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The Citizen, 2016-12-22, Page 5THE CITIZEN, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 22, 2016. PAGE 5. Other Views A man and his dog: A history As I watch my dog Woolly sniff her way down the driveway a fragment of an old folk song runs through my mind: Old Blue she died, and she died might hard Dug little holes all around the yard. Woolly's got the 'old' part down. She's 15 and a half, which makes her about 108 in dog years. That's practically prehistoric for a half -golden retriever, half -border collie 'of a certain girth'. She's not digging holes or showing obvious signs of immediate demise, but she's definitely fading. Her black pelt is now streaked with grey and she sports a muzzle that looks like it was dipped in a sugar bowl. She relies on her nose more than her eyes or ears. If a cat or a rabbit happens to cross her path she treats it like a bad smell, averting her eyes and pretending it's not there. Her rickety hind legs won't propel her over fallen logs or up steep hills anymore. When she `runs' (which is seldom) she moves like a rocking chair making a break for freedom. A few days before her last birthday she took it upon herself to galumph arthritically down the street after a Jack Russell. Not a smart move. She could barely walk the next day. Now she's on a daily dose of what the vet calls 'the senior's cocktail' — a witchy brew of pills with multi -syllabic names like ;V Arthur Black gabapentin, tramadol and meloxicam. It would clarify the situation if she were drooling, whining with pain or senile but she's not. She's the same sweet mellow dog she's always been — loves people, tolerates other canines (Jack Russells excepted) and eats like a lumberjack. Woolly is the latest in a long line of dogs that have graced my life. There was a fox terrier, a hound, a german shepherd, a dalmatian, a bearded collie... but mostly they were mutts of indeterminate provenance and, though tempered by swirling eddies of exasperation, I loved 'em all. But Woolly? She's a special case. Some dog owners are lucky enough to see their puppies being born; I saw mine being conceived. We were in the car on our way to town, my sweetie and I, when we beheld on a neighbour's front lawn, a glorious golden retriever enthusiastically bestowing his affections on an obviously grateful border collie. "Hmmm" we both thought as we continued on our way. When we returned from town about an hour later, they were still at it on the lawn. We knew what we had to do. We drove up the neighbour's driveway, rousted him from an afternoon nap and asked him if he owned a border collie with a touch of floozy, character -wise. He did. We informed him as to what she was up to (or under). We also told him that we would like to purchase one of the (inevitable) pups. Fifty dollars, a twenty-sixer of Dewar's and a few months later we did just that. We got the pick of the litter and the pick was Woolly. Best deal I ever made I've been owned by close to a dozen dogs in my life and I adored every one of them, but Woolly is unquestionably the sweetest. She doesn't bark; she talks with her eyes. Those eyes are clouded with cataracts now and she spends more time asleep than awake. Most likely one of these days she won't wake up at all. Will I get another dog? I doubt it. Hell, I'm about 512 in dog years myself. Way too old to take on a puppy; 'way too wary to take a chance on a `previously owned' canine. Besides, it would be unfair to any incoming pooch. Woolly's going to leave four paw -prints that'll be impossible to fill. Apparently thinking isn't enough You will find very few people who are as big a fan of Rene Descartes as myself and it goes a bit beyond Cogito ergo sum, or, I think, therefore I am, however for today's column, his most widely known phrase will do. While I could wax poetic on his Principles of Philosophy and the joy I had reading them, all I really need to say is, apparently, thinking is no longer the only prerequisite for existing, especially with some companies. It's that time of the year again when shopping trips are turned into marathons, Christmas lists are checked off and the post offices see more business in two weeks than two months at other times of the year (or so I'm led to believe). While I do try to manage as much of my Christmas shopping locally as possible, there are some things that aren't available in The Citizen's coverage area and, for that, I turn to the internet. For example, I wanted to pick up some movie paraphernalia for a family member and, given how much it cost me in the end, I'd much rather have bought it in Blyth or Brussels, but some things are just a bit too weird to find close to home. Ashleigh also wanted to buy something for someone on her Christmas shopping list and couldn't source the item locally. Such is the curse of dealing with people who actually tell you what they want for Christmas: While it may be a strain coming up with ideas for people, when people tell you what they want, it can be difficult to find it. So, like myself, Ashleigh turned to online (and eventually over -the -phone shopping, like some mid -20th -century sucker, but that part of the story has to wait a bit) to try and find that perfect gift. Usually, when you're shopping online, things are pretty simple: pick the item, put it in the cart, provide your shipping address and credit card information (pray someone doesn't steal your identity) and then wait patiently for the object to show up. Unfortunately for Ashleigh, there were a few more steps thrown in to her shopping experience, one of which was proving our AltDenny Scott 1 Denny's Den home actually exists. Few things frustrate me more than companies that won't ship through the post office. I could earn some family brownie points here and say it's because some relatives of mine work for Canada Post but the simple fact is, having something delivered to the post office is a heck of a lot easier than trying to get it delivered elsewhere. Take my house for example. Seriously, take it. We can trade. No, I'm joking. Take my house for example. Right now, my front door is nearly completely snowed in despite my best efforts (don't worry though, there's enough of a path for people to get out of the house in case of an emergency). The back door is the only way to get into the house and if anyone decides to knock on the door, our trusty guard dog Mikayla will bark, wake up baby Mary Jane and result in everyone having a bad afternoon. Having something at the post office is just easier in case you miss it. No playing musical chairs at home to make sure someone is always available to sign for a package, no driving to the middle of nowhere to pick up a package and no worrying that Ashleigh will get her Christmas present early because I wasn't there to stop her from opening it. Compare that to picking up a package at the post office, despite its size, and walking it a block back to my car and I think you know which one I'll choose. Anyway, Ashleigh was out of luck when it came to the package she was hoping to have delivered because it couldn't go to a post office box, only a street address. After resigning herself to sitting at home for a few days to have the package show up, she decided to place the order. Unfortunately, according to their computer system, Blyth doesn't exist. Ashleigh spent a significant amount of time trying to figure out why our postal code and address or postal code and PO Box wouldn't work for the company she was trying to order from until she decided to call them when she was promptly told that Blyth isn't real. Now, I'm not naive enough to think that having a world-renowned theatre in town is enough to make everyone know our name, but I've got to assume that someone, somewhere in a company has once heard of Blyth, however that wasn't the case for this company. They had heard of Bayfield (and asked Ashleigh several times if she meant Bayfield instead of Blyth) but had not heard of the slice of rural excellence we call home that exists between Londesborough and Wingham And thus we get back to Descartes. Apparently thinking that I exist, and, therefore, the place I live in must exist, isn't enough to convince someone on a phone (hopefully in Canada, I do so hate outsourcing call -centre jobs since they are perfect for students trying to hold a job and study at the same time) that Blyth is a real place and not some fantastical, mythical location only heard of in dreams. I'm not sure what antiquated list of locales they were using that didn't include Blyth, but there needs to be a lot more trust from people who are selling things. If we're willing to give up our payment information, they should be sending that package any danged place we say, even if it's a place they don't know about. It took some time (and some serious tongue biting on Ashleigh's part), but eventually the package was on its way. The funny thing? In the end it did show up at the post office, and I picked it up, blissfully unaware of what she had gone through to get it there. Suffice to say, I'm glad she didn't shoot the messenger (courier) when I brought that box home. Final Thought 1 will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. — Charles Dickens Shawn 10•151ii" Loughlin Shawn's Sense Pfeffernusse and more This week's issue of The Citizen, as has been the case for Christmas issues now for nearly a decade, is full of stories about community members and their favourite holiday traditions. There was one year, though, that we wrote about ourselves. Members of The Citizen staff wrote about their own Christmas traditions and what they meant to them. The year we did that, I wrote about my grandparents. In a home where my dad, a Toronto Police officer, worked shifts and my mom's schedule could also be unpredictable, my grandparents were always the first ones on the scene, whether it was Christmas or any other holiday. This year, as I interviewed people for my Christmas stories, twice I had the script flipped on me and the person I was interviewing asked me about my Christmas traditions. I still have a hard time answering the question. I'm not exactly sure what my Christmas traditions are. They are changing all the time of course. Last year, for example, was the first year I got to spend with my long-time significant other Jess. We were never in the same house as one another for Christmas before last year. She always wanted to be with her family and I wanted to be with mine. Now, with our shared house in Blyth, we are members of the same family. My family has also welcomed a new member as well, courtesy of my sister, which will no doubt change things greatly. Buying clothes and presents for a baby is always a joy in itself whether it's Christmas or not. Being asked about my Christmas traditions is always flattering. I mean, when I'm there to interview someone, it's not necessarily a given that they're interested in my life or anything I have to say, so I do always enjoy sharing stories from my life. So as far as specific traditions go, I'm not sure I have many. I have a lot of Christmas memories. I remember receiving big gifts (a bicycle and my first Nintendo definitely stick out), I remember some of the more memorable Christmas dinners (like the one when my uncle and aunt brought their pet pig to the house), but I'm not sure we're heavy on tradition. With my mom coming from Germany and bringing with her many traditions, there was that I suppose. Gifts were always opened on Christmas Eve, not Christmas morning like many North Americans do. Although, when I was a kid, we had our gift -giving split up so that on Christmas Eve we would receive gifts from family and friends, while on Christmas morning it was all about what Santa had dropped off for us. My sister Dana and I played with our toys or read our books and tried on our new clothes and then we went and visited my grandparents around the corner. As for food, our meals were always a little different as well. My mom served up goose and red cabbage. I only started eating turkey and stuffing for special occasions when I moved to Huron County. We used to always have an artificial tree, but since I've been getting my own for my own house (all two years of that time), I insist on a real one, no matter how much blood I shed trying to trim it (true story). Then there was always Pfeffernusse (I had to look that up by the way — I did so by Googling "white German puff cookies"). Those are the treats I always remember being on the table for Christmas and boy were they good. Christmas traditions are always destined to change, but that's not always a bad thing.