This is a column from the book "Lurking Back" East Sooke No-News by Peg Pyner, my mother. She wrote columns for a local paper in 1975 - I edited these columns into the book. I still have a couple of books left if anyone wants one. I am hoping to re-publish the book into an ebook.

Solid Gold Pets

Jeannie is one of the four-legged creatures we allow into our home, feed and pet, love, honor and cherish in sickness and in health, and in time, she should be made of solid gold. The irony of it is that quite often this solid gold pet, this walking monument of dollars, is a mediocre mongrel of a dog or cat that belongs in an alley. Ordinary as all get out, no way worth the money.

This is what I said to Barbie when she wished Jeannie on us. "She's such an ordinary little dog. I'm not sure I want her.”  Jeannie had been on her way to being shot because she'd evolved from a cute puppy into an adolescent dog in heat.  Barbie, a known sucker for pets, rescued her. She had her spayed and she brought her from Vancouver to us. 

We wanted a dog because we were moving out to the countryside in East Sooke but I wanted a cuter dog, possibly a dog with more class.  We said we'd keep her for a few days but I started composing ads, “HOME WANTED FOR FEMALE BLACK DOG, FRIENDLY.” etc.  

While we worked on our East Sooke home Jeannie quickly set about establishing roots. She spent her entire time on top of a pile of excavated earth, growl­ing, tugging and pulling out roots. We thought this was cute and we laughed. It seemed a shame to waste all that labour and we never did send in the ad.

While I packed our Victoria home, Jeannie unpacked.  One night she ate a whole jar of peanut butter. How she survived, I don't know; the peanut butter was all right but the jar was glass and it was sharp.

She survived my rage on moving day when tired and hungry, I went to the packing case on the floor to get the casserole I'd made for supper and found she'd knocked off the cover and eaten the whole thing.

But Jeannie is a kindly soul, large and black and a bit silly.  She tolerates most things, allows the cats to bully her, and gets along with the otters and raccoons.  But, by Jeannie, there is one thing that should have gone the way of the passenger pigeon, that scourge of the woods, that foul fiend, that mocking, sneering chittering beast, the squirrel.

Jeannie has worn a path all around the trees in our yard and into the woods.  She races along this path all day, whining and yapping with rage while the squirrels float overhead.  They’re mean to her. If by chance she forgets about them for a moment or dares to fall into an exhausted sleep, they come right down the trees and chirp at her and yoicks, tallyho, Jeannie’s away again.

She’s not always cute, however.  She grows an extra row of eyelashes, which irritate the eyes.  This has cost us a pretty penny, having them pluc­ked at first and then two opera­tions.  The last one made me a laughing stock.  Dr. Grigor sewed two white buttons above the eyes to hold the stitches and she looked funny.  At the same time she got an allergy and scratched all the hair off her back. This resulted in the appearance of ‘body rot’.

Yesterday she got her foot stuck between two roots, broke her leg, and now she has a cast.  She lies on the rug, her foot is swollen, she's uncomfortable and I wish I could help her. I'll phone Dr. Grigor in the morning and take her over to have the cast loosened.

Jeannie's body is solid gold, her eyes are rubies and her ears are set with diamonds.  She's cost us a lot of money but she's worth every penny - our blasted, precious dog.

The Manic Jogger

The Manic Jogger
Barbara Warman

Other than starving, the only way to lose weight is to exercise. My doctor says so. I'm a bit chubby, he says.
I tried the gym but found I could make excuses from the smallest sniffles. "Well, it wouldn't be very nice getting germs all over the weights," I told the Florence Nightingale who sits on my shoulder.
I tried jogging. Land on your heel in your $200 running shoes and roll your foot forward, take off from your toes. I landed on my toes and took off from my heels. Couldn't get the routine. Needed to pee.
Tai Chi classes looked easy. "This is the first step of 108," the instructor explained, "These are the same movements the people of China practice at dawn." She showed us the grace of moving from one step to the other, shifting out weight. I was gone by step three. Had the sniffles.
I joined a class for women ages 55-plus at the senior center. Three times a week. It's bound to be easy when it's designed for women over 55. The rest of them had to be shapeless and as unfamiliar with exercise as I was.
When I showed up in baggy sweats and a large T-shirt I was horrified to find they appeared to be my age but slimmer, more energetic. How trim they looked in pink spandex and turquoise thongs. They had fire in their eyes. I had desperation in mine. They were already marching in place eagerly.
"This cannot be true," I whispered to my shoulder-sitter Florence.
"Oh," Florence says, "but look at this dude coming in."
Enter the instructor, Ian. He is twenty years younger than I am and he looks fine in tight shorts and a body hugging T-shirt.
"Welcome, girls." Our bodies, he informs us, are full of deltoids, abductors and rhomboids. My body has hemorrhoids.
"This week we are going to strengthen our rhomboids but first let's march." Loud marching music begins and like a sheep I follow Ian's movements, marveling at his curls and the rippling muscles in his back.
"Now kick out your right foot," he yells. "Now  punch out your left arm." Who knew I was this uncoordinated? I suspect it's the fault of the Brownie troop leader who spent months trying to teach me to skip when I was a child. She eventually got the sniffles.
Finally we march in place in front of a thin, solid mat covered in weights and bands. The mirror reflects me standing, puffing, cheeks bright red. The skinny pink-togged creature next to me is doing lunges.
I learn that each weight I lift will strengthen something - my biceps, my triceps or my pecs. I can lift five pounds - once or twice. Then I stretch. Ian tells me to attach my belly button to my spine. By the time I've found my belly button in the folds we've moved onto abductors or aductors. I wish my abductor muscles could do something useful and abduct Ian. I could be free of him. I'll happily lend my flexor band to my abductor muscles so they can tie him up. Ian, tied up. I smile. Florence reads my mind and smiles too.
"So, what do you think this contortion is helping?" Ian calls out glancing my way.
"Deltoids?" I suggest weakly.
"No, your trapezoids," Ian yells, "Come up here, I'll show you where your deltoids are."
I pretend not to hear, he demonstrates on a spandexed filly and the torture continues.
"Ah, yes, " he bellows, "Your gluteus maximus," as he swivels and crouches slightly, slapping himself in the rear in that blatant way he has. I would never do that and I'll admit I'm uncomfortable around anyone who would.
Now I'm done with Ian. He crossed the line. He told us we should stand naked in front of a mirror to see how much we had "bulked up". I trembled with horror.
He then told us he was going to demonstrate what he does to enhance his erector spinae.
Florence stayed. I fled.
Now I know I can jog.

Life?

Life?
Butterfly on swaying grass
That's all, but exquisite