Stephen and Emily were gracious enough to share their sore throat, coughing, diarrhea with me.
Three days before classes begin.
Thanks.
Love you both, too!
Frankie continues to mourn Tikka.
We all do.
But we have things to distract us from the pain of loss.
Grant applications to adjudicate.
Dissertation proposals to revise and resubmit.
Syllabi to prepare for next week's beginning of classes.
Frankie has. . . . .
Us.
Trying valiantly to keep him occupied.
A more-than-full-time-job on it's own.
THE only time Frankie has ever been completely and utterly exhausted has been after a three or four hour romp on the beach, running in and out of the ocean, chasing birds, digging for treasure.
Not really possible during this time of the year.
We're trying our best to make him feel special.
Extra drives in the car.
Little nummies in his food bowl.
Walks as often as possible during the day.
Last night, for instance.
Clad in only my pjs, I put on my full length winter coat, complete with hat, mitts, and miner-like headlight, and joined Stephen and Frankie on an evening stroll through the farm.
Something about being up there at night, snow falling around you, just you and the people you love that makes those night time rambles so enjoyable.
Especially when you can see where you're going.
Always a plus for someone as clumsy as I am.
Clumsiness not made any easier with weight loss that has resulted in too big boots, meaning with every stumble, I am on the verge of falling over and becoming the turtle on it's back in my full length winter coat.
Wearing my Blundstones makes me feel the same way I did as a kid when I'd wear my mother's heal.
Feet flopping around inside my boots as I try to maintain enough purchase to preclude falling over.
All while keeping my face down to ensure that no hidden ice patches sneak up on me and take me out.
Now going out for this ramble was lovely.
But the fever that returned upon our return home was not.
Putting me back in bed, a punishment for thinking I could actually go outside when I was sick.
While I was convalescing, Stephen took the tree down, cleaned up the spruce needle detritus littering the living room floor, and packed the decorations in their box to wait for next Christmas.
Which HAS to be better than this Christmas.
Has to be.
Classes resume Monday.
Meeting at 9.00 am.
I'll be spending the weekend working to complete my syllabi.
I've added some new books to the mix.
Articles that will, hopefully, engage my students to do more than sit in their chairs looking at me with mild interest on their faces.
The 5 am walk was actually a 6.15 am walk this morning.
Tired, I just didn't want to leave the warmth of my bed.
It's cold outside.
Not that Frankie minds.
But I have to put on so many layers that if I ever fell, I'd lay there like a turtle on my back waiting for someone to come and turn me over.
Provided Frankie didn't attempt to eat them first.
Yesterday, around 4.30, Stephen and I took Frankie to the farm.
It was colder then than it was at 5.00 am.
Man, it was cold!
Frankie running around like a newly released prisoner.
Other dogs frolicking with him.
Chasing him.
Because while my boy is all boy with people, he is actually very submissive with other dogs.
We encountered friends of ours and their two black labs.
So while the walk was cold, it was warmer with the company of friends.
And watching Frankie run around with other dogs.
Enjoying the companionship he misses so much.
Even if it was fleeting.
Of course, our little man loves sticks.
LOVES them.
And once he clamps one between his teeth, getting it from him is most unlikely.
In spite of the fact that he wants you to get it, throw it for him.
Usually, we have two sticks.
One to distract him.
The other to grab when he isn't looking.
Loving the looks of stunned amazement on his face when he comes back and sees that you have a stick in your hand.
When he has one in his mouth.
How DOES that happen?
His latest conquest was unique indeed.
At least 7 feet long.
Wider at one end than the other.
And Frankie hell bent and determined he was going to have this stick.
Or tree branch to be more specific.
He ran around with the behemoth branch in his mouth, tipping him to one side or the other depending on which side the heaviest end was located.
His companion dogs tried to get the behemoth branch from him to no avail.
They gave up.
He didn't.
Whacking us in the backs of the knees as he ran behind and then around us.
Smacking us up side the head when we were looking in the opposite direction.
Not giving in, there was an heated tussle when we finally made it back to the car.
Stephen, Frankie and the stick.
Stephen won.
But not without a struggle.
Frankie does not give up his sticks willingly.
Only thing stronger than Frankie's will is Stephen's will not to have the behemoth branch in the back of the car.
Poor Frankie.
No matter how strong his will, he'll never defeat an OCD clean freak.
One of the suggestions from Annette the greatest dog trainer in response to Frankie's mourning was to give him extra TLC.
Ask me to do something difficult.
In spite of the iron clad rule that no dog shall rest his hind quarters upon the cushions of the newest couch, Frankie has found a way to circumvent the house axiom.
Duck blanket resting on the dog hair magnetized burgundy couch, he snuggles up in his corner, sighs deeply, and eventually falls asleep.
Stephen saw him resting comfortably atop the blanket.
Sat down beside him.
Told him not to get too comfortable.
And then turned to me and said he didn't mind him being up there if I didn't mind him being up there.
But. . .
Because there is always a but with Stephen. . . .
"He can't be up there without no blanket underneath him!"
Really, Stephen.
No blanket.
Vacation time must be leading him to verbally digress. Speaking Geary.
Looking through the latest additions of www.watchseries.eu to find Sherlock, Season 2, episode 1 ready and waiting for me.
Yes, please.
Today life begins it's return to Back to Business.
Stephen has a dentist appointment this morning.
Shops are open.
Stopping by my office to collect the necessary items to prepare for classes next week.
Em downtown to set up an appointment for a new tattoo.
And, the family dinner.
Postponed from yesterday because of poor road conditions.
Not so much here.
But definitely in the outer regions of the province where my brother resides.
Here's hoping everything comes together today.
The holiday's won't be complete without the requisite family dinner.
Homemade turkey pot pie.
My brother bringing something decadent for dessert.
I could use some decadence.
A lot, actually.
Also on today's agenda: the SPCA.
I can't ignore it any further.
Frankie isn't fairing well.
Still not eating regularly.
Crying frequently.
Following me incessantly.
That isn't too much out of the ordinary, but the incessant following coupled with the dour countenance and the crying is disconcerting.
Stephen and Emily made the initial foray to the SPCA last week.
I couldn't go.
I'm not sure I can go today, but it's no longer a matter of can I.
Have to is closer to the mark.
Em and Stephen did identify a potential choice.
A lab mix.
11 months.
A lot more people friendly than Frankie.
Of course, most dogs are more people friendly than Frankie.
I have agreed to meet this dog today.
Perhaps take him for a run with Frankie to the farm.
Assess how well they connect.
At this point, Frankie would most likely get along with anyone who provided him companionship and entertainment.
Jasper is exhausted from trying to provide the kind of companionship Frankie requires.
How much can one less-than-a-year-old kitten manage?
The issue isn't whether or not I'm willing to get a new dog.
I'm always willing.
Ready is the question.
Me and Frankie.
Stephen, Frankie and I made our first trip to the farm.
Without Tikka.
Dark, low ceiling, streets lights bouncing off the cloud cover, making the night not as dark as it would be with clear skies.
Frankie free of grief for a few moments as he gamboled through the ice covered fields, engaging in his usual tomfoolery, chasing the invisible, slipping on the ice.
Stephen and I moving in the fields as well.
The usual pathway so slick with ice walking on it was more than I was willing to risk.
Being as naturally clumsy as I am.
And not wanting to bring in the new year with any broken limbs or bruised body parts.
We decided the farm would be one of those places where we would scatter a few of Tikka's ashes.
She loved going there.
Last night was the first time I had ever been there without her.
So naturally, it was difficult.
More than a few tears shed as we stood in the middle of the fields, Stephen holding on to me as I cried into his coat.
Wishing more than ever that she was there, walking behind us at her own pace, Frankie running back and forth between her and us.
The other place, when spring arrives and things dry up, is Mactaquac.
But that doesn't mean that I can't consider some possible changes in my life in the upcoming year.
And I am.
I will.
Some people won't be happy.
Too bad.
Insanity is defined as doing the same thing over and over again anticipating a different result.
Classify me as no longer insane.
My time partying because it's New Years are long past.
Although each New Year I do remember, with some fondness, those times of carefreeness.
Last night I said to Stephen that when you're 19, you don't think that there will be a point in your life when you spend New Years sitting in your spot, eating fondue, drinking Fat Bastard wine, watching reruns of Roseanne and then an hour of Big Bang Theory.
Wondering if you're going to even make it to midnight.
Then it happens.
And it doesn't seem as crazy as you thought it would.
What does sound crazy is going on one night of the year, remembering the old year, celebrating of the forthcoming year and getting so intoxicated that when you do wake up the next morning, you don't know what decade you're in, let alone what particular year it is.
Bringing in a new year hungover while trying to participate in a family dinner just doesn't seem all that logical to me.
And there may well be a family dinner today.
I am expected my brother and father.
Mum, probably not.
She's got a cold, and the sidewalk/road conditions at this particular moment resemble more a coke bottle than pavement.
A result of an extended bout of freezing rain yesterday and last evening.
Making my drive from the nursing home to my house more than hair raising on a couple of occasions.
Note to self: sometimes driving at 30 kms an hour is better than taking the side street.
The one that won't see salt until someone drops their McDonald's french fries by accident.
Prior to the spot-fondue-wine-rerun events, I did go to the nursing home for a visit with Mum.
Beginning with the last twenty minutes of a Lawrence Welk New Years program bringing in 1971.
THAT was entertaining.
Especially the 20 something young women who wished everyone a Happy New Year after they introduced themselves and shared their life's endeavours.
Child psychologist.
Nurse.
Ending with the waltzing with Welk and his boys.
Nauseating.
Found this little gem on youtube.
I wonder if they had any idea what they were singing.
Welk referred to it as a "modern spiritual."
For some, perhaps.
Here's to 2012!
Title Lyric: One Toke Over the Line by Brewer and Shipley
