Jake sporting his oh-so-cute new look.

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To: Ms Tanya Greek
    Greek’s Grooming Boutique
    Long Drive From Home, NS
 
Dear Ms Tanya,
 
Thank you for making me my most handsomest.

I was kind of anxious to leave after my appointment last week. It was almost time for lunch and I really don’t like to be late for meals. Eating is one of my favourite things. Mom says I’m all about my belly. I’m not sure what that means, but it must be okay because she gives me lots of treats.

In fact, I’ve been getting some extra treats since I visited you. Mom says I’m “just so cute” since my haircut. She can’t resist my big brown eyes and adorable face. (She also keeps talking about wanting to nibble on my oh-so-cute ears but I hope she’s joking.)

Anyway, I want to thank you ever so much for my wonderful haircut. It’s much cooler with the warm weather so I’ve been running and bouncing around feeling very happy. I liked my manly pedi too. My paws feel much lighter. And I know I act like I don’t like my bath because I don’t really like to get all wet, but I like feeling clean afterwards so thanks for that too.

Mom and Dad are very happy. The girl dogs seem to think me handsome too and I like that a lot. Speaking of that, please tell your four-legged girl I said “hi.” She’s cute.

You’re the bestest Miss Tanya. See you again soon.

Love, Jake
x

P.S. I attached a photo so you’ll remember how cute you helped me be.
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The Sunday night crash of a weekend warrior.

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Sometimes I feel like life just isn’t entirely fair to our RoadDog.

Don’t get me wrong, I know Jake has a pretty good life, but I occasionally wonder if he might not be slightly happy to see Monday morning roll around.

Like many couples who work more or less nine-to-five jobs through the week, Steve and I try to pack a lot into our weekends. Whether that’s a lot of time spent riding our motorcycles, completing work around the house, doing a myriad of other things or some combination of it all, we tend to be on the go pretty much all day on Saturday and Sunday. Because we’re away from home so much during the week and Jake is left alone, we try to include him as much as we can on weekends.

This weekend was a good example. Steve and I spent all day Saturday outside working around the house. We would have liked to have been riding, but that giant to-do list reared its ugly, nasty head and we decided to be sensible, responsible homeowners. Ick! Necessary, but ick nonetheless.

Jake was outside with us all day. He watched us pile wood and “helped” in his own special ways (like sneaking off with small sticks, getting his tie-out rope tangled so I could take a break and untangle him — I’m sure you get the idea). Then he “helped” with some painting. At one point, I think it was around 4 p.m., I looked over and our boy was crashed and snoring in the doorway of the garage, close enough to watch what we were doing if only he could have kept his eyes open. After all, he’d also helped me do three loads of laundry that day, going up and down the stairs and out to the deck to the clothesline a number of times. He was tired.

He rested on Saturday evening while we were out, but with Sunday morning came more outside work, which ultimately ended with a soaking wet Jake happy and tired from chasing the spray from the garden hose around the yard. After a brief nap while we bought groceries, he was off in the car with us to have dinner at my parents’ house. That involved walking all four of us, my mom and dad included, around the backyard on different occasions as he mostly sniffed and snuffled all there was to sniff and snuffle. With a full belly from dinner, he then crashed behind their couch where he stayed until we took him home and he then crashed again on our living room floor for the remainder of the evening.

Our RoadDog is such a trooper. He sleeps all week, but when the weekend rolls around he’s ready to go, go, go, whatever we’re doing or wherever we’re going. But on Monday morning, after we leave for work, I think he probably sleeps with a smile on his face.
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Jake out of a weekend stroll at Miller Point.

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You can learn a lot about people from dogs.

I remember once many years ago an acquaintance came to our house to see Steve about something and pushed our dog, Nicki — a lovable, hairy Muppet come to life if there ever was one — away with impatience when she came to greet him, her tail wagging and a canine smile on her face. I never really liked that person from that point forward. I didn’t expect him to love our dog, but it was her house, not his, and I expected him to respect her.

A couple of weeks ago, another acquaintance jokingly asked me, when a third person mentioned Jake, if I had a “cat dog.” For some reason, which I couldn’t fathom at the time, I was insulted, possibly even a little angry at the comment. I’ve thought about it more since then and, while I know the person was only teasing, I think what bothered me is the assumption and the prejudice behind the joke.

Jake is no lap dog. He doesn’t cuddle. He doesn’t snuggle. He doesn’t sit on my lap or even lie on the sofa beside me. He’s just not into that. The best I ever get is, once in awhile when Jake is tired or upset, he’ll sit in my arm and put his head over my shoulder. It never lasts more than three or four minutes and it’s usually more like 10 to 30 seconds. And every so often when Jake is lying on the living room floor and Steve lies down beside him, he’ll stay there and let Steve pat him for a couple of minutes.

Our Cairn is independent and he doesn’t let us forget it. He is, as I’ve often said, a big dog trapped in a small dog’s body or, more precisely, a big dog with short legs.

That’s not to imply that there is anything wrong with snugly lap dogs of any size. I’m fine with that. Jake just isn’t one and, just because he weighs 20 pounds, I don’t like people assuming they know his personality.

And we all make assumptions. I admit, I’m afraid of pit bulls. I don’t trust them and, probably unfairly, I’ve painted them all with the same brush. A few years ago at Wharf Rat Rally in Digby, we came across a pit bull that appeared to want to have Jake for lunch and I haven’t trusted one since. Ironically, that same afternoon, I let Jake make friends with a Jack Russell only to look down seconds later and find the Jack’s teeth on our boy’s nose. I carry my own assumptions and I was fooled by the dog’s size and seemingly friendly manner and the fact that it was being walked by young teen. Now I’m careful of Jack Russells, just as I am of pit bulls. I know there are no bad dogs, just bad owners, but I’m still wary for Jake’s sake.

Steve and I often have a similar experience travelling as much as we do with Jake. There are lots of hotels and other accommodations that won’t allow dogs. In some cases, perhaps they’ve had bad experiences with dirty paws on beds or furniture damaged by dogs left alone in rooms. Others simply have blanket no-pets rules. That’s their prerogative.

But we’ve also had a lot of owners and managers tell us they’d much rather have dogs than children. In their experiences, they’ve said, most people who travel with their dogs look after them, while some people get into a hotel and let their children run wild, yelling and racing through hallways, jumping around on the furniture and disturbing other guests. Steve and I have sat in a number of dog-friendly restaurants where dogs were lying quietly under tables disturbing no one, while children screamed at nearby tables ruining the dining experience for those around them.

Not all children behave like that. Not all pit bulls and Jack Russells want to snack on Jake. Not all dogs with short legs are “cat dogs.”

We all have prejudices we carry around with us, but I guess my point is that we should maybe think about them a little more and practice them a little less. It’s just another lesson I learned from my dog.
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As you can see, Jake is not a fan of balloons.

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Apparently our RoadDog does not like balloons.
 
It seems odd that he’s six years old and we didn’t know that, but I guess my step kids were young adults when Jake adopted us (that’s really how it works you know) and we haven’t had a birthday party, or at least one with balloons, in our house in quite some time. Not until Sunday.
 
I threw a little birthday bash for my aunt Sunday, not a big deal, just a family barbecue, but it couldn’t be a birthday party without a cake and then I decided that perhaps one of those lovely helium-filled birthday balloons might make it a little more jolly. (I get these strange notions sometimes. Steve has learned to just humour me most of the time.)
 
So off I went Sunday afternoon to get that balloon, returning a short time later with my brightly-coloured, floaty prize. Jake came running to the door, took one look at this thing moving about on a string of ribbon and decided he was not impressed. He promptly departed the kitchen, which was highly unusual given all the food prep that was in progress on most available surfaces. I tied the balloon on Carolyn’s chair in the dining room and kind of forgot about it as, I think, did Jake.
 
A few hours later as my aunt prepared to leave, I remembered to go and retrieve her balloon for her to take home. Steve had Jake tucked in one arm to keep him from escaping as she left and our boy and the balloon soon came virtually face to face, or face to shiny “Happy Birthday” message I guess. Jake was much less impressed.
 
I confess, I did a bad thing. I laughed out loud. I couldn’t help it, the look on that hairy little face was just too funny. Jake was even less impressed.
 
So I did what I so often do – I grabbed my camera and took a photo. Now all of you can see the look on his face too.
 
I have only one concern. I wonder what this means for my long-range hope of taking our RoadDog for a ride in a hot air balloon.

Maybe not.

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