The Citizen, 2002-07-17, Page 5Gropp
The short of it
THE CITIZEN. WEDNESDAY, JULY 17, 2002. PAGE 5.
Other Views
Missing your dog? Borrow one
My name is Arthur and I am a
dogaholic. I can talk about it now.
For two long years I tried to kick the
habit, but it's grip was too strong.
Although it's too late for me, I write these
words in the hope that someone out there will
read them, recognize the warning signs and
save themselves from unnecessary pain and
suffering.
I'm talking, of course, about canine
deprivation.
When my 15-year-old border collie Rufus
shuffled off to the Big Doghouse in the
Sky back in 1999 it was, to tell you the truth,
a blessing. His last couple of years had
not been quality pet time, what with pills,
shots, senior dietary supplements and trips to
the vet.
Old-age is a trying time whether you've got
two legs or four. It wasn't much fun for him or
for us, so when he finally passed there was
much sadness, but also a tiny frisson of relief.
And it was exhilarating, those first few
months, not to have a geriatric member of the
family ruling our lives. We could actually go
away and stay overnight without lining up
babysitters and filling the fridge with 'special'
meals.
But soon the tell-tale signs of hard-core
recidivism appeared. I couldn't walk past a
dog on the street without chucking it under the
chin or scratching its ears. I began snagging
two or three dog biscuits every time I passed
the open bin in the bulk foods section of the
grocery store. I'd pass them out like business
cards to any mutt I met.
I knew it was serious one night, when,
Apolitician trying to get to the top in
Ontario may someday boast he was
raised in a comfortable home, had
straight As at Harvard and is a whiz at polo.
But don't count on it.
Most politicians are intent on proving they
are just ordinary guys. Ernie Eves has been
trying to show it since he announced he was
coming back from his $1-million-a-year job in
the financial world to run for premier and he is
still hard at it.
Eves's first famous words in his comeback
were that he has always felt more comfortable
on Main Street than on Bay Street and he
recounted also how his parents were working-
class and he worked hard to put himself
through university and become a lawyer.
When Eves ran for a seat in the legislature in
a rural area where many wealthy Torontonians
including his partner, Isabel Bassett, have
country homes, he furthered his image of
being an ordinary Joe by saying they know him
at the local Canadian Tire store (what could be
more ordinary than dropping in to pick up a
wrench?) and Howard's, the butcher's shop.
Eves is busy now claiming his budget is
more Main Street than Bay Street, because it
postponed tax cuts that would have helped the
better-off, to provide more money to spend on
services for all.
Politicians have had a mania t(:) show they
came from humble roots since Abraham
Lincoln emerged from his log cabin and
probably earlier. They want to assure voters
they can appreciate the concerns of average
families through experience and were not born
with silver spoons in their mouths, but worked
their ways up.
Thus Elizai?eth Witmer, who ran against.
Eves for leader and got to be deputy premier,
told in her campaign hoW she immigrated as a
small child with her parents from Holland and
little material goods, and worked in a focal
convenience store from the age of 12.
driving home from a party, I detected a distinct
chill emanating from the front passenger seat.
"Nice party, eh?" I enthused.
"How would you know?" came the frosty
reply. "You spent the entire evening playing on
the floor with their Lhasa Apso."
Clearly it was time to admit the obvious,
break down and get a dog. Which we did. We
are resigned to the fact that we will have a dog
underfoot pretty well night and day for the rest
of our lives.
Except when we go on vacation, maybe.
It's tough to take a dog on holidays - which
raises the spectre of canine deprivation once
again.
But I've got that covered. All I have to do is
rob a bank so that we can afford to take our
holidays in Hawaii.
Somewhere near Hana, Hawaii, to be
specific. There's a small shop on a stretch of
the highway there called the Maui Grown
Market. It's kind of a deli where you can pick
up sandwiches, cold pop, tourist gear, a
magazine or newspaper.
Ora dog.
Chris Borges runs the market. She's also in
charge of 11 dogs which hang out on the
premises, any one of which is available for the
Tony Clement, who also lost for leader,
stressed he worked in his father's restaurant
from 10 a.m. to 2 the next morning, making
this seem a province of child labour, as well as
opportunity.
Mike Harris, Eves's predecessor as premier,
was keen to be seen as an ordinary guy,
although his family owned various businesses.
Harris said I come from the people. I'm the
guy next door. I'm a working stiff. I'm Mike
from North Bay. "Harris once said he knew
what it is like to have to live on bologna, but
his scrupulously honest father could not
remember it.
Harris once accused his predecessor, New
Democrat Bob Rae, of having an 'elitist',
background. Rae was the son of a career
diplomat and one of the brainy group of
Rhodes Scholars at Oxford and lived in some
upscale neighborhoods.
But when he was premier Rae played this
down, saying he lived "pretty frugally and my
family has a mortgage and a car loan and we
don't live very differently from millions of
others."
Durable Tory premier William Davis liked to
picture himself as just a small-town guy at
Final Thought
Be aware that a halo has to fall only a few
inches to be a noose.
- Dan McKinnon
day to tourists missing their pooch from
home.
"I know people when they're on vacation
must miss their dogs," she says, "so I let them
use my dogs."
It all started five years ago when one of
Chris's dogs, a yellow lab named Mahi Mahi,
would yip and whine at tourists to take her
with them for a run on the beach. Chris told
them to go ahead.
The tourists loved it; the dog loved it; a mini-
industry was born.
As for compatibility, the final call goes to the
dog. "A couple of times a dog said, 'Uh uh,
I'm not going with them,— says Chris:
She says she's never lost a dog and the dogs
always come back happy.
Chris is happy with the arrangement too.
The tourists do something for her she usually
doesn't have time to do. "They help me
exercise them," she says. "It's hard to exercise
11 dogs."
And how did Chris Borges end up with 11
dogs? It's easy ' when you're an extreme
dogaholic. People would tell her about an
unwanted pet that was heading for the dog
pound, and she'd adopt it.
She says some day she'd like to open an
animal sanctuary. Her dogs figure she already
has.
And the fee she charges for her pet rental
service? Nada. No charge.
"I hate it when tourists say, 'You must be
making a million,' " she says. "I'm not trying
to make money from my animals."
• Well, that's dogaholics for you: Nice as all
get out - but lousy businesspeople.
heart, although he was a lawyer who, on
retiring, immediately collected a score of Bay
Street directorships.
John Robarts, another lawyer, liked it to be
known that when he enlisted in the navy in the
1939-45 - war, he held the rank of 'ordinary
seaman.'
Leslie Frost, also a small-town lawyer, knew
how to seem an ordinary guy around election
times, when he got out his battered old car to
drive down the concession roads seeking kites.
David Peterson, Liberal premier from J985-
90, was the only premier who did not care
whether the public thought he was well-off.
Peterson came from a well-to-do family, never
disguised it, feeling it fit the yuppie
atmosphere of the times. He bought a million
dollar home in upscale Rosedale, seemed to
spend half his life in tuxedo and scarlet
cummerbund and was accused by opponents of
living a "lifestyle of the rich and famous:' after
a popular TV program of the time.
This was one of several reasons Peterson
looked out of touch and lost an election and
premiers since have been particularly anxious
to seem ordinary and humble.
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The joys of a garden
I
know a good thing when I see it. I know
what I like, what I -want, what works for
me. The problem, however, is in trying to
achieve it for myself.
My maternal grandmother had a 'way with
the earth. She was known for her garden, a lot-
sized, flowering heaven. To step inside the
gate of her.white picket fence was a colourful,
fragrant assault on the senses. The heady
perfume of peonies, the sunny simplicity of
daisies, the radiance of roses welcomed you.
Like sentries protecting you from the less
esthetically-pleasing, flowers concealed her
more practical vegetable patch, which was
located in the centre, from the eyes of
passersby.
Even as an ambivalent youngster I enjoyed
Grandma's garden. It was the place of
children's storybooks, perfect and pure, where
innocence, like the beauty that surrounded it,
was lovingly nurtured and thrived. Walking
inside was to leave the grown-up world behind
and enter a haven where birds sang and magic
happened.
Grandma must have known the joy her
garden brought to others, because she
amazingly, to my memories, never seemed to
mind our fun. My cousin and I ran barefoot
through the earth, careful, in a child's careless
way, not to damage any of her painstakingly
tended-to plants. We watched new buds begin
and blossom, the dance of bees and butterflies.
We ate peas from the pod, plucked raspberries
from their pedicels.
Then I grew up. And without the benefit of
my grandmother's green thumb, a garden
became a lot of weeds and a lot of work. Ad,1
to this my lack of knowledge, because though
I enjoyed her garden I never thought to help
her with it and learn, and I admit I was at a bit
of a loss. When my husband and I purchased
our home the many perennial beds had been
untended for years. Overgrown and neglected
they discouraged this never-was horticultur-
alist and were removed.
Time passed, and as 1 reached my middle
years, I began to take notice once again of the
loveliness flowers bring to a property. On my
walks, during drives, there are those gardens
and flowerbeds which have captured my
attention, my interest and for the first time in
decades, my imagination.
Suddenly, I knew what I wanted. In my
mind's eye I could see what I would like my
yard to be.
Older and wiser, I also knew that I had
'plenty to learn before 1 could achieve this goal.
Books were purchased and read, advice was
asked for and noted. My sister, who also never
spent time chatting flowers with Grandma, but
fortunately inherited her talent, has with her
husband, been called upon to rip, tear, suggest
and plant.
All of this notwithstanding, while there has
been noticeable improvement, both in what I
know and in what I grow, the challenge has not
lessened. Things do not look even close to
what 1 envision. Money spent in garden
centres and nurseries continues to flow. I have
waged war with weeds, but Creeping Charlie
is definitely winning. Making it worse, they
have formed an alliance with mosquitoes.
which mount an attack any time I do prepare to
go in and do battle.
Not ready to retire and not youthful enough
to have the energy to continue the tight atter a
day of work. I find myself becoming
increasingly discouraged. Talk has once again
swung round to annihilation. After all. I know
I can find enjoyment in other people's gardens,
Oh, those humble politicians