I love deafening silence. The kind of silence that makes the whole world seem immensely vast and open. Silence that fills your lungs with crisp fresh air, untouched by any other creature, only for you. Like your standing barefoot on soft sand at the edge of an ocean with calm salt water stretched as far as you can see. You feel so small, so invisible, so free.

I see exciting changes in my crew lately! My baby Claire is cuddling up and snuggling, wanting her belly rubbed constantly. Her skin is darkening with the hormones flooding her system. Her coat is glowing with red highlights and is slightly coarser to the touch of my fingers. My sweet Georgia is cranky and snippy with the other dogs. She will sit on the back of the sofa and launch herself at anyone even thinking about jumping up to get comfortable. Charlie Brown is following Claire around, protecting her and standing guard over “his” possession. As the girls come into heat the boys start battling.

“Grandpa” Yoshi thinks he is the man and with no social skills he simply doesn’t know when to stop. He challenges Charlie consistently throughout the year. Charlie usually postures himself to disagree and then walks away shaking his head at the old man. When the girls are in heat, the dynamics change. Yoshi and Danika must be sequestered in the bedroom. Which suits “Gramma” Danika just fine. A quiet room away from the chaos and stupidity of battling “men”, arguing over an unseen and powerful, instinctual force.

I’ve got some amazing families waiting for new babies. They want dates. They want to start planning. Unlike other breeders, my dates are approximate. I believe in watching my dogs and letting them tell me when it’s time. Same as humans, we can run the numbers and try to control nature but in the end we have just wasted time, money, hope and faith. (In getting pregnant with my first son we tried for 6 months before we finally got the exciting news. 6 months of calculating, timing, planning…6 months of disappointment. With my second son, we waited another 8 months. It wasn’t until I stopped calculating that Joey was conceived.) Claire is much smarter than I am in these things anyway. She knows when it is time and her determination is unstoppable.

I understand why professional breeders cannot do this type of “calculating”. Their dogs are kenneled, with scheduled time in the yard like inmates on a daily exercise allowance. Unlike “Prison Break” on Netflix where we see the inmates in their little groups around picnic tables, playing team sports or collecting rocks, I’m sure real inmates get very little exercise and are forgotten in small cells to brood, releasing energy anyway they can. For professional breeders, this is a business, they calculate, plan, test, re-calculate and still they hope…the same as me. They pay vets to test hormones, inseminate, x-ray…and they still guess…the same as me.

I believe strongly in nature, following her lead, learning from her, trusting her instincts. Following another’s lead is so freeing. No worry, no planning, calculating or manipulating. Free to concentrate on my hope and excitement, for them and with them. Free to love them wholly and without restraint, even when my dedication to them is seen as silly or ridiculous. Free to learn from them. Free.

Fathers Day. A day when I celebrate them, without them. My Grandpa, Mayor John Baker died when I was 7, my Dad, Michael Baker passed away 2 months before my first son arrived in 2003, and my Grampa Ken Smith left us 9 years ago. As my children head to their father’s house today, I turn my attention to Jason.

Jason joined me and my boys in 2013. A time of change for me. A job that had me stuck in a windowless room crunching numbers, surrounded by men, noise and sawdust. Having given up my perfect house on the lake to keep peace for my children, I was driven to start my own business surrounded by the animals that defined me and leave the vicious mill environment. These changes were very hard on the children who acted out with disrespect, anger and contempt.

Jason’s appropriate role in the beginning was as an observer, then as my protector. He was very clear with the boys that he was not their friend. Over the years he has gracefully and seamlessly become their “father”. His strong role model for hard work and dedication is second to none. His high expectations cause friction and lessons that are as hard on the children and me as they are on him.

He sees Joey’s love of speed and encourages safe play with close supervision on dangerous machines. He supports Joey’s talent in the hockey net by sitting on hard, cold seats surrounded by this towns social gathering chitter. He sits as a chaperone at school dances swarming with teenage girls giggling and twirling.

Jason has sat as an observer as Michael has become overwhelmed with highschool. He works hard to teach Michael self-confidence and respect for his elders. He role models the proper way to treat women using old school methods of opening the door for me, complimenting me when I don’t deserve it and showing appreciation for my efforts vs. my outcome.

His dedication to Peytanne runs so deep that she literally glows. Her talent in gymnastics is who she is and he supports this above and beyond his requirements. His obsessive compulsions compliment hers perfectly and the nightly routine of facetime has them both imagining new ways to open the conversation. His insistence, against all, of a phone she can text on has taught her essential writing skills.

He is not their friend. He is their father. He supports when it is not convenient, teaches when it is not comfortable, role models when he is exhausted and allows the children to fall while picking them up before they hit the ground. He is honest, clear and patient. He doesn’t look for praise, doesn’t boast, doesn’t dramatise, doesn’t complain. He is our protector, our advisor and our strength. He has an amazing ability to live in the moment and cherish each day for the good things in it. For all these things, I thank Jason.

June 12. A day just like yesterday. The morning frost that coats the green grass retracts its icy claws away from the border of the early sunshine that slowly and consistently opens up across the front lawn. The newly purchased pepper plants and cosmos are freeze burnt under the cover of darkness as the coldness steals away their promise of a good life.

With my sore back, my butt is firmly rooted on the sofa, surrounded by my favorite “people”, pillows and an electric heating pad. I pushed myself yesterday into grooming one small, well-behaved, little monkey and today I can’t walk without pain. I’ve begun my 4th week of recovery and the tug-of-war battle of my brain against my limbs gives me a physical headache. But here I sit at the computer. I’m still working habitually on converting my filing system over to digital, but what a slog.

Slog. What a great word! I imagine Atreyu waist deep in mud pulling on Artax, his bit and bridle extending his perfect white muzzle high in the air as he fights the desire to sink into the black swamp of sadness. Atreyu yelling at his equine companion to keep fighting and Bastian with his book yelling into the wind behind them. Tears stream down my face as Artax dies…the worst part…my kids refuse to watch The Neverending Story.

The movies that helped shaped my life, like Labyrinth, The Dark Crystal, The Princess Bride and The Neverending Story are wholly underappreciated! Jim Henson’s mastery of the puppet was second to none! Add in the amazing David Bowie…well…there are no words!  Oh how I wanted to be Sarah with her sweet courage…a trail of amazing creatures following her and testing her every move through fascinating twists and turns. But nope…here I sit…on my butt…watching the frost in my slippers!

Diane and Keith came today to do some tractor chores. My little pony Princess Abby keeps pushing the panels of her enclosure further and further into the field of lush, frost-bitten grasses of spring until she literally collapses the fences and hops over. These big metal panels are tightly held together with huge, super strength elastic bands attached to a metal hook. With the hook firmly rooted in the panel, the elastic band wraps around both posts and slides neatly over the opposite end of the hook. With one band on top and one on the bottom, they are a strong and nifty fencing solution on the farm. Abby a.k.a. fence crawler is a destructor extraordinaire. She pushes until she snaps the bands! We then resort to baling twine around each juncture. At that point she highlights human stupidity by pushing up on the bar that latches the door in the panel on the end. Our only saving grace is that she is completely out of shape, she can only run around the field 2 or 3 times nibbling as she taunts us before succumbing to the halter and being lead back to her grassless prison. Rationing sucks!

While we try to keep Abby off the grass, Diane and Keith lifted our new-to-us rabbit hutch into the garden so our single, elderly bunny can eat all the green things he can get his little munchers on! The two of them are an unstoppable force that makes farm work look effortless. Coming from a wanna-be-farmer, believe me, it’s not efortless! I love their “find-a-way” attitude and hard work mentality. Sitting on my stoop and watching them has my cooped up brain peeling off the tissue from the inside of my skull like a lunatic obsessed with the sound of ripping paper.

I refocus, remember to breathe, and retreat back into uncovering the essential details of life. Like the little pink flowers of my african violet that have finally started blooming again. The delicate dual yellow center of the perfect oblong stigma fanned by 4 petals of shimmer that creeps out from the center in an unassuming pink hue to a bold raspberry that outlines the fringes. I appreciate their detailed simplicity with my tea and a snack. The tightly packed teardrop seeds of my sesame snaps are held together in a crunchy sugar-coating. The seeds vary in color from white to carmel all jam-packed into a tight rectangle of perfection. I try to eat them slowly, breaking off ends piece by piece to pace myself as the seeds get stuck in my molars. I know I’ve lost that battle too when I forget to thrust the short edge of the candy in between my teeth and instead ram the longer edge in that stretches my non-existent lips into a terrifying smile that reminds me of the Joker. Thank gawd nobody is watching!

As we finish up the evening chores and I prepare my dinner of Vector cereal (we ran out of Mini Wheats), I wonder when the frost will end and I’ll be able to plant my herbs safely. All my strawberries have perished over winter but I intend to persevere, learn my lesson…again…and plant them in the ground this year, not in easy to weed pots. Or maybe I will just raid Gramma’s carefully planned, maintained, abundant crops. Decisions, decisions…

 

 

My Grandpa Smith was a character! A buffalo rancher who lived literally in the middle of nowhere, carried his water, burned his heat, butchered his food. This tall, tough cowboy would not dare show his love in any girl sense of the word, but when it was time to say good-bye until another weekend visit, he would choke a bit and say in his gruff, Sasquatch voice “BE GOOD!”. Gawd how I miss that man!

Georgia Peaches; “Sweet and Juicy Georgia Peaches”. No, I’m not talking fruit, I’m talking about a pretty little red poodle born as Princess Peach to Polar Lane Poodles out of Saskatchewan. She was just over a year old and as a mature puppy, I felt that I could get a good sense of who she was from the breeder. I wanted a confident, socially mature female. The breeder told me that Peaches was a “beautiful loving girl, who loves to play and run around, but also loves to snuggle in for kisses and hugs.” Sounds like my perfect pup!! When questioned again about her personality (just for my own reassurance) the breeder went into more details. “She doesn’t show any sign of shyness unless it is a bunch of kids coming at her at once.”  “She is very outgoing and friendly.  Gets along well with the other dogs

Although I had dealt with “responsible breeders” in the past, this was the first time I planned to purchase my “perfect puppy”. There were a few red flags for me, Polar Lane did all their own vaccinations. In BC you would not be considered “responsible” if you did this, but this breeder was in Saskatchewan. She did not do genetic testing on her breeding pairs but seemed to know all about the breed and could give many references from many healthy puppy families. How many puppies I wondered. She had no questions for me…none. I wanted a registered poodle. In typical human fashion, “I want what I want” and I quickly explained away the red flags. This was, after all, a professional, responsible breeder, registered with the CKC.

Georgia arrived home in March 2017, and we quickly found out that shy was an understatement. She ran from our approach, would bite if she felt trapped, refused to eat around other dogs, wanted nothing to do with us, the dogs or our house. As difficult as it was for me, I gave her space. All I wanted to do was gather her into my arms and snuggle and kiss her the way the breeder had led me to envision. As the weeks become months she started very slowly to open up, first to the cats, then to Claire, then to Jason. It wasn’t until late fall/early winter that she started to gingerly climb into my lap. I was determined to gain her trust! As long as I ignored her, she sat quietly, soaking up my happy thoughts directed her way but ever vigilant that I might move or try to catch her. I think often about her 2 days travel to get from Polar Lane to Bakers Acres. I feel strongly that any trauma suffered as a result of this journey would have quickly been forgotten with the sedative she was given to make travel easier and my appropriate training to help her overcome her fears. I know that her fear was deeply rooted at a young and impressionable age.

She’s been with us over a year and to this day you can still see how her first year in the “loving arms of a responsible breeder” corrupted who she could have been. She doesn’t like hugs, she still needs the freedom to flee at a moment’s notice. She feels trapped under the covers, no matter how cold the weather is. She submits to the other dogs at meal time to a fault, but cannot be separated from them or the stress of seclusion will ruin her appetite. She arrived in Burns Lake at a full-grown 10lbs with a ziplock bag of Pedigree as the breeders food choice. With careful management she is currently a very healthy 16lbs on a raw, home cooked and high protein diet.

Besides her residual underlying issues my Sweet Georgia Peach a.k.a. Sweet Georgia Brown is a happy girl who loves to torment the sheep by bouncing back and forth and chittering like an angry squirrel until they finally give in and chase her. Her strange sleeping poses have earned her the nickname Pretzel. She is the first to get out of bed, rush down the hallway, grab something she is not supposed to have, before booking it out the doggie door to store her new treasure in a deserted corner of the yard. Georgia loves Bakers Acres pens. The feel of the plastic splitting under her teeth with a satisfying crunch that magically exposes a tiny metal tip that bleeds! Like a Georgia version of Ferrero Rocher exposing the decadent hazelnut center that reminds you of Christmas! In her excitement for a new day she returns to bed to tease “Gramma” Danika who refuses to move so much as an eyelash in response to her wake up call. Georgia taps her front feet in unison 6 inches from Danika and gives a low “erf” from her throat every time her feet land in the soft sheets. As if to accentuate the warning that she could pounce at any second. After failing to rouse Danika, Georgia will try her luck with Claire, who responds with a yawn, a roll on her back an all-consuming face rub for her sleepy eyes into the deepest part of the comforter. Finally Jason makes his way to the kitchen where Gerogia follows at his heels waiting for her special part of the lunch he will so carefully make for the long day journey ahead of him. Her impatience is shown by jumping at his hand, trying to get his attention. Once her tummy is full of naughty treats she sneaks back to bed, curls up in a tight unarousable hedgehog pose as close to my back as she can and pretends to be a rock. At this point there is no moving her. When it’s time to wake me up, her routine starts all over again.

Charlie is another story that begins before Georgia. My intention to “rescue” was waning with my inner desire to have a puppy for Jason. Jason’s birthday present of a tan-colored cockapoo puppy failed miserably as my Henry attached himself to me like a spiral nail in a new 2×4. I decided to respond to a Vancouver ad for cocker spaniel puppies. All he had left were black and white. The chocolate ones had all been spoken for. I thanked him for his time and told him I would wait for the right pup. He counter-offered with the father of the puppies…Charlie. He was being forced to rehome his breeding pair as his wife had passed away and he could no longer look after them. To our utter surprise Charlie arrived on a flight from Vancouver with minimal planning. He hopped out of the airline approved kennel, gave a big stretch and sniffed around the lawn at the airport. This well-rounded pup was happy to follow Jason and I as he lept in the truck and we headed home to meet Henry.

Charlie has amazing recall, a naughty streak when he chases crows he can never catch, he sits at your feet and watches in perfect understanding as you talk to him and he carries everything around in his smug lips to prove he’s the man…but he never chews anything! He licks his lips when he thinks he’s in trouble, sleeps with his tongue hanging out, will look at you admiringly if you scratch his belly. The nickname Char was quickly adapted to Jar Jar Binks or Binky for short. He loves his kids and is calm and patient when they need it, and silly when they need entertaining. He protects them, watches over them, kisses them and claims everyone and everything as HIS.

In tracking down his vaccination records I was lead to his original breeders based out of Sherwood Park Alberta, Kim & Katherine Jensen. I was surprised to see that she had an advertised litter of pure bred, registered puppies from Charlie’s parents. After talking to her, she tracked down Charlie in her files and the information on the same family in Vancouver that I had adopted him from. I was excited to follow Charlie’s lines back to Specialty Kennels where I found pictures of his champion grandparents. I was hooked! I wanted a registered pup! I ignored the red flags that is “responsible breeder” would not only sell an unregistered pup, but did not care that he could have ended up in a shelter only days after his litter of pups had been sold. I also ignored the fact that I could not find a website or even a mention of her breeding practises on the internet. In talking to this “responsible breeder” she promised to look into getting Charlie registered. Her excuse for not registering in the first place was that she sold that litter for almost nothing. No contract, no conditions, no support, no contact.

It was around this time that the CKC dog show competed in Burns Lake. I was fortunate to meet a champion breeder/groomer of cocker spaniels. I learned about the breed, grooming, training, showing, winning and why someone could want to be a part of such an amazing display of showmanship. I also learned another hard lesson about bullying that strengthened my resolve to celebrate who I wanted to be. It’s easy to stand up for yourself when you know who you are. Who did I want to be?

When you try to define “responsible” breeding some of the requirements include: Being “involved in the showing of pure bred dogs.” and “(Responsible breeders) do not sell pups as a for-profit business. Indeed, many reputable breeders lose money,” http://www.paw-rescue.org/PAW/PETTIPS/DogTip_breedersandpetshops.php  This years dog show in Burns Lake was another amazing display of showmanship, fantastic purebred dogs and…money.

Katherine Jensen at this point was difficult to get a hold of. So I contacted Ethel Jorgensen of Specialty Kennels out of Wildwood, Alberta. She instantly knew who Charlie’s parents were, who his breeders were and she was pleasant, sympathetic and helpful with my quest for knowledge. She went further to send me copies of pedigrees for both Charlie’s parents that she had on file so I could further research his lines. When Katherine Jensen finally did answer the phone, she told me that Specialty Kennels had counselled her on our unique situation and recommended that she ignored me so as not to get in trouble with the CKC. She then opened up to me, as if I had asked, to tell me that Ethel & Jens Jorgensen were not good people and were not “above-board” in selling her Charlie’s parents. This “responsible” breeder then called me a bully and told me never to call her again. So…I contacted CKC. CKC is, after all, the end all-be all, of responsible breeding. They hold their members to strict rules and regulations. Turns out Katherine Jensen was not registered with the CKC when she had Charlie’s litter. As a current member in good standing with the CKC, Katherine Jensen was untouchable and CKC basically told me to pound sand. So much for “Responsible”.

The opposite end of the spectrum is the ever-present puppy mill. The definition in this small town is Karin Adams. Her greatest achievement is being able to pull into your drive way to steal your animals while you are washing dishes in your kitchen. Your trusting horses and dogs never to be seen again. In 2015 Karin and her daughter Catherine were handed 20-year bans on owning animals and ordered to pay nearly $5,500 in restitution (Wow! $5,500! That’s about 2 pups worth! OUCH!) to the SPCA to offset care costs. Karin Adams was also sentenced to 15 days in jail and two years’ probation, while her daughter was given six months’ conditional house arrest and three years’ probation. These two women are known to have public, written complaints against them dating back to 2007 using aliases. To this very day Karin Adams is selling dogs and destroying families visions while she rakes in the cash with her razor-sharp pitch fork. The fascinating thing about this case…I challenge you to find a recent picture of her anywhere on the global internet. We have, and continue to support, protect and enable these women to play their deadly games. After all…when we buy from puppy mills we are rescuing! (Caution: that last sentence is highly suggestible and darkly sarcastic. Parental guidance recommended.) My next question…why have we not publicly created a resource where potential puppy buyers can go to see pictures of puppy mill operators, convicted animal abusers and lists of their aliases. Another warning…if you can’t find them on the internet…they are hiding something!

For puppy mills, I simply have no words.

In the middle of the rainbow sits back yard breeders. Yup…I don’t know the definition of that one either. I envision tiny cage upon tiny wire cage of filthy, sick and diseased animals stuffed into a dilapidated barn, awaiting the sweet release of death like a holocaust child being lead to the “shower”. These are the pet store puppies that look so cute in the windows but have never felt cool spring grass on their baby paws.

What is very clear to me is that we as a society are responsible for enabling, supporting and creating a market that is corrupt. The corruption starts and ends with our choices. Not the choices of the CKC or SPCA or the “Responsible” breeders or Karin Adams. Our choice to “want what we want”, ignore the red flags, label ourselves to bully others, ignore each other to keep ourselves in “good standing”, to say anything for the almighty dollar at the expense of those pure souls who cannot speak for themselves. Those pure, honest and open souls that depend on us to be….good. Just. Be. Good.

Yesterday was another busy day of finding and celebrating that one quiet moment. Heidi was in the grooming room and as I try to explain in words the things I’ve learned simply by doing, I feel like a fumbling fool. The best thing about Heidi…she learns just like me! She can already see how the tiny changes in the angle of the blade changes the length of the hair, without words.

I had a moment after grooming, while Jason took the kids to bomb around the gravel pit on their dirt bikes, for a refocus on the details of the spring that is quickly passing me by. The cherry flowers are in perfect bloom and the honey bees in the apple trees are begging to be captured by my sophisticated Samsung camera phone.

It took a quiet mind and a moment of freedom to remember what’s real and important is “all in the details”. I collapsed after my photo frenzy that followed the buzzing of the bees laden with nectar, in a shock of pain…the kind that can only catch up on you when your attitude is in control. My “can do” attitude gave way to my “grumpy” attitude while I impatiently awaited bedtime and the promise of oblivion.

My Grumpy attitude got me out of bed in the morning, to rain. More rain! I tried to quiet my mind and channel my quiet moment from yesterday but “Grumpy” couldn’t see past the unfinished, empty garden beds and the fact that it is already June 3rd. In a physical Hulk Hogan effort my attitude ripped up the intention of my garden, again. “Maybe next year” has taken on a whole new meaning. As my intention flutters down around me like snow in a snow globe full of breath-taking water, I see the horses running though the field in their efforts to release pent-up energy. Sigh.

I refocus and spend my morning pounding on the keyboard while I watch Full Force Nature on Netflix. Jason doesn’t like my dark entertainment choices…he’d rather watch war movies or some sappy, happy ending love story. His dual personality choices clearly conflict with my Walking Dead, The Conjuring and Sleepy Hollow preferences. I love the zombies, headless demons and invisible apparitions! Full Force Nature at 8am on a Sunday morning puts the pain in my back, and my grumpy attitude into perspective. Reality is much easier to swallow while I’m watching a tornado or a decomposed, blue and bloated zombie being pulled out of a well, suddenly forgetting his bottom half in the drinking water of the last surviving members of earth.

I remind myself to be thankful for the “details”. The perfectly positioned fly on the delicately crinkled edge of a new daffodil. The blue sky perfectly framed in a circle of branches covered in knuckles and moss leading to white apple buds rimmed in pink and cupped in crisp new green leaves. The ultimate in dual personality, perfect and imperfect. Sun rays that peek out and around the clouds that direct a trail of ants up the cherry tree to help open the tightly curled leaves and expose the anther of the flowers. A broken stem bent and the damaged edges turning brown to protect the wound that lies close to the blade edge, wrapping around the spring flower like a sentry defending its queen.

“The true secret of happiness lies in taking a genuine interest in all the details of daily life.”    William Morris