Five and a half years ago my husband and I moved across the country, mostly to be closer to Robert’s mother, who today is 92 years old. We left what I consider a large home; ‘large’ being relative. So for clarity, I shall say it was around 2600 sq.ft. with a full basement that at night housed our two large (by any standard) dogs. One, a St.Bernard/Lab mix, in the 120-130 lb. range. The rest of the time, the dogs were loose outside. We lived on three acres with woods and creeks, so the dogs were easily entertained with various squirrels, snakes, etc.
This house, the one I am presently sitting in is not quite 1000 feet. With a basement accessible by stairs that bring to mind a ladder, so steep I’ve become adept at going up and down like Charlie Chaplin, and only one bathroom. So, there was an adjustment period…
* If you are asking why would we choose such a small house…see beside to the right…link to ‘our cottage for rent…click on, and go to photo gallery, beaches….this all a five minute walk from here, that’s pretty much why.
One of our first considerations, in our new small house was…. where do the dogs sleep?
Plan A. The basement. I shan’t delve into that for too long. Strange sounds emitting from the well-water softening/treatment system, steep stairs. Suffice it to say, that was a complete disaster.
Plan B. The kitchen floor with a ‘baby gate’ barricade of sorts to keep them from wandering too much into our now ‘smallish’ living space. Our kitchen floor space, when shared with two dogs and mats then becomes more dogs/mats than visible/accessible floor. Frying eggs becomes a problem.
Plan C: Build a dog house. Let’s say a 8′ by 6′ building. That should be big enough. Pricing such a project, since the dog house requires electricity, for light and heat, and some windows, and a wee porch… turns into a rather not so funny joke. My initial reaction upon hearing an estimate, was a stupified, ‘Are you out of your mind??’
Plan D: Build a larger ‘dog house’. Because if we’re going to spend that much, we might as well end up with something that later can serve as extra sleeping space for people…or something along those lines.
And so it is built. A 10 by 12 foot building and rather lovely I might add, tho’ finished with ‘dog taste’ in mind, i.e. plainish/neutral/soothing paint tones and economical ‘dog’ quality linoleum flooring, for easy sweeping and mopping since they get muddy and wet…and apparently, somewhere in our neighborhood is being touted as a ‘Pretty fancy dog house’.
Dogs move into fancy new dog house. Abbreviated version:
Night one. There is a hoot owl or two, hooting nearby.( I think it is owl mating season) The dogs scuffle in their fancy new dog house, perhaps reminiscent of their former life; chasing smaller furry/feathery things. They wrestle and squirm… we listen to sounds from our open bedroom window thinking, ‘They’ll adjust’. Next morning when we let the dogs out, we notice scratches on the drywall by the entrance. Oh well.
Night two. More hooting, scuffling, ect. ‘Surely, they’ll adjust’ we say to each other. Next morning, deeper scratches in drywall, and scratch marks on fancy new door. Oh dear. Oh well.
Night three, more hooting, jostling…etc. In the morning, more varied scratch marks on walls and door as well as actual teeth mark punctures in the fancy ‘faux’ brass door knob. Yes actual holes. Not pretty. Need to rethink.
Resort back to plan B: Dogs move back into kitchen. On the plus side, my flexibility has improved, even without yoga. And the fancy new dog house becomes a fancy storage hut.
Fast forward 8 or 9 months (and just how daft can I be?): I awake in a hot sweaty flash at 2:38 am…zapped with the realization…there is a cabin…a rather nice one…just steps away…meanwhile I’ve been sharing our limited table space with my husband for the past months, negotiating over whose turn it is…
FYI …further commentary will NOT be so heavily ‘dog’ oriented. The fancy dog house bit leads to another story…but I have gone on long enough for now. Stay tuned.
I love the Newfoundland and Labrador commercial that says something to the effect of… ‘if you’re always a half hour ahead, you never have to hurry’. Here I am in Nova Scotia, 4 hours ahead of where I lived for 25 years and am finally getting used to the idea that I cannot call friends in BC at 6 am, or that if I want to watch the Vancouver Canucks, I have to stay up till 2 or 3 in the morning to see the final score. So I don’t do either. The early calling thing has been a tough sell. The Canucks, well, they have a sufficient following…
But I love the not hurrying part… for the most part.
I was rendered almost speechless on several occasions when we first moved here, going into stores, and asking for assistance. In a pharmacy I got the attention of not one, but several clerks, who engaged in lively debate over which shade of makeup best suited my skin tone. And in a clothing store had sales girls gather in a group outside my change room to smile and praise over the outfit I was trying on, bringing forth alternate sizes or colors to try on, or another style that just might suit. And had a fellow open a package of hooks at a hardware store and give me one since that was all I needed. It made me go home with a big old smile on my face.
In a different hardware store, I happened on a rare occasion to be on a tight schedule, and needing some paint mixed up, entered the store, seeking immediate assistance which I have become accustomed to, rather to find the whole lot of service personnel gathered in a huge circle around a Newfoundland dog. Well yes, the dog was perhaps one of the most magnificent dogs I have ever seen in sheer size. Yes, it had a beautiful enormous head and a shiny black coat. And my oh my it was tall. So yes I did join the circle to marvel and spout exclamations of wonder, and after what I considered the appropriate amount of ooohing and ahhhing time, I searched out a set of eyes to make contact with to communicate that I needed some paint. Now!
But no….. Everyone was very busy admiring the dog. I waited some more, my smile straining. I almost resorted to getting down on my knees and begging or pulling on someone’s arm, when finally, I was able to suggest politely in a brief moment of silence that I required assistance.
So when I got home, all stressed over being behind schedule with my painting project, and whining to my husband over such inconveniences bestowed upon me, he laughed and responded with, “Yah, but you love that…all the talking.”
Another time, I was third in line at a check out at the grocery store, with ice cream in my cart. To find the clerk was telling the current customer ALL about the present needs of her cat, which required this surgery and that medication, and so they discussed earnestly and loudly, while she slowly scanned each grocery item. So I did what I am inclined to do in such circumstances; pick out a handy magazine and scan for celebrity gossip or 20-minute recipes. Finally it was over. The groceries were bagged. The customer left. I breathed a sigh of relief.
But the person in front of me, decided to add her commentary, because she too, had a cat with numerous health issues that also need discussing right now. And the minutes passed. Midway through that interchange I asked the person behind me in the lineup, will they mind…I need to exchange my ice cream which was becoming squishy and threatening to leak all over my fruit and vegetables.
I checked out with my new ice cream, smiling and nodding politely over the cat, because I was hearing it for the third time. And as I left the store, I smiled again, reminding myself… this is one of the reasons I love it here.
Because people don’t hurry.