Posted on March 8, 2023 under Wednesday’s Words of Wisdom with one comment

 

Pooch Paradise

 

Reincarnation.

Noun.

The rebirth of a soul in a new body. A person or animal in whom a particular soul is believed to have been reborn.

I don’t know anything about reincarnation, but I can tell you one thing. If reincarnation is real, there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that I want to come back as a dog, specifically a poodle.

I certainly don’t obsess about death but it crosses my mind with regularity as I scan the obituaries on a daily basis. Admit it, you old farts. You do the same damn thing. God, but we’re hopeless lot! I’m sure we all wonder what happens when we have “slipped the surly bonds of Earth and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings”. (JGM). According to many posts on Facebook, that font of inexhaustible knowledge, animals cross over the Rainbow Bridge, eventually to be reunited with their owners.

So here, I unapologetically state my case for reincarnation and why a dog is my first choice as a new and improved entity.

According to many surveys of vets, a poodle is the second smartest breed of dog so it would make sense that if I come back to life, I would hope for vastly improved intelligence, seeing that I might have gotten a bit short changed in that category the first go around. I can tell you from experience, as a seasoned dog sitter, that poodles are very bright.

As far as I can tell, the life of a dog rotates between eating, sleeping and exercising, with a dose of farting thrown in for good measure. I love routines and dogs are no exception. They tend to eat at certain times, go for walks at the same time of the day. As far as sleeping goes, when not eating or walking, dogs have a pretty chilled existence spending the other 22 hours a day resting. Good work if you can get it.

Dogs don’t talk back. You never have to worry about losing an argument with a dog. We humans spend so much of our lives sparring with other people, wasting valuable oxygen in the process. Dogs just look at you with those droopy eyes and respond positively to anything you say especially if the word “food” or “out” is uttered.

A dog has his meals prepared for him every day and never has to do the dishes. Despite the fact that there are now restaurants for dogs, most canines prefer a steady diet of sameness. They never seem to get bored even if they have eaten the same meal 13,000 times. Each meal is a revelation and a bonanza. Some dogs eat methodically and patiently while other approach the dish as if they haven’t been fed in a month, inhaling the food with astonishing speed.

Dogs demonstrate unconditional love to their owners… and to anyone who hands them a treat while out walking. I desperately want to be a dog and go for a daily walk along the chip trail on Dallas Road in Victoria. I am being quite specific about where I want to be reincarnated. This is one of the most beautiful places in the country with the majestic Olympic mountain range across the Juan de Fuca Strait. The Dallas Road chip trail must have more dogs per square foot than anywhere else in the world. Dogs are king (queens) on this piece of paradise, and they are treated like rock stars. I want to spend my days running like the wind and being stopped every 50 feet to be told that I am beautiful, having my ears scratched, and handed treats.

One of the absolute best things about being a dog is that someone cleans up your shit, literally and figuratively. Humans have a way of getting themselves immersed in mounds of crap throughout their lives and sometimes it’s not easy to extricate themselves from the messes they create. A dog, on the other hand, just has to find the perfect spot to do his/her business and moments later, his owner picks it up. That is a pretty sweet deal. Many of you know that I am presently dog sitting in Victoria. I always carry a supply of poop bags with me on our twice daily walks. I have coined a new term for my waste disposal bags: Cooper Pooper Scoopers.

I don’t know much about the sex lives of dogs but when it comes to sleeping around, dogs have it made. No one ever questions a dog about where they slept or with whom. The doggy bed, couch, a chair, at the foot of the bed or in the bed are all real possibilities on any given night. A dog doesn’t have to wake up in the morning and explain his actions. He simply looks at his master and says, “Feed me and take me for a walk.”

I’ve stated my case and I’m sticking to it.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

Have a great weekend.

Posted on March 1, 2023 under Wednesday’s Words of Wisdom with one comment

 

 

Free Parking

 

“Falling in and out of love with you,

Falling in and out of love with you,

Don’t know what I’m gonna do,

I keep falling in and out of love with you.”

Falling in and Out of Love – Pure Prairie League

A saga about WestGuess Airlines.

Flying used to be fun.

Surely you remember those good old days when flights were reasonably priced, planes flew on time, unlimited checked bags, you received a nice hot meal and a few free drinks, agents were friendly. You get the picture.

And then, flying ceased to be fun. There are lots of reasons why travel now is as much fun as having a case of hives. In a piece I wrote at Christmas, it took me five days to get home from the north. Most of the issues were weather related so I won’t till that soil again.

Last week, I travelled to Victoria, B.C. for some dog therapy. Very good friends of mine were heading out on a southern vacation, and they asked me to look after Cooper, their poodle. I had done this once before a few years ago and I really enjoyed it. Cooper was good company and we walked twice a day, rain or shine.

My itinerary was very simple. It consisted of a direct flight from Halifax to Calgary avoiding the unfriendliest airport in the world. It is in Ontario. You have three guesses and the first two don’t count. The second leg was a hop from Calgary to Victoria. It’s a good thing that I wasn’t flying into you know where because there was a storm which snarled travel and nearly brought out the army. There may have been 10 centimeters of snow on the ground. The weather in YHZ (I’m so cool using these airport codes) was perfect. I’m hometown proud and think Halifax is one of the friendlier airports in the country, if not the planet.

The plane taking us to the west coast was sitting on the tarmac when we got to the departure gate.

The only smart thing I did prior to departure was to scarf down a massive hamburger. In many ways, it would be “The Last Supper”.

Getting away on time looked very promising and important to me and several travellers who had tight connections in Calgary. The cattle were herded as has become the norm. Our boarding passes indicated the pen where we were to gather before being allowed on board. For some reason, boarding started later than it should have and right away, we were on the clock. It was a full flight, and it took an eternity to get everybody seated with carryon bags in the overhead bins and one other piece under the seat. I checked my phone and by the time they started to show us how a seatbelt worked (really?), we were 45 minutes behind schedule.

The weather didn’t do us any favours. The first three hours, the plane was fighting heavy winds and was buffeted around. It was one of the most turbulent flights I had been on in a long time. This prevented the staff from distributing a gourmet meal of cookies and pretzels.

I checked my phone a few times and I knew that there was a very good chance that we wouldn’t make it to our connecting flight. We landed and once again, time stood still as it took a full 15 minutes before the cattle were released from the plane. All hope was now lost. But wait, one of the flight attendants got on the blower and announced that all connecting flights were patiently waiting for us. There were a few cheers and a sigh of relief from this weary traveler. It was now 11:00 p.m. Calgary time – 2:00 a.m. back home. I had been on the go for 20 hours.

When you’re in a hurry trying to catch a connecting flight, it is almost a certainty that your gate will be as far away as humanly possible and still remain in the province. I didn’t run but I must have looked like one of those race walkers. We resembled a herd of wildebeests crossing the Serengeti. We arrived at the gate and stared in disbelief. The plane had departed. All of the other passengers who had connecting flights suffered the same fate. It was now nearly midnight, so we all scurried to the WestGuess courtesy counter, soon to be renamed the non-courtesy counter.

In fairness to the two agents working the counter, they had likely been listening to a litany of complaints all day long and their patience was as thin as the people in front of them. When they saw hordes of angry passengers heading in their direction, they decided to close the courtesy counter. They instructed us to go down to the baggage level in the airport and speak to the folks at the check-in counter. When we arrived, there was one lonely, haggard agent standing out on the floor fielding questions. The answers that she provided turned a tired exhausted coterie into an angry mob. We were informed that missing our connecting flight was not the fault of the airline and as such, we would not receive a hotel voucher or a food voucher. This did not go over well. An understatement. Where would we all lay down our heads? The agent calmly explained that we could try one of the two airport hotels although she said they were likely full. Had we been so fortunate to get one of these prized rooms to lay our weary heads, we would have had to shell out a measly $400. With many travel delays in the previous two days, she thought that getting a room in Red Deer or Edmonton would be a better option. I’m kidding, of course.

We were then directed to go to the WestGuess check in counter where three agents fought off a barrage of irate passengers. Standing in line, I could easily hear the exchanges between tired passengers and tired agents. Not pretty. I was able to discern that vouchers are not issued for things like inclement weather. The weather in Halifax earlier that evening was perfect so you can scratch that one off the list. The agent then gave us the second reason why we would be spending the night sleeping on chairs or on the floor in the reception area outside of the security area. You see, the airlines have been trying to maximize profits which, by the way, is completely fair. When they started charging for checked bags, the public, being savvy and Scottish (!) decided to circumvent this by not checking bags and jamming as much personal property into their carryon bags. This produced immediate consequences- delays getting all of these carryon bags to fit on the plane. As a matter of fact, airlines are now offering people to stow some of these bags in the belly of the plane at no charge to free up space. Maybe if the airlines in their infinite wisdom would allow one free checked bag (like the good old days) this problem would be eradicated quickly. What the agents explained to every customer was that it was THEIR fault that the flight was delayed. This was not accepted with grace or decorum. There was a young girl standing behind me. She was in tears. I found out during the night that this was her very first flying experience… and possibly her last. I felt bad for her and an elderly couple who were completely flummoxed.

When I got to the counter, I looked at the agent and said, “I am not going to get mad at you.” His relief was palpable, and I thought for a moment that he might leap over the counter and hug me. I simply wanted to know when I might fly the following day and to secure a boarding pass.

It was now 12:30 a.m. My flight to Victoria was for 7:00 a.m., a scant 6.5 hours away. The agent told me that I should be at security no later than 4:00 a.m. At that point, I was very happy that I wasn’t able to secure a $400 hotel room. That would have been the most expensive short stay (3.5 hours) in history. I wandered down to the security area and grabbed a seat. People were curled up on the seat and stretched out on the floor. Charming. The guy next to me was snoring. No. Thundering is a more apt description.

The only good news in this ordeal is that I was the very first person in line when the security area opened up its doors at 4:00 a.m.

My flight to Victoria was uneventful and 31.5 hours after crawling out of bed the previous day in Antigonish, I had arrived in Victoria.

I am a substitute schoolteacher.

WestGuess. You get a big time fail.

“Because I used to love her,

But it’s all over now.”

It’s All Over Now – The Rolling Stones

Have a great weekend.

Posted on February 15, 2023 under Wednesday’s Words of Wisdom with 4 comments

 

 

Chickens at The Curious Cat

 

Substandard

Adjective

1.Below the usual or required standard; synonym below par. Imperfect. Inferior

Lately, I have been doing quite a bit of substitute teaching. I must admit that the job has a lot of perks, not the least of which is the flexibility. There’s lots of work if you want it but if you crawl out of the sack in the morning and you’re feeling more like 90 than 71, you simply roll over and ignore the website that has the job postings for the day. You don’t have to do any lesson planning, prepare report cards or listen to Johnny’s parents tell you that their son is God’s gift to learning when you know that he is a big time hellraiser.

I love the variety of subbing. You never know from one day to the next whether you’ll be teaching Gaelic or auto mechanics. For someone who has trouble with the English language and doesn’t even own a toolbox, this is very scary indeed.

Recently, I was offered a half day of teaching. Normally this happens when a teacher has to go for a doctor or dentist appointment but every once in a while, when there’s a threat of a liquor store strike, they want to get in the lineup early.

I had a chance to meet the teacher I was replacing.

So, how’s this for an opener:

“Good morning. Do you go by Pamela or Pam?”

“I go by Jennifer.”

Sub. Substandard.

When I received notification of the assignment that day, I looked at it briefly and for some reason, when I arrived at the classroom, the name Pam was etched on my brain. This, despite the fact that Jennifer’s name was clearly emblazoned on the door of her classroom. Secretly, she must have been alarmed at the prospect of a doddering old man being left in charge of her young charges. We had a great laugh about it and had a nice chat before she left for the day.

Paying attention to detail was once very important to me but as I get older, I’m finding it more difficult and unnecessary. Imperfection and inferiority (see synonyms for substandard) are raising their heads with shocking regularity. And ya know what, I don’t care. The best thing about being a senior is that my “I don’t give a damn” index is quite high. You know exactly what I mean. I see you nodding your heads in agreement.

Recently, I have been busy selling my books. I have shipped many of them to far flung places but for locals, I have been hand delivering them. I pick up my $20 bucks and occasionally get a coffee or a glass of wine (or Jameson’s whisky!).

One day last week, I was asked to deliver a book to an old friend, a very distinguished, retired, professional lady. She lives in a lovely mobile home park near the center of our town. I know the park well. At least I thought I did. To protect her innocence and good reputation, we’ll say that she lives at 200 Palm Street. When she messaged me with her address, the number 200 stuck out and I quickly embedded it in my memory bank.

The park has an unique layout with one street merging into another.(Steet names changed to protect the dignity of the fine folks who live there). I pulled up at 200 Palm Street at the appointed hour. I must admit that I was a bit surprised that her front steps hadn’t been properly shovelled after the last dump of snow. It was icy and uneven, not the most egregious offense in a northern climate. I knocked on the door and was met with stony silence. When no reply was forthcoming, I rang the doorbell. I could hear scuffling of feet. The door opened and I was greeted first, by a cloud of smoke, followed quickly by a scantily clad young female university student. The stony silence that I had experienced minutes before had been replaced by a stoned student. The air quality index in her home would have challenged a coal fired electricity plant.

Me. “Does Pamela (Pam- not her real name!) live here?”

Polythene Pam. “I think you have the wrong place.”

Me (thinking to myself “No shit”.)

I turned the car around to discover the other tributary of this street called Pine. I found #200 and was quite relieved so see my friend. We had a great laugh over my mistake.

The final delivery that same day was to another dear friend who works at our university. I have lost track of her in recent years. She has been busy raising a young family and I have been busy chasing polar bears. Both occupations are hazardous. I knew where she worked the last time I saw her four years ago. Once again, when she sent me her office number, I took a cursory glance. To quote the Beatles once again, “I should have known better with a girl like you…”, the fact that her office number started with a 4, should have been a dead giveaway. Typically, the number 4 denotes an office on the 4^th floor. I knew that her building only had two floors but nowadays, all bets are off. Because the memory of my most recent error was still very fresh in my mind, I pulled out my phone to double check the address. Right church (University campus) – wrong pew (not the right building). I turned my car around (again) and headed for the 4-story building where I found my friend exactly where she told me would be.

The senior’s moments are coming fast and furious these days.

Standard behavior as far as I can tell.

Have a great weekend.

Don’t get lost!