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Now that we’re not going anywhere, we’ve picked right back up on our micro-farming project.

You may remember posts from last summer and this past spring on our construction efforts on building the pig shelter and fencing in the yard. Well, they’re finally being put to use!

Except, we’ve gone from pigs to sheep!

Between Neil and I thinking we were moving, then my in-laws’ phone going down for a week or so (hazards of living at the edge of the grid), the pig thing fell through. Our original source sold all their piglets, and you’d be surprised at how hard it is to find piglets for sale!

Neil and I eventually went to the Fraser Valley Auctions to see if we could find any pigs that suppliers were unloading, but goats seemed to be the order of the day, along with a good assortment of sheep!

We left with a lovely lamb who lamented her way down the highway in the back of our car. And lamented in the ferry line. And lamented during the ferry ride. And lamented up the island highway (while she wasn’t busy nibbling on the poor dog’s tail). And lamented all the way into her pen, and all night, and most of the next morning until we put her with the neighbour’s sheep while my inlaws found her some friends.

The lamenting inspired her name: Agnes – short for Agnus Dei, the lamb of god. Also a movement in Mozart’s Requiem.

A few days later, Agnes was joined by two other lambs, Gloria and Miserere (have mercy), who were also known by their voices, raised to the heavens.

Thankfully (for my inlaws anyhow, I obviously can’t hear them from here), they have apparently quieted down and are now lovely little lawnmowers.

And come September (because we need to get them slaughtered before hunting season gets underway and any potential fall floods happen), we’ll have our own Requiem for a Lamb, and end up with a bunch of fleece and a freezer full of tasty sheep meat.

Besides, if you’re doing bio-dynamic farming anyhow, you really want to start off with ruminants, then follow with chickens, and finally end up with pigs. I think it might be a harder sell to convince my in-laws to go for the chickens, but we’ve got a year or so to work on them….

My job for the past number of years has been marketing technology products.

For the most part I love it – the amazing ways people are finding to manipulate machines to improve lives (even if it doesn’t always work out that way) is fascinating. The communities are exciting; the innovation is inspiring. I love the feeling I get when someone discovers our products, engages with us as a company, and is profoundly thankful that what we do has made them better at what they do.

And then I try to explain to my grandmother what I do.

“Well, many businesses buy a really big software system to run everything at their companies, like hiring and bookkeeping and inventory, and the software we build helps one of those pieces work better…”

“I tell people about the software we make and show them how it can help them make the most of this other software they have….”

“How? I build calculators to show that spending $40,000 can save them $80,000 and go to user groups to share ideas and write papers and presentations to explain the technology and….”

“Yes, I’m sortof a writer. No, it’s not like writing a book or for newspapers and magazines. Mostly it goes through email.”

My job, in my grandmother’s eyes, is reduced to writing (sortof) and sending email. And she still doesn’t understand why I didn’t go work in a bookstore.

So I think it’s understandable that when I can get out of the magical world of ones and zeros and make something that I can point to, touch, have aches and blisters from building, and whose form and function are plainly obvious to anyone, anywhere in the world, I get pretty excited.

Over the past long weekend, we fenced in our pig pen! Pigs arrive first week of June.

As I get further and further away from work that anyone understands, I get more and more satisfaction from things that everyone can relate to.

Look at that, another wedding anniversary! We’ve been so busy lately, it really crept up on us. Plans include a quiet dinner at home with a bottle of the good wine.

One of the bigger challenges in the past months has been dealing with the wacky health (physical and mental) issues our damn dog’s been having. So it seems appropriate that I post a little reminder (also printed on the back of our wedding programs in 2008) that love, and dogs, are worth it.

Falling in love is like owning a dog
an epithalamion by Taylor Mali
www.taylormali.com

First of all, it’s a big responsibility,
especially in a city like New York.
So think long and hard before deciding on love.
On the other hand, love gives you a sense of security:
when you’re walking down the street late at night
and you have a leash on love
ain’t no one going to mess with you.
Because crooks and muggers think love is unpredictable.
Who knows what love could do in its own defense?

On cold winter nights, love is warm.
It lies between you and lives and breathes
and makes funny noises.
Love wakes you up all hours of the night with its needs.
It needs to be fed so it will grow and stay healthy.

Love doesn’t like being left alone for long.
But come home and love is always happy to see you.
It may break a few things accidentally in its passion for life,
but you can never be mad at love for long.

Is love good all the time? No! No!
Love can be bad. Bad, love, bad! Very bad love.

Love makes messes.
Love leaves you little surprises here and there.
Love needs lots of cleaning up after.
Sometimes you just want to get love fixed.
Sometimes you want to roll up a piece of newspaper
and swat love on the nose,
not so much to cause pain,
just to let love know Don’t you ever do that again!

Sometimes love just wants to go for a nice long walk.
Because love loves exercise.
It runs you around the block and leaves you panting.
It pulls you in several different directions at once,
or winds around and around you
until you’re all wound up and can’t move.

But love makes you meet people wherever you go.
People who have nothing in common but love
stop and talk to each other on the street.

Throw things away and love will bring them back,
again, and again, and again.
But most of all, love needs love, lots of it.
And in return, love loves you and never stops.

My dog ate my door.

No, that is not a type-o or a euphemism or a metaphor.

MY DOG ATE MY DOOR!

We came home from our trip, picked the dog up from the usual dog-sitters, brought her home and carried on with life as usual.

Except suddenly, life “as usual” is not good enough for our dog. She has developed a staggering case of separation anxiety, and on Friday night while we were out she ate a big piece of molding off our front door! (Along with making a huge mess of the room where her food is.) We made sure she wasn’t left for long over the rest of the weekend, and gave her lots of exercise.

It hasn’t helped.

Her anxiety’s been getting steadily worse over the past couple days, and this morning I couldn’t even shower alone. She clawed and whined at the bathroom door until I opened it.

We have no idea what triggered the anxiety. She’s 6.5 years old and has never had a problem before. She’s had plenty of upheaval in her life and has always settled immediately back into a routine without being destructive. She always goes to the same dog-sitters, and she’s been with them for a 3 week vacation before.

The only thing new, is that our dog-sitters now have a dog of their own, and she became quite good friends with that dog while we were away. Does she miss having a buddy SO badly that she can no longer handle being alone? That would be terrible, considering we are not going to get another dog.

Anyone out there had experience with a sudden onset of separation anxiety in their dog? Any suggestions for what to do about it?

I would prefer she stick to eating ice cream.

I’m moving to Tuscany.

I was pretty surprised the first time I was chewed out – no pun intended (you’ll get this eventually, I promise) – for expressing this long-held and apparently errant belief.

It doesn’t help much that the people “in the know” have been battling the stereotype for quite a while, so they tend to get a little testy and short-tempered about the spreading and proliferation of misinformation and misconceptions.

In fact, I find it hard to restrain myself (now that I am one of the “enlightened ones”) from correcting others when they trot out (oh, another pun!) the old, tired cliché. I even bit my tongue during a brainstorming session at work where it came up – because the first rule of brainstorming is that you don’t judge, correct, or otherwise trample on the ideas of others.

But then Alice mentioned it in her blog post a couple days ago, and I knew I could be silent no longer! I mean, she’s a pretty popular blogger, the potential for prolonging the proliferation of this particular piece of pop-trivia is just staggering.

So here goes – prepare to have your world turned upside-down:

GOATS DO NOT EAT EVERYTHING, AND IN FACT ARE REALLY QUITE PICKY!

There. Now you know.

What goats are is destructive. They will chew anything they can reach. The list of things they will swallow, however, is apparently pretty limited. A goat’s notorious pickiness is apparently the bane of many a goatkeeper.

Anyhow. I just needed to get that off my chest.

Also, this is what happens when you say “yes” to marrying a guy who grew up on a goat farm (and has the 4H Champion Herdsman awards to prove it). So really, you’ve been informed, and warned!

I only wish I were talking about Neil’s stanky running shirt again.

Despite the fact that it had only been 3 days long, this week has been exceedingly busy for me. I’ve had 4 interviews in 3 days and managed to pick up a freelance project. Combine that with an evening volunteering, the sudden heat that I’m not used to yet, and the rest of life that needs taking care of – all I wanted to do last night was relax.

After finally finishing for the day and grabbing some dinner out (we have been too busy to procure foodstuffs), it was about 9:30pm and I was looking forward to hitting the couch with a good book or whatever TiVo had in store.

Neil wanted nothing more than to go walk the dog to the beach. Despite his cajoling, I (who’d already been out with the beast twice that day) resisted and grabbed a book while he took the dog and headed out.

I’d only gotten a couple pages in when the phone rang:

Jen: Hello?
Neil: You’ll never believe what just happened to the dog
Jen: uh…. I assume she’s alive?
Neil: Oh yah – but guess what she got into?
Jen: She rolled in something smelly?
Neil: Close!
Jen: Uh…..
Neil: She got sprayed by a skunk!

If you have ever dealt with this before, you know what the rest of my night consisted of.

The Highlights:

-Googling for skunk oil removal remedies that could be procured from either a corner store, 24h drug store or other retailer open at about 10:00pm
-Wrestling with a big, wet, hairy, upset dog in the bathtub, trying to apply vinegar and baking soda to her chest and face
-Realizing vinegar doesn’t work on skunk oil worth a damn
-Sending Neil to the store for peroxide, more dish detergent, and douche (kinda bad for people – apparently good for removing skunk oil from animal faces, where you shouldn’t apply caustic solutions).
-Finding out that nobody who works the night-shift at Shoppers Drug Mart on 4th or Broadway a) knows what products the store carries, b) speaks English or c) cares.
-Applying a foamy mixture of peroxide, baking soda and dish soap to a dog who’s been bathed twice already and isn’t happy about it, and trying to keep her from shaking it all off for 10 minutes.

We finally gave up and got to bed around 1:00am – us in our bedroom with the door closed to protect it from the smell, the dog in her crate in the living room, the towels and clothes we used out on the deck.

This morning we were back at it at 6:00, tossing Neil’s clothes, yesterdays’ towels and anything else that got covered in skunk stank into the laundry or garbage, and scrubbing down the bathroom. Thankfully, it seems like we’ve gotten most of the offending odors out of the house – though I think I need a trusted friend to come by and let me know if it does smell in here or not.

The poor dog seems to be mostly ok. Neil was unable to get the douche solution for the dog’s face, so her wee head still smells a little – but other than her dry fur (stripped of all its natural oils, along with the skunk oil) and her wounded pride, she is recovering just fine out on the deck in the sunshine with a peanut-butter kong. I’m going to go out and try to procure some douche concentrate today to soak her face with, and hopefully that’ll take care of the last of the smell and we can let her back in the house, and get on with life, skunk-free.

I *told* Neil I didn’t think a walk last night was a good idea. I think after all that, he agrees.

You know, I had a WAY better title for this one, but do you think I can remember it? Of course not.

Anyhow, I’ve been really excited to write about this, but was waiting for everything to finalize and the training to finish before I put it out there for internet posterity.

Sasha is officially a Hospital Visiting Dog with Pets and Friends! We visit the GF Strong Rehabilitative Centre one night a week.

I really enjoy volunteering and giving back to the community, but I’m socially awkward enough that my stint volunteering solo in palliative care a few years back was painful for all involved. I’ve undertaken some other volunteer projects both big and small, but they all had a finite term, so I’d have to find something new time and time again.

And this time, I really wanted something I could do with the dog. When both Neil and I are working (and even when I’m not, because I’ve been out of the house a lot this week) I feel pretty bad about leaving her at home alone so much.

A few months back, I saw a random blog post where the author mentioned something about therapy pets. So I started googling and found a local organization.

Now therapy or assistance animals and visiting pets are entirely different entities. Therapy animals are those that have been specifically bred, raised and trained to offer assistance to people with disabilities. They’re the labs and shepherds you see who accompany those with vision or other physical impairments, have been trained to recognize seizures and offer assistance for other purposes. These are working dogs, not pets.

Visiting pets are just that, they visit. They’ve been screened for temperament and training, and go with their owners to hospitals, hospices and other care facilities to visit with (usually long-term) patients. They offer a change of routine, a distraction, and unconditional, wet, hairy love.

It’s incredible to see how much a happy dog lights up the faces of people who are facing a really tough time. Especially those who are facing significant life challenges, away from home, friends and family (and their pets!) for extended periods. It’s sad, but so many of these patients, without anything else to do, will just go to bed after dinner (at about 6:00pm) out of sheer boredom. A visitor of any sort (two legs or four) is exactly the kind of thing worth staying up for.

And Sasha is a pretty perfect dog for the job. She’s unfailingly friendly – usually more interested in people than other dogs even, and always more interested in strangers than the humans she sees every day – in a very gentle way. She’s tall enough to stand up on her hind legs and visit people who can’t bend down out of bed to reach her, and is happy to just sit and be scratched on whichever bit of her is within reach.

Honestly, the people we’re visiting care far more about the dog than the human at the end of the leash – and that’s exactly how I like it. Sharing my happy dog with people is way more rewarding than just forcing my awkward presence upon them.

If you’ve got a pet you’d like to volunteer with, a facility you think could use some animal visitors, or just want to know more and perhaps support the organization – go ahead and check out Pets and Friends, or look for ways to get involved in your local area.

I wish I could share more at the moment – I can’t, but soon!

In the meantime, enjoy this video of my dog, licking the dregs out of an ice cream container.

Dog! Eats Icecream!
from Jen

In this neighbourhood, the mean dogs come out at 4:00pm.

Generally I walk the dog either around 11:00am, or 3:00pm, depending on my schedule for the day.

The other day I had to go out at 5:00, and in an effort to avoid the wearing of pants as long as possible (one of the very few perks of being at home more often than not these days), I delayed the mid-day walking of the dog until 4:00.

Oh my.

In our 2-ish kilometer jaunt, we encountered no fewer than four completely awful, aggressive dogs. These dogs are the reason leash laws are in place.

Poor Sasha was accosted for crimes such as:

-> Chasing her own ball
-> Walking through the park
-> Walking away from having her bits sniffed
-> Existing.

I was admittedly lucky that my dog chose that day to actually remember her “Canine Good Neighbour” training, and actually broke away from the dog-fights when I told her to “leave it” and “come.”

And I really wonder at the mental facilities of the woman who had her dog off leash when she knew it was going to try fighting my dog for ownership of her own ball (not when chasing, but when returning), or the guy who had his behemoth on a regular collar lead, and couldn’t control it when it lunged at Sasha for being so offensive as to be heeling beside me as we waited to cross the street.

These are the people who give dog owners in the city a bad name. I bet they don’t scoop their poop either.

So, you’ve been warned: if you want to avoid the mean dogs, stay away from the Cornwall/Macdonald area on weekdays (or at least Mondays) around 4:00pm.

Normally I pride myself on being a person who can unquestionably hold it together and perform, nay exceed under pressure. When the going gets tough, the tough call Jen!

Until today.

Today, I completely lost my shit (figuratively), because the dog lost hers (literally).

I left work a smidge early today to go home and put together some final notes on a bit of market research I was going through for a client (reading and summarizing research is always best done on a comfy couch as far as I’m concerned), and was feeling pretty pleased with myself, and already half-writing the notes in my head as I walked up to the building.
When I opened the apartment door, I noticed instantly that something was Not. Right.

The Smell.

I looked in and didn’t see anything straight away, so I ventured in a bit further to see what exactly had gone on in my 8 hour absence. I made it to the kitchen.

Three full quarters of the surface of the 20 square feet of laminate that occupies the centre of the horseshoe that is our kitchen was COVERED in liquids of various colours and consistencies. The orifice they came out of was still up in the air.

Cursing the mess, but secretly smiling about the fact that, hey, at least it’s not on the carpet(!), I glanced over at the sliding door to the patio. Uh oh. Danger Will Robinson… There are some brownish drops and smears by the door. More dog mess? I wandered over to check it out.

Then

Out of the corner of my eye

I saw it.

THE GIGANTIC PILES OF SHIT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE (FULLY CARPETED) OFFICE FLOOR!!!

Ok, in all fairness, there was one gigantic pile of shit, and three lesser piles surrounding it.

And this was no ordinary shit. This dog had clearly gone for the extra grease, extra cheese, extra beans, extra extra hot sauce superdeluxe chalupah, and my carpet paid the price.

I was stunned. Dazed, I turned back to look at the door from whence I’d entered this, the 4th circle of hell that had replaced my home, and saw it. The other puddle of shit on the tile at the front door, that I’d stepped in on my way inside.

And then I lost it.

I picked up my phone and called Neil; as soon as he answered I just yelled “OH MY GOD THE DOG DIAHRREA’D ALL OVER THE APARTMENT!” To which he replied “So I guess I should come home?” To which I replied “OH MY GOD I CAN’T HANDLE THIS!” And promptly hung up.

I grabbed my purse, and the dog, and my keys, and just left.

I managed to make it down to the coffee place at the end of the block, tied the dog to a table outside, ordered a cappucino, and just waited for Neil to make it home (I did think to call at some point and let him know that I was in a place other than the befouled apartment).

To make an already long story a little shorter and spare you the grosest details, it took three hours, three kitchen catchers, one roll of paper towel, two dishclothes, a can of Spot Shot, a Rug Doctor rental, a method air pill and scented candle, Chinese food dinner OUT, three beer and two larger-than-is-decent-in-polite-company glasses of scotch, and we’re finally feeling better (if not ok) about the experience.

And now that I’ve made it to the other side, I can say that maybe, perhaps, there is a tiny inkling of indication that there is hope for me yet to be a parent of small children and actually enjoy it.

Because even with the experience she put me through, I can say with conviction that even if she were to do this again, I would still prefer that the dastardly hound spend her time at the end of my bed, rather than the end of my fork.

Today is a good day in my world.

In fact, I’m in such a good mood, I’m going to do something completely uncharacteristic.

Blog about cats!

If you know me well enough, you know that usually the best thing I have to say about cats is that they “taste good with rice and teriyaki sauce.”

But I found a cat video that I actually liked enough to a) make me want a cat to do this with, and b) want to share with you!

So go forth, and check out this YouTube video.

Embedding has been “disabled by request,” but I assure you, it’s worth the clickthrough.

What had me so tired yesterday? A few hours of playing in the snow.

Especially a few hours in the snow, trying to keep up with this crazy beastiie who LOVES the white powder, and acts every inch the crackhead when she gets to run around in it.

Check out the entire set on flickr.

It never, ever fails.

You think some day we’d catch him napping, or in the can, or something other than staring out his window.

But no.

We can’t make it halfway across the street before he’s strutting out his door and striding across the grass, bellowing “LEASH YOUR DOG PLEASE!”

We call him “Park Boss” for fun. As in, “who made you park boss? you’re not the boss of me!”

Playgrounds clearly bring out my inner 8-year-old.

Truth is though, I am a little intimidated. What if he really is the park boss?

He’s a man of about 70. Or if he’s not 70, life has dealt him enough blows so he looks a septagenarian. He lives in a little house on the corner of the park. I’m not sure exactly why there is a little house on the park – it looks misplaced. Like the city wanted to buy up the land for greenspace, and he just refused to go. The grandfather’s been grandfathered.

And he clearly considers it his duty to ensure that all dogs who enter the park, which isn’t designated as an off-leash area, remain firmly tethered to their owners. If he does have any jurisdiction to ticket the not-so-law-abiding dog owners of the neighbourhood, he certainly hasn’t exercised it yet, that I’ve seen.

But he still watches.

All the way down the sidewalk, past his window, where I see his shadow flash from the front window, to the side. Then the door opens if Sasha even looks at the expanse of grass and trees and leaves without overt evidence that she’s leashed.

Then it comes.

“LEASH YOUR DOG PLEASE! THIS IS A PLAYGROUND, FOR KIDS NOT DOGS! IT’S FOR THE GOOD OF EVERYONE! YOU CAN LET YOUR DOG RUN FREE ACROSS THE BRIDGE!”

Nevermind that the other side of the footbridge that bisects the park isn’t any more an off-leash area according to the law. But clearly the city laws don’t apply here. This is Park Boss’s turf.

And though I always fancied myself a rebel, I never did have the gumption or tenacity to follow through on that.

So I do as I’m told.

Park Boss saves the day, again.

Jonathan posted on Metroblogging Vancouver yesterday regarding his opinion on having a dog in an apartment building.

Vancouver’s no-pets-in-the-building policy is probably a good thing. If people want a dog, they should at least have a house with a yard or public park across the street.

It’s an opinion I hear a lot from people who feel “sorry” for my dog, because she lives in an apartment.

That’s bullshit.

I’ve lived in both apartments and houses with dogs of all sizes, and I can say that it absolutely DOES NOT MATTER what kind of home you inhabit with a dog, you have to exercise them. Putting a dog out in the yard does not guarantee they’re exercising.

I’d actually argue that dogs who live in homes with yards don’t get as much exercise as they should. I know that personally I was FAR more likely to just let the dog out the back door to do its business rather than actually go play outside with it, or take it for a walk around the neighbourhood or to the park every day as I do now.

And I can’t vouch for Mt. Pleasant, but there are a LOT of parks in areas of Vancouver that I’m familiar with. No, there isn’t one immediately across the street from me. But there is one across the street and two blocks west, one a block behind me, and another park across the street from that. Every neighbourhood I’ve explored has at least a public grassy patch every 5 blocks or so. It’s probably better for the dog, and the owner, to have to walk an extra block or two to get to it.

My dog’s trainer actually recommends AGAINST yards for dogs. Sure, a yard is great if you go out there with the animal, but putting them outside alone is a horrible idea. That’s where the poor dog is antaganized by any amount of neighbourhood cats and wildlife, and feels he/she must defend the yard as part of his/her territory. If a person is going to be a good dog owner, it doesn’t matter if the grassy patch is attached to the house or a 6 block hike away – the person must accompany the dog.

Having a dog is far more like having a toddler than having an animal. They’re about as smart as a 3-year old, and need stimulation and interaction in order to flourish and not become destructive and start yelling (barking) and pooping in corners just for the hell of it. The day someone agrees that it’s cruel to have a child in an apartment because they don’t have a yard to play in is the day I’ll agree with the same argument for dogs.

I think his other points are relevant – non-dog people have just as much right to live in a non-dog building as dog-people do to live in a dog-friendly building. I wouldn’t move into a condo complex knowing that strata bylaws state “no dogs” if I wanted a dog to be in my future. If it were that important to me, I’d be putting “dog-friendly” on my list of must-haves right next to 2 full bathrooms and garburator. I’m not about to be a strata-council rabble-rouser to try and bring dogs where none have gone before. People have as much right to live dog-free as those who live in “adult only” complexes have to live child-free.

But the type of house someone lives in is NOT a valid qualifier to determine whether or not they’re a good dog owner (or parent), and is not a valid argument for banning dogs from apartment buildings.

Were I to be a Strata Council renegate, I’d far rather get on the council at the new place, and try to put in a clause that bans judgemental ignorami (not that Jonathan’s necessarily one – I don’t know him from Adam – he just planted the seed to ignite my wrath) from living there.