Dog and I (14 page)

One more turn? she seems to be begging. Just one more. Sometimes I give in; sometimes I do not give in.

We walked the entire trail system twice the Sunday that we discovered the secret message. It was heavy slogging and we were both, for once, tired when we made it back home. The date was January 29, 2006, and I mention it only because, as serendipity would have it, this snowfallen day in Canada marks the moment year 4703 turns over to 4704 on the Chinese calendar. We have entered the Year of the Dog. The last one was twelve years ago, 1994, and twelve years before that, 1982. The next will not be until 2018.

The Chinese New Year begins with the new moon and the celebrations continue for fifteen days until the full moon is reached. It is a time of masks, lion dances, paper dragons, and fireworks, a time to mark the time of winter when, according to ancient Chinese legend, a beast named Nian would slink around the neighbourhoods, sneaking into homes at night and dining on small children as their parents slept. This is grounds for such a celebration?

Then again, perhaps the Year of the Dog is actually the year of the watchdog—though this particular dog named Willow will not much relate. She is afraid not only of her own shadow, but also of loud noises, other dogs, smaller ones even more so than larger, trash bins, plastic bags caught in trees, large lumps of snow and— remarkable as it sounds—fire hydrants. Mercifully, she is not a male.

Those born in the Year of the Dog tend to be honest and faithful, much as a dog is, with a strong sense of commitment and duty. They believe in justice. They are often opinionated and stubborn. They worry a great deal and are often too critical. In humans, those born under this sign tend to go into business or—so it is claimed—spy work.

I am from the Year of the Rat. The next one will be here shortly, in 2008. I looked up the characteristics and discovered that those born under this Chinese sign are charming, generous, but also quick-tempered and hypercritical. According to a thumbnail sketch I found on the internet, those born in the Year of the Rat “make good writers, critics and publicists.” I take issue with none of this.

The dog, however, was not born in the Year of the Dog. Because she is still a puppy of undetermined lineage and uncertain birthday, I can only assume she was born either at the beginning of the Year of the Rooster (early 2005) or at the tail end of the Year of the Monkey (late 2004). Those born under the sign of the Rooster are quick to decide, work hard, and are rather self-centred braggarts. They make good restaurateurs. I don't think so, though dining well is a prime concern for her.

Those born under the sign of the Monkey are considered very bright and tend to be extraordinarily successful. “Monkeys,” the site tells me, “can run circles around other people with ease.” Now we're getting somewhere. Monkeys are curious to the point of being nosy. They are clever, amusing, even sneaky. Those born in the Chinese Year of the Monkey, it is said, make excellent stock market traders, jewellers, and air traffic controllers….

SHORTLY BEFORE
noon the next day, she is in the office again, irritatingly bouncing a tennis ball up and down on the hardwood floor.

Bounce.

Bounce.

BOUNCE.

BOUNCE!

BOUNCE!!

“Okay, okay. We'll go.”

And off we head again, off to Alice Wilson Woods to walk in the deep snow and chase sticks and come, once more, upon the fading message that the mitten left on the high plateau.

It is warmer now, and the squirrels are out, teasing her into chases that end, always, within a snapping finger— and jaw—of success. The squirrels move into the high branches, leaping from tree to tree, their condescending, sarcastic chatter driving poor Willow to distraction. She runs from tree trunk to tree trunk, jumping against them as if, somehow, this twenty-pound animal could fell a two-hundred-year-old tree. She barks and leaps, barks and runs and leaps and whines at the squirrels to come back down to earth—
I dare you
. A frustrated air traffic controller who is living proof that “where the woods end, fantasy begins.”

And so long as there is a dog waiting patiently for its daily walk through these same woods, it will never end.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author is grateful to
The Globe and Mail,
the
National Post,
and the
Ottawa Citizen
for indulging him during those moments when he chose to write about his dog rather than the state of the world. Thanks to
Cottage Life
magazine for placing the odd dog “Weekender” column on the back page, and to Natasha Daneman and Bruce Westwood at Westwood Creative Agency for their continuing advice and support. He is also indebted to Barbara Berson, his beloved editor at Penguin, for the idea of a book on dogs, and to lifelong friend Edie Van Alstine, also a brilliant editor, for good counsel and strong advice. He is most grateful to Jason Schneider for his wonderful illustrations, to Karen Alliston for eagle-eyed copy editing as well as structural suggestions, and to Soapbox for their distinctive design. Thanks to Ellen, Kerry, Christine, Jocelyn, and Gordon for letting me tell some of these stories. Any mistakes, of course, are the responsibility of the dogs.