“One of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever and ever. One knows it sometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn dawn-time and goes out and stands out and throws one's head far back and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowly changing and flushing and marvelous unknown things happening until the East almost makes one cry out and one's heart stands still at the strange unchanging majesty of the rising of the sun--which has been happening every morning for thousands and thousands and thousands of years. One knows it then for a moment or so. And one knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying slowly again and again something one cannot quite hear, however much one tries. Then sometimes the immense quiet of the dark blue at night with the millions of stars waiting and watching makes one sure; and sometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true; and sometimes a look in someone's eyes.”

― Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

Salt marsh clouds

Sleeping cat

Traeth Llygwy, Anglesey

Assateague pony

We had not intended on getting another cat. Our neighbour had other ideas. 

She's lovely and she has fit right in.

     
A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period —
When March is scarcely here

A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.

It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.

Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay —

A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.

                                 -Emily Dickinson

The little orange blur by her paws, near the bottom of the frame, is her beloved orange ball. She's dropped it at my feet and wants me to throw it.

''So?'' you might ask. ''What's the big deal? Isn't that what most dogs do, especially retrievers?''

Well yes. At least she used to.

Over the last year or so, she got into the habit of coming to me with her ball and offering it up, but when I went to take it, she refused to let go of it. She did not want to give it up. I was puzzled, and a bit frustrated, but I didn't really stop to analyze why her behaviour changed. I just kept throwing balls for Nutmeg, and the odd time that Arwen would surrender her ball, she got a throw as well.

In hindsight, I realized that my little dog was indeed telling me something. Her back legs were excruciatingly painful, especially when she ran after balls to fetch them. Her instinct and passion for retrieving were still as strong as ever, but she knew that giving me the ball meant it would be thrown and she couldn't bear the pain. She was telling me this and I missed the memo completely.

Over the last couple of weeks, she's been depositing the ball at my feet again. While it fills my heart with joy to know she is feeling better, I am at the same time filled with sorrow, regret, and guilt for not having understood what she was trying so hard to tell me.

They perhaps look concerned because their all-important dog-biscuit-baking-appliance is kaput, thanks to a french-fried mouse in the wiring. Thanks, mouse, for the $1500 new stove that's not being delivered for 3 weeks.
 

South Portage, oil on cradled panel, 11x14

South Portage: oil on cradled birch panel, 11x14. This is for a stranger. A friend asked me to paint it because the lady she cares for used to live here, but has since sold the place and moved into a supported care home. She misses her place on the lake very much. I would as well.

Katie and Sky, oil on canvas paper, 9x12

Katie and Sky, oil on canvas paper, 9x13. This was painted for 2 very wonderful people I am proud and lucky to consider friends. They always have at least 3 and often more rescued, older Shelties. Katie and Sky passed away within a few months of one another. Sky had deformities in his legs and could not walk, but he loved to go out in the stroller.

This is a voluntary initiative meant to put a bit of good out into the world. Artists leave their creations in public places, tagged with information on the event, and whoever finds the art gets to keep it.

I made it into a bit of a scavenger hunt in my village, publishing a rhyming riddle that people had to solve in order to find the art.

Here are the pieces that I offered up.

Today is the day that Doggerels goes out into the world. This book of poems about dogs is an accumulation of years of writing, and the subject matter goes back even further, encompassing the lives of many beloved dogs.

I have always loved writing; it has been a creative outlet for nearly half a century. As a little girl, I began reading very early, and writing not long after. Most of it was horse-oriented because I was horse-mad. I think I was in grade two or three when my first poem was published. I can still recite that little masterpiece:

Some horses run free

Others work hard all day

Just to get their oats and hay

Although a horse is beautiful to see

It’s better to see it running free.

That little pearl was included in the school board’s poetry collection for the year, and for eight-year-old me it was a Very Big Deal indeed.

I went to an elementary school that had a rather mixed profile of students...it was a very WASP demographic, but a vast mix of socioeconomic strata. I resided somewhere safely, anonymously in the middle. At least until grade four, the year when the powers that be chose a half dozen of us and, in September, I was told on the first day of school that I would not in fact be entering grade 4 with my classmates, but rather joining a mixed grade 4/5 class. In other words, skipping a grade. Not too traumatic on paper, but in reality what happened was that the ''browners'' were thrown in the lions' den of grade 5 reprobates and rebels who didn't match the grade profile any more than we did. We were ostracized and ridiculed and bullied and we wore that label right through grade 8, when my family moved.

On the plus side, our small group bonded in solidarity and weathered it together as friends. We joined a poetry club in grade 7, and there were four of us, five including the teacher. That endeavour drew perhaps the worst mockery and harassment of all. Poetry became for me a very introspective exercise, something that caused me shame. 

It took me decades to come back to it, and when I did, I still found (and still find) myself squirming self-consciously about sharing it. Over the past decade I have been posting photos on a blogging site, and from time to time another blogger on that site published poems to accompany his photos. Moreover, he was a high school teacher and a basketball coach who used poetry with his students and athletes. His practices were a source of courage and inspiration for me to let my own poems fly free. Just recently he posted a picture of a discussion with a classroom literally crammed with students...a seminar about poetry. Amazingly, the students were there voluntarily and openly and enthusiastically. How I wished that I could have had that sort of experience. 

Soleil’s passing in November 2020 was what sowed the determination in my mind to publish my poems about dogs. In the wake of her death, I was only able to express the rawness of loss through poetry. I decided that a book collecting all of my dog poems would be a tribute to her and to all that she meant to me. Writing it for her gave me the permission to publish, to share, to put it out there. Getting it prepared for publication was a useful distraction, keeping me on the straight and narrow amid all of the recent stress with Arwen’s two surgeries. In all honesty, I have no idea how this book will be received, but I also realize that its reception matters far less to me personally than does its creation.

My secret hope is that the people who do hold it in their hands and flip through the pages will relate to it and see their own dogs, past and present, in the words and illustrations. In the vast corpus of world literature, I can only find one single poet who has dedicated a volume entirely to dogs, and that poet is none other than the late, great Mary Oliver. She too has been an inspiration to me, and while I cannot pretend to emulate her, I certainly believe that she was on to a good thing.

Last but not least, Doggerels is both an end and a beginning. It is the product of a long creative process, but it is also the catalyst for a couple of new, related endeavours.

It has been a long and difficult couple of years for all of us, with a whole lot of negativity across every facet of our lives. My wish is that Doggerels be a springboard for goodness and positivity. To that end, I will be donating some of the proceeds of sales of the book to Elder Dog Canada, a Canadian charity that does wonderful work for elderly people and their pets.

Secondly, today also marks the launch of a new Instagram account, @doggerels_dogkus, where I will share a ‘dogku’ (a dog haiku) each day – a little daily morsel of poetry about dogs. I hope that you will enjoy them and relate to them.

Hallie was a wonderful service dog who guided her partially-blind owner, Becca, for many years. She then retired to live out her golden years with Becca's mom and dad. She was a beautiful, gentle dog. Rest in peace, Hallie.

The water in the background is the mouth of the Niagara River, emptying into Lake Ontario.

Across the river is Youngstown, New York, USA, and the building on the point is Fort Niagara. Niagara-on-the-Lake has its own fortifications, Fort George, which stand about a kilometre to your right from the perspective of this photo. Two centuries ago, Canada and the USA were not the best of friends.

The water in the river has just come over Niagara Falls, 20 kilometres upstream. It has a greenish tinge from the sediments picked up during its churning journey of rapids, falls, and whirlpools. Even at the mouth of the river, it's dangerous to swim.

20% of the drinking water in the USA goes over Niagara Falls.

It takes a drop of water 173 years to pass through Lake Superior, then 204 years to pass through to the ocean.

It is believed that Niagara is a derivative of the Iroquoian word, “Onguiaahra”, which was anglicized by missionaries. The name appears on maps as early as 1641. The generally accepted meaning is “The Strait”. ... Others believe the word Niagara is taken from another native word meaning, “Thundering Waters”.

On a personal note, this town has long been special to me, since my parents brought us here on day trips when we were young. When I went by on my run the other day, I reminisced and it struck me that the little girl who picnicked in this park and skipped rocks on the little spit of sand in front of the gazebo would never have imagined that nearly half a century later she would be there again - now married and living quite far away - as the 9th in her succession of dogs underwent surgery.

Oil on cradled birch panel, 16x20

winter meadow, gouache on paper, 5x7

spring greens, gouache on paper, approx 5x9

spring greens, gouache on paper, approx 5x9

Gouache on paper, approximately 5x10 inches

Acrylic on canvas, 16x20 inches.

While Arwen's surgery was being done, Nutmeg and I went for a walk. Niagara-on-the-Lake is very different in winter, compared to the typical view I've always had in summer. 

Hazel was the full sister, one year younger, to my Soleil.

She was also the beloved dog of my own human sister for most of her 11 years.

She passed away in early January.

Oil on canvas board, 8x10 inches, framed.

Christmas magic, gouache on paper, 8x10 Lakescape, acrylic on canvas, 11x14 Tucker, acrylic on canvas, 16x20 pink pig, oil on canvas, 16x20

But for the next couple of months, it's basically house arrest.

grisaille

glazed in colour digitally

This one is of a Goldendoodle called Phil.

Acrylic on birch panel, 10'' x 20''

You can even erase the paint with an eraser, just like you would pencil or charcoal.

It's a learning curve to find the right combination of smooth paper, soft yet strong brushes, and ''dryness"

But as with everything else art-related, each piece teaches me something and helps me grow.

Arwen, oil drybrush on matboard, 8x10

Mack, gouache on canvas, 4x6

Bernese, 8x10

This is admittedly a little bit niche, but now that the autumn colours are well past their prime, it's a fun challenge to get more creative and abstract to express the beauty that's still very much present.

These are done by moving the camera vertically at a slow shutter speed in fairly low light (while standing firmly on two dog leads, one under each boot). And holding a bag of dog poo.

ICM = In Camera Movement

Yesterday, I saw you standing there

Your head was down, your eyes were red

No comb had touched your hair

I said get up, and let me see you smile

We'll take a walk together

Walk the road awhile, 'cause

'Cause I've got a hand for you

I've got a hand for you

'Cause I wanna run with you

                         -Hootie and the Blowfish

She never misses a thing.

A heart full of memories

Never quite mended

He's 10 and has been battling an autoimmune disorder for a while.

At the beach, gouache on board, 8x10 Buddies, gouache on board, 8x10 Nose, charcoal on Stonehenge paper, 9x12 snooze, charcoal, 9x12

These little frosted glass rectangles come from ikea, and the price point lends itself to creative play, because it's not too precious of a surface. 

It's actually surprisingly easy to paint acrylic on these, once you learn to use a light touch, because the layers underneath can lift up quite easily from the ultra-smooth glass substrate.

These paintings are of Baxter, a Golden who lives at the edge of the village. When I run by his house, he barks ferociously, but he is a Golden through and through, in other words a big friendly mush.

Two are famous.

One is imaginary.

The store is special for its history and its careful preservation - the wooden floors creak wonderfully under your feet, and memorabilia line the rafters, More importantly, though, is its role as a hub of the community. I've lived here for 10 years and the store has changed ownership during this period. When it went up for sale, the proprietors were very careful in choosing buyers who would be the right fit for the community and to whom they could entrust the store.

Laurie and Brian have taken up the mantle brilliantly. Over the past 3 or 4 years, they have pursued the extensive renovations in a loving and thoughtful way. They have thrown themselves into community activities, and they know everyone by name, locals and cottagers alike. They contribute generously to local events and causes - not just in a token, monetary way, but by direct involvement and leadership.

The General Store has been kind enough to not only consign my books, but also to create a display of books by local authors, right at the front of the store. They make a conscious effort to source locally grown or produced foods and artisan products. 

When the pandemic hit, the General Store was there for us all, posting on social media when they managed to secure yeast or toilet paper or flour. To accommodate for the influx of seasonal residents who vacated the city to ride things out at their cottages, the General Store was reconfigured so that people flowed in and out more easily. Many people did not venture any further than Rosseau for their groceries - there was no need; the General Store had our backs.

This is a small village, and in this rather remote area of Ontario we are very fortunate to have a number of wonderful shops right around the corner. But it's the people who make these places into something truly extraordinary.

One of the coolest parts is setting up the illustration board/paper by taping it off with masking tape or washi tape. As soon as the painting is complete, I peel off the tape and see the neat edges of the painting, surrounded by the pristine white of the board. It's like having a built-in frame.

As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when September ends

Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends

                                 -Green Day

Today it was a perfect, sunny, summer's day. The choking humidity of the past couple of weeks has been replaced by a clean, fresh breeze from the north, the deep blue sky hosted fluffy, fair-weather clouds, and the flowers and leaves seemed to be even more colourful and abundant, nourished by recent rains and freed from the oppressive heat.

Today is the 31st of August. Tomorrow, the calendar turns over to September and even though the same beautiful weather will be with us, something will be lost, relinquished. September has been hanging in the distance, awaiting us, but as long as it's still August it's easier to simply cling onto summer and pretend it is never going to end. September, however, forces the finality upon us. In August it was easy to ignore or deny early fall colours on a maple tree here and there, but in September that process will roar into high gear. September is also the month for back-to-school, ingrained in all of us as children, and for many of us who went onto teaching, it's been a transition that has marked our yearly rhythms for decades. This summer especially, it's a sea-change, since schools are intending to get back to normal in-person classes after a prolonged hiatus brought about by the pandemic. The adjustment is all the more challenging because of the long absence from this routine.

September also signifies the downward slope towards winter's dark, cold, snowy months, something I personally dread more and more each year. Soon, instead of heading cavalierly outdoors barefoot and in shorts, we'll have to be bundling into coats and mittens, and lacing up boots, then bracing against the cold despite all those layers. While we will still enjoy sunshiny, summery days, they will become fewer and farther between. The trees will shed all of their luxuriant foliage and stand grey and sad, frozen in sleep. Most of the birds will head for warmer climes, save for the sturdy jays and crows and cardinals, and the remarkable little chickadees. Chipmunks and squirrels and bears will tuck in for hibernation, and the moose and deer will yard themselves into hidden valleys and glens. The lakes and rivers will cool and crust over with ice, and snow will blanket them until they become indistinguishable from the solid ground that surrounds them. Everything in the landscape will meld into silent, monochrome stillness. September is when this paring away of energy and life starts to become evident; it's when the momentum truly turns.

If August is about stubbornly holding on to summer, September is about letting it go, and making peace, like it or not, with what comes next. It would perhaps be an exaggeration to qualify it as a grieving period, but there is undeniably a sense of loss, impotence, and resignation in the face of time's relentless march.

In a less literal way, September has of course come to symbolize loss in the human sense, ever since September 11, 2001. That day in September changed most of our lives, and not for the better. 

On a personal level, September is the month when my father received the diagnosis that his cancer was back, and terminal. I remember getting that news on a bright, blue afternoon in mid-September, and trying to reconcile the beauty of the day with the realization that my father would not see another summer.

Similarly, last September was when Soleil's health began to fail, though I tried to ignore the inchoate signs in the vain hope that it was not something sinister coming to take her. As September wore on, our walks became shorter and slower, and on one of those ambles around the village, I noticed orange flowers blooming abundantly in the churchyard. I photographed Soleil in front of them and made some lovely pictures. I discovered that these flowers have the ignominious name of ''sneezeweed''. The prettier, scientific name is Helenium Autumnale. Today, as I walked by the churchyard, the flowers were there again. And of course I thought of Soleil and missed her. 

Yesterday, when I was driving back from the grocery store, a feeling came over me quite suddenly and for no apparent reason. I have tried to capture it in the poem that follows. I'm sharing it here because it fits in with the September vibe. 

If I sound melancholy, I'm not. We all carry grief, and sometimes it feels necessary to articulate it, to speak it out loud, to not be afraid or ashamed of it. And September is as good as a time as any.

Without warning surges

a breathtaking yearning,

wishing the Lost One back

to be with you again,

here and now.

Is it the past calling you back

to a forgotten once-was?

Or the present voicing regret

for moving on without?

Or is it the thin place where

just for a brief breath or two,

in the time it takes to taste

stinging sweetness, impossible proximity,

a spirit’s touch shimmers,

inhabiting the empty  

space beside you,

And then

disappears

before you can grasp it.

Alone again,

the road unrolling ahead,

you chase

but never catch

racing shadows

of clouds scudding

along the asphalt.

Afternoon at the beach, gouache sketch on paper, 4x6

Look up, acrylic on canvas, 16x20

A lady in one of the art groups to which I belong has a father living in Kissimmee, Florida. He is quite elderly and lives alone. He used to be an artist but can no longer see well enough to paint. She asked if people would be willing to send him cards with their art on them. For the price of a stamp every few weeks, it's more than worth doing.

so serene, yet so bad-tempered.

On June 2, 1998, I wore this dress on my first date with the man who would become my husband.

Two weeks shy of twenty-three years later, I put it on again.

It happened like this. I booked a vaccine appointment and called Tim (he’s away looking after his parents) to alert him that he could book one as well. He managed to snag one for the same time and place as me. Jokingly, he said ‘would you like to go on a date?’.

Jokingly because It’s been a long time since we dated. Of course, in the early, heady days of our courtship, we walked the walk and talked the talk, but two decades later, we’re so familiar and comfortable together that dating now equates with going to the landfill site (together!) to mark an anniversary. True fact: our wedding anniversary often coincided with the large item day at the local dump, and so the tradition was born of the dump date. It’s a perhaps ironic homage to the concept, but also a testament to the lesson we’ve learned that spending time together is what’s important, no matter what it is you’re doing.

When Tim asked me out on our corona-vaccine date, he said ‘are you going to wear the dress you wore on our first date?’ to which I replied: ‘I still have it.’. Beyond the silliness of the banter, I am touched by his remembering the dress, and by my own reluctance to part with it for all these years.

I’ve covered a lot of miles, literally and figuratively, since I first put on that dress. The world is a different place, whether for better or for worse – history will decide that. September 11th happened over 20 years ago. The Boston Marathon bombings were 8 years ago. And we’ve endured a year and a half of a global pandemic. In 1998, Katrina was just a pretty name for a girl and Fake News was not a thing. My father, who walked me down the aisle at our wedding in 2002, has been gone now for 15 years.  My niece and nephew, who were not even born in 1998, are now grown up or just about. It’s been 9 years since I last taught a class, and I’ve loved 5 dogs and three cats – and lost five of them – since the day I donned that pretty little dress.

Obviously, the skin I’m in is different now; I’m a lot more careworn and even more rumpled; I can’t remember the last time I wore makeup, and I haven’t been in a hair salon in three or four years. I sleep in my clothes because it’s just become easier to get up in the night to attend to the needs of a geriatric animal or a puppy. One of the joys of getting older is letting go of all of the esoterica and learning to accept your unvarnished self. I’ve accumulated a fair amount of fractures and scars over the last few decades, and I would not relinquish them. I’ve changed courses, moved houses, made friends and lost friends, shed tears of grief and of laughter, tried and failed (often) or (sometimes) succeeded, fallen and got back up, published a book, taken hundreds of thousands of photographs, run a couple of dozen marathons, returned to art, and travelled from the Atlantic to the Pacific. I’ve learned a few lessons and accrued plenty of memories, some good, some bad.

Call them aphorisms if you will, but if I could go back and talk to that girl who was me 23 years ago, I would tell her that it’s not going to turn out like she planned – and this is perfectly ok. Priorities change and circumstances intervene and open up new paths and adventures. Even the bumps in the road are valuable, because they force us to re-examine, adapt and grow. Everything we do becomes a part of the fabric of who we are. We are the sum of our experiences.

Finally, perhaps the most important part of all : make a conscious effort to take it all in, because it all goes by so incredibly quickly.

7 days ago, the lake was still covered in ice.

Lake Louise, oil on birch board, 10x20

Arwen always circles back to make sure mama's coming.

Meanwhile, Nutmeg runs around like a possessed chimpanzee.

And then it's Throw. Fetch. Throw. Fetch. Throw. Fetch. Againandagainandagain.

They never get tired.

Oil on canvas, 8x10

Finlay, oul on canvas, 8x10

squall, acrylic on canvas board, 9,x12

Lighthouse sunset, oil on canvas panel, 9x12

When you lose a dog, it doesn't just affect you. It has a profound effect on the other dog(s) in the household. There have been many ways, subtle and not so subtle, in which the dynamic has changed between Arwen and Nutmeg, now that Soleil is gone. I didn't realize until the aftermath that Soleil was the de facto leader. These dogs are all so gentle and good natured that trying to identify an alpha is intrinsically difficult. As I have said before, one of the compelling reasons to take on a third dog was to dilute or attenuate the very strong imprint Arwen had made on Soleil, because we knew that Soleil would not be around forever, and her loss would be catastrophic for Arwen.

Nutmeg certainly stepped up to the plate, and she and Arwen have a great friendship, albeit very different from the bond shared by Soleil and Arwen. They play and roughhouse daily, and they choose to be together when they are sleeping.

I've noticed as well that Arwen seems to have taken on the role of mentor or supervisor. Nutmeg is a mischievous dog, and I know when she is up to something because Arwen has a very overt way of coming and ''tattling'' on her. When it's something really bad, she doesn't tattle...she decamps.

I've also noticed that when we're at the park, as the snow has deepened, Arwen has begun showing a preference for not fetching her ball, but rather for simply trotting around, carrying it. This concerned me; in December, Nutmeg had cannoned into her and split her lip when they both went for a ball at the same time. I worried she might be fearful because of that. Also, Arwen will soon be eight, and maybe she was slowing down? Yet she was still happy to buzz around while carrying her ball. I was puzzled at the change in behaviour.

Over the last couple of weeks it finally dawned on me that something very particular was going on. While Nutmeg is getting better at fetching, she frequently outruns the ball I throw for her, and she's just so damn happy about running at full tilt that she loses her concentration. The snow is deep, and the ball disappears easily, not to be found until spring.

Observing Arwen, I discovered that she has appointed herself to the role of spotter, and if Nutmeg misses the ball, Arwen will very deliberately go to where she watched it drop, and paw at the snow to show Nutmeg, who has picked up on this cue and now uses Arwen as a beacon to find her lost ball. Arwen makes no effort to steal or keep the ball; she steps aside and lets Nutmeg do the rooting around and the finding and the fetching. Then she canters back behind Nutmeg so that we can do another round. She's like a self-appointed big sister.

I know there are many people out there who scoff at the idea that animals are capable of reason or compassion, but the dogs I've had in my life continue to teach me otherwise.

One year ago this weekend, February 15, 2020, we brought Nutmeg home. I don't want to call it a ''gotcha'' day because she doesn't feel like a rescue. She feels like she was meant to be, and that she's belonged with us since forever.

She was just a year old at the time and she had been taken in by an angel who had the true selflessness to want what was best for the dog, and who handed her care over to us with trust and tears. Lila, you will always and forever be her mama too.

Just a short week or two after we brought Nutmeg home, a pandemic was declared, and we may never have had the possibility to bring her home. She has become a true member of the family, and she is stepping up as a sister and a best friend since we lost Soleil.

She is a mischievous, busy, funny, sweet character. If I had one word to describe her, it would be ''exuberant''. So even though I don't mark this as an anniversary per se, it's a moment to reflect with gratitude for special dogs and special people.

She'll always be our Valentine dog, in so many ways.

We've beaten a single-file trail down to the play area in the park, and the other day I let Arwen go first, and she stopped on the trail to sniff something. Nutmeg by this time was bearing down on her like a freight train, and I winced, anticipating the impact. Nope. Nutmeg just hurdled right over her, with air to spare.