The Citizen, 2004-04-01, Page 5Final Thought
• t
You gap strength, courage and confidence by
every experience in which you really stop to
look fear in the face. You are able to say to
yourSelf, "I lived through this horror. I can
s take the next thing that.comes along." ... You
must do the thing you think you cannot do.
464 - Anna Eleanor Roosevelt
THE CITIZEN,- THURSDAY, APRIL 1, 2004. PAGE 5.
Other Views
Leaving paw prints on my life
Funny how dogs manage to leave their
paw prints on my life no matter where I
happen to be.
One day I'm sitting under a thatched
palapa hut on a beach in Mexico, trying to
coax a perro named Lobo to share my
quesadilla (what's the Spanish for 'Here.
boy!"?). And one week later I'm spread
eagled out like a flapping foxtail on a car
aerial, clutching the back of a dogsled and
trying to remember the Inuit phrase for 'Stop,
dammit!'
That's the thing about sled dogs - no
problem getting them to 'mush'. In fact, that
may be the ONLY word they respond to. All
they want to do is run.
I found that out recently by spending a day
at the Timberwolf Resort about a half an hour
out of Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario. They keep 89
(yes, that's eighty-nine) sled dogs at the resort
and for a modest fee, you can pick out four of
them to take you for a, well, wilderness
adventure.
Actually. it's not quite that simple. One of
the resort pros will select your dogs for you
(it's a question of inter-canine chemistry), but
it's a hands-on experience after that. You get
to pick your sled and then you get to hitch your
own dogs to it.
Is it scary, hauling semi-wild dogs around
with your bare hands?
Not at all. These dogs don't growl or bite. In
fact they barely seem to notice humans. They
have their little doggie brains fixed on one goal
only: to run flat-out, full-tilt, pedal-to-the-
metal until they can't run anymore.
Besides — and I've put off mentioning this
because I didn't want to spoil that intrepid
Sergeant-Preston-of-the-Yukon image f'Ve
been building, but the fact is, modern-day sled
Adeath in the legislature has prompted a
lot of fuss and many outside may feel
it has been overdone.
Dominic Agostino, a respected and
sometimes rambunctious Liberal backbencher,
died and MPPs closed the legislature for two
days, although they often have been accused of
not sitting enough to deal with the public's
concerns.
Premier Dalton McGuinty's voice was
described as cracking with emotion when he
reported "with deep sadness a short while ago
our friend and colleague passed away."
Progressive Conservative spokesman John
Baird was noted as grief-stricken when he
talked of his admiration for a tough debater
who was "our Party's worst nightmare."
Leader Howard Hampton said New
Democrats had empathy particularly because
Agostino was like them a scrappy, fearless
fighter.
Ministers were in tears talking to reporters,
flags flew at half-mast and the staid Canadian
Press news agency, which normally does not
allow commentary to creep in, reported "the
Ontario government was paralyzed with grief."
Outsiders will wonder why there was so
much agony and how much was genuine, but
they would not know the bonds that exist
between many, not all, elected to a legislature.
They spend a lot of time together, sometimes
more than with their spouses, and talk and
fight, but 'often a fight earns respect and is
forgotten when the legislature adjourns.
They travel together and develop
understanding-over a meal, and most in the end
accept that those in other parties have different
views, but are in politics believing they can
improve the community.
They also are conscious they belong to a rare
dogs are kinida...puny.
Really. They're not like the massive, barrel-
chested, Schwarzenegger-shouldered sled
dogs of days gone by. Those dogs - huskies
and malamutes mostly - are box-office
massive and powerful. They could haul a
grand piano up the CN Tower, but their ugly
little secret is that all those muscles slow them
down. They don't have a kit of endurance.
Modern-day sled dogs are a cross-breed of
husky and hound, resulting in a mutt that Looks
like the canine equivalent of the 98-pound
weakling in the old Charles Atlas ads. They're
scrawny and nondescript, tipping the scales at
maybe 30, 35 pounds.
But they can run all day.
Interesting things happen when you cross-
breed dogs. Ever heard of a Labradoodle?
That's what you get when you cross a poodle
with a Labrador retriever. The result is an
intelligent, gentle dog with great allergy
resistance and (Martha Stewart would be
pleased) no shedding problem.
The Labradoodle is not yet an officially
recognized breed but that hasn't stopped
people from lining up to buy them. .
Some other poodle-gene-pooling experi-
ments that seem to be panning out involve
Yorkshire terriers and, schnauzers. The result:
Yorkipoos and Schnoodles.
Mind you it doesn't always work out.
group, only 103 MPPs chosen from a 12-
million population, often called "the most
exclusive club in Ontario." They share
vulnerability in that they have to knock on
doors to get elected and voters can reject them.
When a former MPP dies, members of each
party traditionally deliver eulogies that run on
forever and sometimes seem more to honour
their own profession. This can be forgiven,
however, because they' are offered only rare
opportunities to do so, while enduring much
criticism.
Few MPPs have died while still serving, but
when they do the commemoration is
prodigious, much like police from across the
continent attend the funeral of one of their
own.
The last was Al Palladini, a former car dealer
noted for his upbeat nature, who stepped down
as a minister only weeks before dying of a
heart attack on a golf course in 2001.
Federal politicians including then Tory
leader Joe Clark, were among 1,500 at his
funeral and the hard-nosed premier Mike
Harris was red-eyed and fighting back tears as
he said "somewhere- up there Al is playing the
back nine."
Harris called Palladini the most generous
person he has known and recalled some of his
sayings, such as "if opportunity doesn't come
Experts say crossing a Newfoundland with a
St. Bernard would give you a disease-prone
hybrid_with hips like Silly Putty.
And mating a pug with a Pekinese has
produced pups with a distressing propensity
for having their eyes pop right out of their
sockets.
And what would crossing a pit bull with a
Doberman produce? I dunno — a Great White
Shark, maybe?
Actually, I've got no problem with pit bulls
— it's the people who choose them who need a
saliva test. Sure some pit bulls are gentle, kind
and vote only NDP. Same goes, no doubt, for
some saltwater crocodiles.
The fact remains that if a pit bull does
go postal on you, he's got the teeth and
jaws to crush your bones to porridge. I well
remember the advice I got from a cop I
interviewed on the subject of pit bulls years
ago. When I asked him how I should defend
myself against an attacking pit bull, he
deadpanned, "Offer him your least useful
arm."
Actually there is a place for pit bulls in this
world, and that place is New York City.
Gotham's Animal Care and Control
Department (we used to call it the Dog Pound)
has announced that it is officially renaming pit
bulls. Henceforth they shall be known as 'New
Yorkies'.
Director Ed Boks says the name change is
appropriate because pit bulls and native New
Yorkers are both unfairly viewed as surly and
belligerent. In fact, says Boks, "New Yorkers
are some of the most generous and open-
hearted people I've ever met."
Yeah, right, Ed.
New Yorkers and pit bulls: a cross breed
made in heaven.
knocking, we'll help you build a door."
When Jim Renwick, a corporate lawyer and
Tory who joined the NDP and gave it huge
depth, died in 1984, his desk was drai,ed with
black cloth and Tory premier William Davis,
who would have loved to have Renwick on his
side, said his contributions were above partisan
politics.
Only one minister has died in office in recent
years, John Rhodes, who was industry minister
and had a heart attack on a trade mission to
Iran in 1978.
The legislature thought so highly of him it
held a memorial service in its main lobby, an
almost unheard-of event, and many of his
comments were recalled. In one, the minister
responsible for creating jobs in Ontario
defined a Canadian as someone who leaves a
French movie, climbs in his German car,
drives to an Italian restaurant, orders Dutch
beer and Danish cheese and, once home, takes
off his Korean shirt, Rumanian pants and
Polish shoes and puts on his Taiwanese
pyjamas.
Then he turns on his Japanese stereo, picks
up his U.S. — made pen and writes to his MP
protesting about high unemployment.
Politicians with such insight are hard to let
go.
Dancing in the dark
I
The calm of the pre-dawn night. Not a
hint of light peeps behind the blinds.
the only sound to break the stillness is
the steady breathing of man and beast.
Man and beast in my case would be
husband and dog, my bedroom mates, both of
whom are in a deep trance almost
immediately upon reclining. Nor do they find
it difficult to get back to sleep should rest be
interrupted. Ani will even get up periodically
through the night to do her security rounds, a
quick tour of the house, a snack and a drink
then return to fall within seconds into the
rhythm of deep sleep.
And just how do I know all this'? Because /
am awake. Like 40 per cent of women.
particularly those of a 'particular' age, I suffer
from insomnia. Every night with good
intentions I set aside an hour or so to unwind,
then sometime before midnight drag my
weary body upstairs. Exhausted lids strain to
stay open as I seek the comfort of my bed.
With a sigh of blessed relief I lay my head on
the pillow and spend the next half hour trying
to fall asleep. .
It 'eventually happens, of course, and I
ultimately hit a blissful comatose state - one
that's all too brief however. Any sound or
movement after the first couple of hours will
rouse me. Then generally, sometime around 3
a.m., my lids flip up and my brain begins to
dance - a foxtrot of forgotten faces, a tango of
thoughts and a promenade of planning.
And when, after a few hours I do make it
back to the land of nod, it's not a refreshing
place to be, but more like a series of Ed Wood
movies playing in my head, non-stop bizarre
dreams and images.
Besides the obvious daytime problems tliat
result from insomnia - irritability, fatigue, and
lack of concentration - the whole thing is
frustrating beyond belief. And let me just say,
that after about a week's worth of three hours
sleep per night, the problem does become
rather all-consuming. •
My insomnia is not caused by any other
condition. I don't have a sleep disorder, such
as sleep apnea, narcolepsy or restless legs
syndrome. I am quite simply female and
getting older. My insomnia is acute and
intermittent. A few weeks of nighttime
wakefulness is generally followed by
stretches of typical sleep patterns.
It is, therefore, as normal as abnormal can
be. Knowing that nothing's.essentially wrong
should let me go with the flow on this. But as
night after night passes with minimal hours of
sleep, the flow is seriously disrupted.
I have tried everything, from counting
sheep, to deep breathing, to getting that book
out again. I've even tried to go to sleep by
convincing myself I have to stay awake. No
matter what the approach, I have come to
expect that I will not be going back to sleep
for at least two hours.
So what can I do? Not a pill popper, I am
deprived of that immediate satisfaction. I have
tried non-chemical remedies, such as herbal
sleep aids, with mild success. I try to exercise
with some regularity. I follow a pattern before
sleep, usually a relaxing lavender bath and
some reading. I drink an herbal tea. I do my
best to get to bed around the same time each
night. It's generally useless.
I guess that I must simply accept and cope.
So looking on the bright side, I do get a lot of
organizing and planning done in the wee
small hours of the morning.
MPPs grieve deaths of colleagues