Odd Season
Yes, this is the season, but for some reason nature has deemed otherwise. In her great wisdom she has determined that this year of 2006 - December the month, there will be no snow. With Christmas fast approaching this is peculiar weather, all the more so in its mildness of temperature, sunshine in wake of the relentless rain not yet embraced into the rapidly-defrosting soil.
Our way through the ravine these days is slow, given our deliberate steps in aid of avoiding too-deep mud patches crossing the trails here and there and everywhere. The snow has melted, so has the ice, and instead large puddles of water crouch in the forest interior, slowly investing in the soil, and just as deliberately leaking away from its cradle onto the trails, over the humps of the hills.
We've placed our winter boots back on the garage shelves to await the eventual come-back of more seasonal weather, and likewise our trusty ice cleats. We've hauled our old hiking boots back out and muck our way through the ravine with those. Where in the throes of icy winter a scant several weeks back we layered ourselves against the cold, now we stride out with lighter jackets unzipped.
Running along a bend in the trail a bouncing brown dog of sound proportion and lovely conformation is as surprised to come aface with us as we are it. But it has friendly intentions and soon its owner hoves into view. It's the very picture of canine perfection, as akin to a thoroughbred as any we've seen, a magnificent creature, a young female Doberman. She is poetry in motion, her long legs unfolding gracefully as she lifts herself over the undergrowth.
Our toy testosterone-laden poodle stands head erect, rapid-fire barking, snarling, knowing himself to be more than a physical match for this noble giant. Our miniature poodle, being a female, is invested with more tact and good sense and makes her way delicately on the trail beyond the Doberman, knowing herself to be beyond threat.
Later, another muscularly-bronzed dog leaps forward as we begin a long clamber uphill and we recognize the woman he's with. This is a chocolate Lab, a large, loose and happy puppy in love with the adventure of life and the opportunities provided it for play with other dogs encountered in the ravine. We hail its owner, long hair burnished the colour of her dog.
This is the first time over the period of several years we've seen her accompanied by her boyfriend, although she's often spoken of him. She looks radiant, happy, beautiful. As I imagine her daughter does, a mirror-image, though younger, of her mother. I no longer enquire after her daughter, for it's too painful to hear of their clashes, and last time I asked the girl had gone back to Thunder Bay where her friends still live.
The Lab is happy to see us - happy to see anyone, and they tell us that it had enjoyed a run-about with the Doberman we'd seen earlier, both dogs, they hoped, exhausting one another. But no, the Lab keeps circling and lunging at our little black poodle, enthusiastically inviting her to come and run, come and play.
One has not yet reached a full year, the other thirteen years, an unequal match, one that Button is not keen to explore and she moves away time and again, nervously. Nothing seems to dissuade the Lab's exhilaration until the firm voice of its master calls him to heel. He's happy to bound off elsewhere down the trail, down the hill we've just ascended.
How was the interview on the week-end past, I ask her, our bloom-faced, red-haired beauty. She smiles, hesitates, admits hers was lacking, but his was good, really good, and he may very well be offered the position he wants. He's smart, she says, in his hearing, and I think to myself how she undervalues herself, her abilities, experiences, keen mind.
How typically female. Even of women who consider themselves to be fully emancipated. Women who glow when they're in the presence of the man they love.
Our way through the ravine these days is slow, given our deliberate steps in aid of avoiding too-deep mud patches crossing the trails here and there and everywhere. The snow has melted, so has the ice, and instead large puddles of water crouch in the forest interior, slowly investing in the soil, and just as deliberately leaking away from its cradle onto the trails, over the humps of the hills.
We've placed our winter boots back on the garage shelves to await the eventual come-back of more seasonal weather, and likewise our trusty ice cleats. We've hauled our old hiking boots back out and muck our way through the ravine with those. Where in the throes of icy winter a scant several weeks back we layered ourselves against the cold, now we stride out with lighter jackets unzipped.
Running along a bend in the trail a bouncing brown dog of sound proportion and lovely conformation is as surprised to come aface with us as we are it. But it has friendly intentions and soon its owner hoves into view. It's the very picture of canine perfection, as akin to a thoroughbred as any we've seen, a magnificent creature, a young female Doberman. She is poetry in motion, her long legs unfolding gracefully as she lifts herself over the undergrowth.
Our toy testosterone-laden poodle stands head erect, rapid-fire barking, snarling, knowing himself to be more than a physical match for this noble giant. Our miniature poodle, being a female, is invested with more tact and good sense and makes her way delicately on the trail beyond the Doberman, knowing herself to be beyond threat.
Later, another muscularly-bronzed dog leaps forward as we begin a long clamber uphill and we recognize the woman he's with. This is a chocolate Lab, a large, loose and happy puppy in love with the adventure of life and the opportunities provided it for play with other dogs encountered in the ravine. We hail its owner, long hair burnished the colour of her dog.
This is the first time over the period of several years we've seen her accompanied by her boyfriend, although she's often spoken of him. She looks radiant, happy, beautiful. As I imagine her daughter does, a mirror-image, though younger, of her mother. I no longer enquire after her daughter, for it's too painful to hear of their clashes, and last time I asked the girl had gone back to Thunder Bay where her friends still live.
The Lab is happy to see us - happy to see anyone, and they tell us that it had enjoyed a run-about with the Doberman we'd seen earlier, both dogs, they hoped, exhausting one another. But no, the Lab keeps circling and lunging at our little black poodle, enthusiastically inviting her to come and run, come and play.
One has not yet reached a full year, the other thirteen years, an unequal match, one that Button is not keen to explore and she moves away time and again, nervously. Nothing seems to dissuade the Lab's exhilaration until the firm voice of its master calls him to heel. He's happy to bound off elsewhere down the trail, down the hill we've just ascended.
How was the interview on the week-end past, I ask her, our bloom-faced, red-haired beauty. She smiles, hesitates, admits hers was lacking, but his was good, really good, and he may very well be offered the position he wants. He's smart, she says, in his hearing, and I think to myself how she undervalues herself, her abilities, experiences, keen mind.
How typically female. Even of women who consider themselves to be fully emancipated. Women who glow when they're in the presence of the man they love.
posted by Pieface @ 4:41 PM
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