___________________________________________________________________________________________
In an effort to wait for a spring that seems to be a long time arriving this year, I started thinking back to some of the places we visited last summer on our bikes.

(Okay, so it’s also been a long winter after a rainy summer and I only have so many things to write about. Please, humour me.)

I remembered this wonderful inn where the three of us stayed last August on our trek around the southern end of the province. I’m pretty sure I’ve already told you all about the day mid-trip when it poured rain and Steve and I got soaked to the skin. Jake stayed pretty dry since we put the rain cover over his carrier, but hubby and I were pretty miserable. It was my first experience riding on my own in that much water, so I was pretty exhausted by the time we called it a day.

That’s why it was a really nice surprise when we found ourselves riding up to this old-style manor house with huge overhanging trees and lovely lawns and gardens. Manor Inn Lakeside in Hebron, just outside Yarmouth, was just so welcoming after our day on the road.

We had, of course, made a reservation and stayed in the coach house, the part of the inn where they allow pets. We were able to park our bikes right outside the door in a quiet corner of the parking area and the room was lovely. In no time, we had things drying out and were able to explore the grounds since the rain had finally pretty much stopped. The inn boasts all kinds of amenities, including a deck with a hot tub, tennis courts, a beach with boats, even croquet set up on the main lawn. It was sort of like a small version of the way I’ve always pictured the resort in the movie Dirty Dancing. I know, total chick flick, but hey what can I say. You have to do something girlie when you ride around on a motorcycle.

Jake was particularly fascinated by a beautiful garden with a big central fountain. He spent a lot of time gazing over the edge watching for frogs jumping around. Every time he went outside, he had to go back and see the fountain again.

The food was fantastic too. We started with drinks and munchies in the bar, before sitting down to a beautiful and delicious meal, which was all part of the package. And the next day started out well with a really nice continental breakfast and, even better, clear skies.

I think it’s safe to say we’d recommend the inn and would love to go back there, preferably on a drier day. And I know Jake will want to visit the frogs.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________________

It’s that time of the year.

We are officially a household suffering from PMS.

Before men start to smirk and women begin nodding sympathetically, I don’t mean that kind of PMS. I mean Parked Motorcycle Syndrome.

It happens every year. You prepare yourself. You tell yourself this time will be different. You’ll exercise and you’ll eat right and you’ll keep yourself so busy, maybe even take up a new hobby or a home improvement project, that you won’t suffer the symptoms.

Then bam! They hit you.

You find yourself looking out the window on a clear day wondering if the road is dry. You hear a loud truck go by and you glance at the window for a fleeting moment thinking maybe it’s a motorcycle, only to see that there’s still snow on the ground.

You find yourself getting moody, even cranky for no apparent reason. You don’t want to be cranky, but you just don’t seem to be able to stop. You eat chocolate or chips or cheesecake, knowing you don’t really want it, but hoping it will make you feel better. Still, withdrawal from the road becomes an ache and there’s no medication to make it go away.

That’s when you know — you’ve got Parked Motorcycle Syndrome.

You may be able to alleviate the symptoms by reading motorcycle magazines or watching motorcycle shows on television. Looking at photos of road trips from previous years may bring you some temporary relief. If it gets too bad, you can visit a motorcycle showroom or an event like the upcoming Biker Bash in Halifax.

Or you can simply go out to your garage, uncover your bike and gaze at it longingly. Steve, Jake and I have been trying this and it makes us feel a little better. Jake looks at the bikes, then looks at us, then looks back at the bikes as if to say “okay when?”

Unfortunately, the only cure is spring and we’ll just have to wait.

________________________________________________________________________________________

__________________________________________________________________________________________

Jake has clearly been in a quandary the last few days.

Our RoadDog loves the snow. He loves to chase his ball through the snow. He loves to run and jump through it. He loves to rub his face in it with his bum up in the air and his tail twitching back and forth.

But what do you do when you have five-inch legs and there’s five or six inches of heavy snow on the ground?

Clearly it’s been a struggle. He wants to play in it. He tries to play in it. But he just barely manages not to get stuck in it.

I’ve shovelled some paths and Steve has made more with the snowblower. I often wonder what people driving by think if they glance in and see one of us clearing snow off the middle of the front lawn. I really hope they realize it means we have a dog – a big dog with short legs.

But the paths are never enough. Jake will happily trot along and just when you think “okay this time he’s going to stay in the trail,” plop he’s bounced over into a snow bank where he’s struggling to keep moving.

We took him to Miller Point Peace Park for a walk on Saturday where some wonderful cross-country skier had made a decent walking trail, but our boy wouldn’t stay in it. By the time he got home, he was completely exhausted. Then on Sunday, we went to visit my parents and Jake wanted to make his usual trek around the backyard and just couldn’t seem to grasp why that wasn’t going to work.

Sure enough, he jumped into the snow bank and got stuck, looking up at me as if to say “well, help me.” I shortened the usual walk about, in fact I pretty much cut it in half, but I still ended up getting a leg workout as I shuffled through snow drifts, some up to my knees, with a Cairn terrier jumping along quite literally right behind my heels. Jake will keep trying to pass when we do that, then realizes he can’t get through the snow and falls back with this look that says “get to it.”

At one point, I had to get up this little hill. I didn’t realize I’d stepped up it until I looked back and saw Jake stuck in one of my foot holes trying valiantly to leap out of it. Back down I went, rescued him and put him back down, shuffling up the hill to make a trail.

That time it was me who ended up tired. Jake just trotted into the house with a smile on his face. I swear sometimes he’s thinking that if he can’t ride on a motorcycle, playing in the snow is a good second choice.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________

We all have them, from the household traditions surrounding major holidays to the day-to-day routines we perform virtually without thinking, we all have family rituals.

Our RoadDog is no exception, in fact, there are times I wonder if we even had rituals before Jake joined our household, since it now seems to revolve primarily around him.

From the time he wakes up, which varies from workday to weekend, until the time he goes to sleep (or more like until he convinces us to go to sleep), Jake is more often than not a creature of habit. That’s not to say he doesn’t do unpredictable and all too often amusing things, because he absolutely does. There are just certain rituals that we can be almost certain he is going to follow.

Take, for instance, the weekend morning. When Jake wakes up, he wakes me up. I take him out for 15 or 20 minutes (usually more about strolling around the yard than any necessities), then we go back inside where he attacks a still sleeping Steve. Whether that’s his way of saying good morning or just a method to get Steve out of bed so he can steal his pillow, we aren’t sure, but it works every time. I don’t complain, because it results in me getting a cup of steaming coffee in bed a short time later.

Before you feel too sorry for Steve, let me tell you about the evening cleanup routine. As I’ve told you before, Jake eats first. Whether at home or on a road trip, our boy is all about his belly and there is just no way he’s going to wait. After Jake eats, Steve and I eat (and often Jake eats a little more if we’re having vegetables that he likes). Once we’ve finished and returned the dishes to the kitchen, Jake sits by the door, his cue that he wants to go outside. More often than not, Steve tells me our beloved dog doesn’t do anything on that trek around the property. I think it’s more about male bonding — Jake gets to sniff around the yard and Steve gets out of helping with most of the dishes. Boys!

The real ritual I want to tell you about is our evening ball game. I have no idea how it got started and I’m absolutely sure that, as with so many things we’ve lost control of, we had no idea what we were getting ourselves into the first time we did it.

But we play ball in our living room pretty much every night (unless our RoadDog is exhausted from a day out on the bikes). It starts when Steve and I both sit down or, if it gets late and he gets impatient for me to sit, when Jake gets tired of waiting. Jake gets his stuffed ball and sits at Steve’s feet staring up at him. If we ignore him too long, he’ll let out a quiet “ruff” or tap Steve’s foot or leg with his nose. Then it’s game on!

We move the coffee table to the side and sit on opposite sides of the room with Jake chasing the ball between us. He’s incredibly fast, so often catches it, shaking it from side to side before giving it back so the game can continue. Sometimes the battle lasts for 10 minutes, sometimes longer, but it ends in one of two ways. Either Jake gets the ball and heads to the kitchen doorway to wait for his treat or he gets his ball and jumps into his bed, which he somehow understands is a safe zone where we won’t take the ball from him.

It really is just too cute. Is it any wonder our routines revolve around his?

______________________________________________________________________________