Dog Tale

When I was small my mother got a St Bernard. One of those huge furry beasts with big jowels and droopy eyes. In fact, she eventually got two. What was she thinking? Did she believe those little barrel shaped flasks that St Bernards are so often pictured with were bread in somehow, complete with a self replenishing supply of brandy? What she got was a steady stream of drool from the dopy male, and a hyperactive, faeces eating female who was impossible to train. You may imagine how this informed my opinion of dogs.

Back episodes of Lassie and The Littlest Hobo assured me that dogs could be good and clever. They could rescue babies from burning buildings and perform tricks like shake-a-paw and settle-middle-east-conflict. But I kept my reservations. I refused to join in my children's chorus of "I Wanna Dog". I knew who would be walking it in the bad weather. I knew who would be on poop patrol and brushing its canines and coat: it would be the same person who cleaned the cat box and cleared up the kitty puke.

Yours truly.

Then something happened -- in the midst of a Christma madness, DIY kitchen renovations, visiting relations wedged into my little house along with the usual cast of six, a record snow fall and enough stress that I felt faint and inadvertently summoned the full emergency squad (police fire and ambulance) when I made an innocent little inquiry about symptoms of a low level CO2 leak -- puppy thoughts invaded my brain.

I had been hoping for an operable brain tumour. Nothing too serious. No loss of speech or motor control. Just something that needed immediate attention that would keep me alone in hospital at least until New Years. No visitors, no worries, no cooking for 9 every night. Surely I'd get a swanky set of jammies out of the ordeal. Win-win and something flannel with satin piping in a cup cake print.

But that wasn't working out. So I got a puppy instead. Completely logical, right?

I vowed not to become one of Those People. You know, Those People who work their lives around their dog's whims and bowel movements, who wipe their noses on their tiny canines murmuring "hoozawuvvywoggie?" before stowing them away between their listless bosoms. And my dog would not be one of Those Dogs -- quaking bug-eyed things who piddle at the slightest provocation (usually on you), before returning to "mommy's" dark, protective cleavage.

But I have gone dangerously close the edge. I once attended the dog cafe at the organic farmer's market, in which dogs lounge with their people, enjoying a home baked snack and a fair trade coffee. Heady with the thrill I got deeper into the whole scene. I hit the road to a hip outdoor festival-come-love-in, a be-canine-in -- Woofstock -- a festival of all things dog in downtown Toronto.

They closed whole blocks to accommodate the crowds and their dogs. Or vice versa. There were product stalls and demonstrations, water bowls everywhere, herds of horse sized Great Danes and fashion shows of denim clad chiauaus. A parkette fountain bubbled over with water loving dogs. There were savory samples in all sizes from Teeny to Bruiser. Competitions for dogs who could fetch farther higher and faster. Dogs of all kinds and people who loved them.

Yes, there were Those People and Those Dogs, but mostly dogs who didn't know they were dogs, and people that were happy to help them maintain their illusions. Happy dogs, grinning dogs, social dogs, happily sniffing each other's bums and wagging their whole selves in unbridled joy.

My little dog and I had a grand time. Stoned on puppy love I collected arm loads of samples. Stellerphant and I staggering home, high on the scent of panting dogs and kibble breath and crashed on the kitchen floor, too wiped to recount the wondrous tale.

"Its just like they say," observed my husband "If you can remember Woofstock, you weren't really there."