The good fortune, that day, was that no harm was done, but Suzanne no longer hangs the bag off the back of the chair.
     Although we miss all our former pets, including Bosko, who died this week, we have many family gatherings each year, Christmas for one, when we have a session about the many interesting moments we've had with our succession of pets. Consider, the young lady, son Andrew was dating, a few years back, who went to the bathroom, and was subsequently frightened half to death, when our cat Fester II, jumped on the back of the toilet and then onto her shoulders. Fester was a tiny wee thing, that had also experienced a bad start to life, being locked in a shed with a cat-hating dog. We let her dwell in one of our two bathrooms at Birch Hollow, where she liked to lay on the a top shelf in the large utility cupboard. But she was a very sociable cat, and she loved when company came. We had just forgotten to tell our house-guest, that Fester might wish to introduce herself in this "round the neck" fashion. In fact, she would ride around on our shoulders for hours if we didn't otherwise extract her. The girl was a little freaked, and probably told her parents that we were the true-to-life Munsters of television acclaim. On another occasion, Fester was out in the living room, at the time I had a wood carver friend over for a visit. He was a cat hater, and immediately started complaining about Fester, jumping up on his lap, and kneading at his sweater. I kept telling him to just lift her down, and eventually she would get the message. The guy was being a bit of a tool, and I couldn't have cared less, if he decided to leave prematurely, as he was there to ask me for a favor anyway. The more determined he got, putting Fester on the carpet, the more the cat thought he was playing with it. It was a parallel to the Marx Brothers' Hat Gag (go ahead, google it), and I could see the guy's neck getting red from frustration, as the cat was quite happy to carry on this action and reaction for the rest of the visit. He tried to get up, and she jumped on his back from the table, when he bent over to get his hat off the sideboard. He started to twist like Chubby Checker, trying to get the cat off his back, and I started to laugh so hard I almost lost consciousness. I finally was able to grab Fester off his shoulders, at the point I thought our guest was going to start crying, and you know, the last words he said on his way out the door, "I'm never coming back to this house until you get rid of your stupid cats." I muttered in a hushed voice, "Good riddance." And seeing as he wanted me to write something for free, his hasty departure also cancelled out the need for me to say "No way!"
     Our pets have given Birch Hollow a lot of character beyond what the humans contribute. Losing even one of them, sure makes a big dint in the constitution of everyday living. It's hard to imagine living without their contributions by all ways and means. One of our felines has just now deposited something, the aroma of napalm, in the litter box, so I have to sign off. Thanks for visiting. Hey, it's "Corner Gas" movie night on CTV. Next to the Beachcombers, Corner Gas has been my favorite Canadian sitcom.