Dr. Ruth claimed that the house would be needed for a family member. Briefly, I wondered why she bothered to rent it to me, knowing the circumstances and all. No, moving a second time within four months was not in the plans or in the budget. I favoured abandoning the entire book-writing adventure along with the Laurentians. An empty-handed return to the relative sanity of Toronto was preferable compared to the prospect of running into another flaky situation.

Things got weird. I guess she was afraid that I might have chosen to stay in the house and force her to honour the agreement.  Honour seems to be an optional consideration when the ideals of Manifest Destiny mix with tenure to breed the Ugly American spirit. Still, it’s impossible to really know what goes on within the hearts and minds of other people.

For the most part, dogs are more transparent than people and I’m grateful that Ozzie and I were able to spend quality time together. We sure enjoyed those walks!

So long pal.

Ozzy Offers a Comment on Rules

…Sunday (7/11) is here and the time is right for doggies on the trail, boy. The trail being the Corridor Aérobique, a sixty-kilometer cut that winds through Laurentian forest and stream. It’s used for walking, cycling and jogging by a few, perhaps by more for cross-country skiing.

A government project, the Corridor is equipped with governing rules intended to save us from ourselves as well as to save our government from lawsuits, from the same selves.  Many rules have been carefully spelled out or depicted for us through official signage. Several different styles of signs are displayed at the trail’s public entrance points, all competing for attention.

The signs are posted upon a series of erect poles of varying size and position, reflecting perhaps, the hierarchical dominance of various governing bodies responsible for the trail; interestingly, dogs use these poles for the same purpose.

We’re told that cars, motorcycles, horseback riding, and snowmobiles are all prohibited. One icon indicates that dogs are not allowed to be off-leash. Another, funny as hell, declares that dogs aren’t allowed to poop, or it may be that they’re not allowed to squat like a dog when they do.  In one section of signs, we’re informed that dogs and horses aren’t allowed at all. Along the trail there are signs which provide advice; arrêt, do not enter, wave your bell at the bear.  There is also a plethora of directional signs around; I think that’s what they are, though I can’t be sure since they’re written in the French language.

To reach the Corridor Aérobique, Ozzy and I bypass the public entrance in favor of a path we pick up from the edge of our property.  Following this through the woods, we eventually emerge onto the trail like Batman and Robin from the Batcave.  The eight or ten kilometer stretch of the corridor that we access doesn’t seem to be used very much. During the countless hours we’ve spent on the trail, the total number of people we’ve met is less than fifty. We’ve seen more than two people on the trail in twenty-percent of the time we’ve been on it.  Forty percent of the time we’ve seen only two people and, have not seen another person the rest of time.

Ozzy is eight dog-years old, the human equivalent of fifty-six. He is a genuine character and exudes charisma and gentle charm.  Upon meeting him, people are frequently smitten, often reduced to unabashed cooing in both official languages; the kind of serious gurgling a person makes when they see an infant child they really do find adorable. Oz has also been described as a wimp by several of those of his acquaintance.

A sunny, errand-free day called for an extended hike up the Corridor. Apparently it was the call heard by many and we met more canine traffic in two hours than we have on any other five days combined. When Oz and I are in the woods the only time we need to consider a leash is when another dog appears.

Before we’d reached the halfway point of today’s trek, a beautiful Labrador Retriever came bounding around a bend, fifty yards ahead. The dog was off-leash, distanced from its owner and when he spotted us, broke into an enthusiastic charge.  He was large and athletic and, while it’s hard to know for sure, I doubt that he had anything malicious in mind. Ozzy didn’t debate the issue for a second, however.  In the same instant that Lab began his beeline toward us, Oz launched like a fighter-jet from an aircraft carrier.

With nary a sniff of discussion both dogs reared up into a jaw to jaw clinch like a pair of wrestlers. The Lab’s aggressive growl quickly escalated to a full-on, bared-teeth snarl. I didn’t see how it happened but Ozzy managed to thunk the Retriever heavily to the ground where it remained in submission with Oz standing over him. There weren’t any physical marks though it was clear the Lab had experienced a profoundly stirring wtf; Sonny Liston looking up from the mat after being KO’d by Ali.

Upon reaching the scene I attached Ozzy’s leash to his collar, thereby releasing the Lab to mope on down the road. At that point the dog’s master, complete with a sneer we found most gratifying, jogged past, presumably to catch up with his dog.

We resumed the walk, leash attached. The aggressive stuff isn’t our venue and if Ozzy’s behavior warrants a correction, I let him know.  It seemed to me that his was an appropriate and adaptive response to the situation.  Okay, I wasn’t too sure about the surge of pride that hung there in the air; the best response I could figure was to inhale deeply.  A couple of minutes later as we were strolling along, Ozzy and I turned to look at each other, right on cue; I’m grinning, he’s wagging his tail.  Yes, high-five, lose the leash.

The term “shades of gray” is often used to depict a connective spectrum between right and wrong and has been synonymous, in my mind, with the notion of doing the “right thing”.

Today I’m pretty sure that the “right thing” transcends that dubious scale of judgment.  It’s more a sense of un-coerced alignment with a higher form of reason than it is a metric of the tangible absolute; the ending of certain Beatle songs, making an anonymous charitable donation or, the smell of a baby…freshly diapered.

glh

through the pane

Diversion.  All the leaves have fallen though the effect on the forest is more evident by what has been revealed than what’s been taken away.  Naked deciduous trees create an angular asymmetrical balance of muted texture, syncopated with strikes of white birch. During our stroll, a young Blue Jay landed on the trail just ahead of us.  Tiny in size, its feathers had not yet developed the stunning hue of an adult, yet the arrival of this bird was arresting; no less so than if a red herring had dropped from the heavens.

While the completion of a novel is my primary purpose here, I’ve also been working on several other writing projects.  Additionally, there have been a variety of other things going on, trivial background noise, that manage to soak up time and attention like a high-maintenance ShamWow cloth.

Recently, I was engaged in a debate with Dr. Ruth about effective approaches for training dogs.  Near the end of the discussion, she asked if I’d ever actually owned a dog.  Now, this point had absolutely nothing to do with the matter at hand and within the context, appeared to be a divisive tactic.  The question implied that an opinion offered by those without a dog-owner credential would carry less validity than those with said credential.  A mutual acceptance of this as factual truth is of course, inherent.  My family bred the very genre of canine under discussion as it happens but, I digress. When you spot an O’Henry bar in the swimming pool, there’s only one safe place to go.

There is a technique taught to salespeople that is supposed to help during the closing stage of a deal.  When the time comes to get the customer’s commitment, the salesperson is to offer the sales order form and then immediately ask.  “Would you like to use my pen or would you prefer to use your own?”  Diversion.

One purpose for ploys of this nature is to avoid a confrontation with change. The notion of changing one’s perspective is certain to meet with more resistance than buying a new box of widgets.  We’d rather roll around in chunks of odoriferous sea-food de rouge than to consider the possibility of shifting a belief.  One contributing factor to the strength of the reluctance to change is that we know the exchange of one innocuous understanding with another has the potential to shake up much more.  Like pulling a card from the middle of a house of cards, a personal butterfly effect on the psyche

The thing is, once we’ve been exposed to a new thought, one that resonates regardless of how vehemently we resist, there’s no going back.  It becomes like sand in our teeth and it’s just a matter of how long and how hard we choose to fight the inevitable.  Many fight hard for a lifetime.  Paradoxically, people will pine for a change, certain of the benefits it will bring, and still refuse to surrender.

To prevent parked airplanes from rolling away, a small wedge-shaped chock is used to block the wheels. The plane’s engine can be powered up to spin the propeller to its max and that plane will shudder, shake and roar; but it can’t go anywhere, stymied by the leverage of a simple piece of dead wood.  Once that little wedge is removed, the sky’s the limit.

glh

long, winding road

To keep an Ozzy leashed in this part of the world would be ludicrous.  Our travels, however, can find us walking on sections of public roads meant to be shared with vehicular traffic.  For everyone’s benefit, Oz and I agree that he’ll stay close to me when we’re on a road.  While we stroll along, he’ll stray an easy, loose couple of feet to my left. When a car approaches he immediately falls into single file formation, tucking in directly behind me.  In favor of the communication we’ve shared about the danger of approaching vehicles, Ozzy does this of his own volition.  He used to run at cars on the road.

When we’re in the woods or on a trail, he’s free to romp.  This is where the problem comes in.  Ozzy now chooses to stay close.  Thinking that he might respond to an applicable command, I’ve tried a variety of likely ones:“go!”, “run Oz run”, “romp”, “ok, now”.  I’ve even added several body language gestures, taken directly from Bowling for Dummies, in an effort to visually reinforce the message; nada. His tail wags his entire rear quarter with enthusiasm and he just gives me an indifferent non capisco.

To condition a young elephant for domestication, i.e. inter-species slavery, trainers use leg shackles to secure the animal to trees.  Over time the creature learns that it can’t move while the chains are attached.  A fully-grown, male African elephant weighs upwards of seven tons, the equivalent of three American-sized automobiles and, it has the power to snap a four-foot diameter tree.  For comparative reference, a typical thirty-five foot telephone pole has a diameter of twelve inches.

If one of these big boys decides to go to the store for more Nutella, there’s not much that’s going to stop him.  Yet, for the most part, they don’t just walk away as though they are capable or entitled to.  An elephant will only learn if it trusts and trainers use punishment and reward so to coerce a sense of trust in the young animal.

One can only wonder about what would happen if a middle-aged elephant, in a moment of clarity, glimpsed a difference between reality and his tainted illusions.  It could ignite a panorama of excruciating comprehension.  He would know that his notion of trust, the foundation of his relationship with the world and his own place in it, has been concocted.  The values that have defined his boundaries of right or wrong, love and hate, benevolence to immorality would dissolve into a smoldering blur.

The punch line arrives with the realization that the façade was created so that he could be exploited for the benefit of those he held in trust. With nothing left to grasp, it’s possible that he’d find the illusion more tolerable than the truth.

Poser

So it is with beast, populations or Ozzy. Many beliefs, which we defend as truth, may well be only valid within a very specific context, have aged beyond their expiry date or were never in our best interests; yet they keep us from getting the Nutella.  Or, from taking a romp in the forest.

glh

Snow what?

History is written by the victors.  This has probably been true since victors learned how to write.  Doesn’t seem very surprising.  If the people of warring countries are able to work up enough hatred and fear to kill, to annihilate each other, it is highly unlikely that an unbiased account will be forthcoming from either side.  We’re going to see one official version of the story and it isn’t going to come from the loser.

Guantanamo Bay.  Tough deal.  Undoubtedly, innocent people were inadvertently swept into the place whose lives have been destroyed.  Many wives, children, parents and siblings have missed too much sleep for too many years, left only to ruminate in helpless desperation.

Conversely, ruthless and conniving shitheads have been inadvertently released from Guantanamo. These people are responsible for unconscionable and indefensible violence.  You can bet they didn’t take up lawn bowling or start group therapy after spending those years under American care.

So it goes.  Injustice exists where there is justice.  The bucket of shame that Americans find themselves firmly seated in is deep and steep because the principles violated at Guantanamo are principles Americans purport to hold dear.  If there wasn’t shame and accountability, the world would have a more significant problem.

History-books and the military channel tell us that we used to fight our wars much differently than we do now.  There was a time when the use of atomic weapons and fire bombs against civilian populations was justifiable, apparently.  Instead of being judged as evil-doers, the victors earned the gratitude and respect of the free world and a place of glory in the history books.  At least that’s what I’ve read.

glh

Cubbing soon

Sieve la différence. I never did finish reading, “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus”, the 1992 best seller purporting that an understanding of gender differences is the key to a successful relationship. At the time of its publication, learning to find and appreciate our similarities was the more widely held theory. Over the years, two copies of this work have found their way into my library and, if memory serves, there have been another two instances where it was a strongly suggested read.

I’m sure the book is puffed full of insights that have furthered inter-gender understanding and thereby enabled better communication amongst enlightened couples everywhere. I will note, regardless of its apparent potential to spur new levels of boy-girl appreciation, not one of my male friends has recommended, quoted, or given it a breath of praise. As far as I know, the only manly mention of the tome in recorded history occurred when one husband told a story of how the reading of the book had been included as one of several options offered to him by his chagrined spouse. Apparently, they used some sort of relationship point system and he was deep into negative territory.  Several years later he ran off with a younger woman.

Beyond the physical attributes, I doubt there is anyone with more than ten years of life under their belt who would dispute the existence of fundamental differences between men and women…such as the way we think, evaluate, understand, see, hear, feel, and communicate. I’m sure that the effort needed to reconcile the consequences, which inevitably surface from the differences, challenge both him and her in equal measure.

Most of us brim with first-person examples to colorfully illustrate the playing out of these differences in our day-to-day lives. Many people do thrive on the inherent conflict and choose to view the friction as a catalyst that nourishes their personal growth. Other people leave to live in the woods.

A trail that meanders beautifully through the mountain forest, the woods, has become a mainstay of our walks. A week ago the authorities responsible for such things, posted a notice at the trail entrance, warning about the known presence of a Black Bear.

This warning was a surprise to me and not because there are bears in the woods, but because I’d understood that there weren’t any bears in the area.  Back when I was in the process of finding this house in these mountains, the owner, Dr. Ruth, described the area as being home to most of the species indigenous to the terrain; bears being an exception. Of course, if you’re planning to get outside and enjoy nature, it is a bonus to not have to be concerned about nasty critters, the way you do in the city.

Discovering that there was a bear around didn’t create any particular problem for me and I certainly wasn’t miffed just because this news was contrary to what I’d been told. A wild animal living amongst people however, is bound to create issues for both species that are unlikely to be resolved favorably for either. What to do?

I met up with Dr. Ruth several days after I’d seen the notice and mentioned it to her as a heads-up.  She responded with a verbatim quote of the advice offered by the warning poster; use a bell and don’t carry food.  Then she added. “They only eat berries so there’s nothing to worry about”.

At that moment, I was struck with the realization that a geographically remote location will provide no protection from the gurgling sound synapses make when simple logic has been sideswiped.

My approach, presumably more “male” than the dear doctor’s, was to assess the degree of the risk and figure out what I needed to do to prevent a confrontation with a bear. As a plan B I wanted to know how to be smarter than said creature, assuming this Ursus americanus to be an average representative. I wasn’t convinced that waving a bell at it would do much for either of us. I needed the facts.

A male, adult Black Bear weighs in at six hundred pounds and stands seven foot; they can be larger. It has impressive strength, proven by their ability to take out a nine hundred pound elk with one swipe. Unlike a typical mug shot, the bear warning notice provides no descriptive information, so we don’t know the vital statistics for our bear.

Ten to fifteen percent of their diet will consist of meat, coming from kills and carrion. They will also hijack kills from other creatures and seem partial to cougar food. Most animals, except humans but including the Black Bear, avoid unnecessary conflict.  Understandably, a bear with cubs can be aggressive. They can also turn nasty if they sense that they’re being cornered or, if they’ve been injured.

When these bears do kill people, it’s the result of a predatory behavior. This is surprising given that the Grizzly Bear will usually only kill humans while acting defensively.  Rolling up into a ball and playing dead might shake a Griz, but a Black Bear with an attitude will be grateful that it didn’t have to run to chomp. They’re excellent climbers so to head up the nearest tree isn’t going to work and forget about jumping into the lake because they’re great swimmers too. As for bells, a sound that is more human is considered more effective in alerting a bear that a human is approaching. A bell might even arouse their curiosity.

I don’t know how Ozzy would react to a bear.  His standard greeting tends toward friendly enthusiasm and I’m not sure how a bear would view a prancing, sixty-five pound, blue French Poodle. I doubt that “food item” would flash in its brain. I do know that a Black Bear can run at thirty miles an hour and a poodle can run faster than I can.

With the facts in hand, it seems just a matter of acting like a human to avoid sneaking up on the bear. We haven’t heard that there are cubs so, if the bear doesn’t feel threatened and hears us approaching before Ozzy goes galloping for a meet and greet, we should be fine.

It’s possible that I’ll finish reading the Venus and Mars book one day. The bell? Na.

glh

]]> http://walkswithoz.wordpress.com/2009/10/21/13%c2%b0c-overcast-in-the-way-it-looks-before-a-snowfall/feed/ 0 glh Bear Mug http://walkswithoz.wordpress.com/2009/10/18/oct-18-2009/ http://walkswithoz.wordpress.com/2009/10/18/oct-18-2009/#comments Sun, 18 Oct 2009 23:18:48 +0000 glh http://walkswithoz.wordpress.com/?p=7 ]]> Volvos.  There is a plethora of the marque here in the Laurentians; maybe elsewhere in Quebec as well.  Like Kleenex to tissue, Volvo is about safety.  They’ve worked and marketed vigorously to infuse their brand equity so.  It’s interesting to see so many more folks in this province assuming the Volvo persona, and its inference, than anywhere else I know.  The last time I was here for any extended amount of time, Jettas and Civics were the autos populaire.  Could this represent a reactive shift of the collective persona of this era’s La Belle Province?

I recall a time when many of us viewed Montréal, and by extension the province, as a place to be; more cosmopolitan and mature than Toronto, more worldly and sophisticated than Vancouver.  The savoire faire was authentic and held its rightful place in the culture.  This was a city with a healthy balance between work and play.  All of those drivers and their dangling cigarettes, complete with a de rigueur sneer, zipping around in little cars were as much a part of the French Canadian experience as a summer night on St Catherines Street.

The home of Volvo Cars has been in limbo for years now.  After spending US $6.45 billion to buy the company, Ford has been trying to off-load it like an extra Jerry Lewis DVD box set. Current thinking is that Geely Automobile of Shanghai will buy the company for between US $2-3 B.  Geely’s automotive brands have included the King Kong and the Beauty Leopard coupe.

While Geely has indicated their intention of becoming a global industry player, their vehicles have thus far been unable to pass either US or European safety tests.  Geely is marketing their brands in Peru, Uruguay and Venezuela and are beginning to enter the marketplace in Romania and Bangladesh.

Volvo’s original parent, the SKF ball-bearing manufacturer, intended to build an automobile that would stand up to Sweden’s cold winters and rough roads.  Now that’s a Quebec association that makes sense to me.  Of course that was in 1927.

Volvo is a conjugated Latin verb translating to – I roll.  Yes, well, bonne chance with that.

glh