Month: December 2010

Once upon a time, specifically on this date six years ago, in a cold frozen land way up north — where winter lasts at least six to eight months of the year and human families gather in cosy close huddles around dinner tables that sag with dishes of comforting calorie-loaded carbohydrates; and the weather channel, from sunup to sundown, murmurs nonstop in the background; and the humans eat and listen and sigh and dream of temperatures above zero, eating even more, in despair, as they realize that all the extra consumption of food and the dearth of activity means that by the time the snow melts in April, May or June, they will no longer fit in the spring and summer wear they bought on sale at the end of last year’s season — a litter of nine puppies (3 male and 6 female) was born to Chantily Lace and Sir Galahad in Gibbons, Alberta.

One of them was called Marbrook Max A Million. He was – despite the lotto-sounding name – a happy little guy with a potbelly and paws too big for his body, who scrambled and clambered over his littermates in search of food and a ball to fetch, and eight weeks later would be plucked, without warning, from his siblings and into the arms of a tall woman who’d never chosen a puppy before; wrapped in a blanket and driven miles away – crying the whole time – to a suburb in the big city; given a new home and a new name and a sister named Catie who wasn’t overwhelmed about the chubby creature mom and dad had brought home, who smelled funny and  followed her faithfully, insistently, annoyingly, and eventually broke down her guard, and stole her balls and her other toys and later would take over her blog (he had nothing to do with the loss of his sister’s leg though).  

I know you’ve all guessed it –  HAHA! It’s ME! Riley! And it’s MY birthday and we’ve been celebrating like crazy with singing and dancing and barking and extra treats and more singing and dancing and barking.

I am SIX.

It’s a week of celebration: my birthday; tomorrow is mom and dad’s anniversary (mom can’t remember how many years but she is sure it’s more than six and she’s asking dad for something called liposuction because of all the shortbread cookies she’s eaten on account of winter and now her yoga pants don’t fit like they used to);  on Friday’s it’s Christmas Eve and then on Saturday it’s Christmas and it’s especially special because last Christmas was icky because Catie was sick.

Did I mention it’s my birthday today?

And because I’m six mom said I could wish you all a very, very merry Christmas – from me, from Catie, from mom and dad, and the hares in the front yard, “God bless us, everyone.”

And that just about says it all – what a long way we’ve all come!

HAPPY AMPUVERSARY, CATIE!!

A surprise package on a Sunday afternoon with a birthday present for Catie’s 7th and Riley’s upcoming 6th.

Bewildered but overwhelming gratitude. And some tears.

I have no words. They all seem pathetically inept.

The pictures will have to suffice.

Thank you, Cometdog (and the lock of hair was too precious). Thank you, Ge’Lena. And thank you Granny Kay.

That’s all I’ve got right now. Catie, Riley and I have some dancin’ to do to Mariah Carey’s poppin’ rendition of Auld Lang Syne. I’m trying to choreograph a conga line with them around the Christmas tree.

Seriously.

PS Whatever hand Rocket may have had in this – thanks to him too.

It’s another one of Catie’s peculiar quirks that she likes to chase her tail. She’s had it for seven years and yet she’s still sometimes surprised it’s there and spins around and around trying to grab it. She’s doing that right now, in front of the pretend tree mom and dad put up in the livingroom a few days ago.

The tree’s pretty in a sparkly, starry, flash-bulb-in-your-eye kind of way. I don’t know why it’s there. Around the same time every year, it gets hauled out of the basement in a big battered box and is assembled smack in front of the window, interfering with necessary people- and hare-watching duties. Mom hasn’t put any decorations on it yet besides the gazillion lights, which is unfortunate because Catie and I like to pluck the baubles off the branches, especially ones that resemble balls (that would be me).

“I kind of like it just the way it is,” she says.

Mom keeps playing the same handful of songs sung by many different artists: Clay Aiken and Martina McBride; Stevie Wonder and Nat King Cole; David Bowie with Bing Crosby; Sarah Brightman, Donna Summer and – you betcha – Josh Groban; songs about chestnuts and open fires, reindeer with red noses, snowmen with silk hats and little dumber boys; holy nights and silent nights; ringing bells, jingle bells, silver bells, sleigh bells – stop with the bells already. Mom’s favourite, naturally, is Baby It’s Cold Outside – she sings to it so enthusiastically Catie and I can’t tell whether she’s enjoying herself or she’s mad. Catie jumps on her; I bark at her; mom thinks we’re digging it but we’re really trying to get her to stop.

Fa-la-la-la-la.

I feel a little bad for mom. She can’t do yoga. She can’t sing. And she doesn’t dance very well either. That doesn’t stop her. Sometimes she dances in her pyjamas and sometimes, for no apparent reason, even with her shirt on backwards. She says all women dance by themselves, all over the world, when no one else is around. It says so in a book she read. Now that she’s decided her behaviour is really quite commonplace, she breaks into dance whenever the spirit moves her and believe me, it’s been alarmingly frequent lately. And yes, sometimes she tries to waltz with Catie. Catie gets excited about it. Me? I’ll have no part of it. I’m a dude, for crying out loud.

Despite all this recent nonsense, we love her anyways, even if she’s goofy and dances when she’s by herself; even though she thinks it’s cute to dress Catie and me up in scarves and make us wear boots when it’s cold; and even though I get a little perturbed when mom makes me wear one of Catie’s pink boots (Catie only needs three of hers and I keep losing mine in snow banks).

Bright.

Pink.