Quick, how many cows? ©voyager, all rights reserved

When I was a kid, my dad often took us for family drives on Sundays. Whenever we passed a farm with cows in the field, my dad would say, “Quick, voyager, how many cows are there,” then, he’d hit the gas and go fast, too fast for me to count them all before they were out of sight. I’d throw out a good guesstimate like 26 or 34 or 101, but no matter what my answer was, Dad always said, “Nope, there were 28 or 35 or 105.” Then he’d wait for me to say, “how did you do that so quick.’

“Easy, he’d say. I counted the legs and divided by 4.”

©voyager, all rights reserved

It’s election day in Canada and Jack is upset that he can’t vote. I explained to him that he’s too young, but he said that’s only in people years and that in dog years he’s almost 80.

“Well, that’s a good point, Bubba, but even if you are old enough, you’re still a dog and dogs can’t vote.” I reached down to fondle his ear. He heaved a sigh and walked away muttering about civic responsibility and how silly and stupid people are.

I mulled that over while I finished the dishes and then I grabbed my coat and Jack’s leash and called out to him, “hey Bubba…wanna be a greeter at the polling station. That’s an important job, and it’s best suited to a dog just like you.”

He happily joined me and off we went up the street to stand outside the polling station and say hi to all the people. We stayed for about half an hour, and once Jack’s tank was overflowing with love and adoration we slowly made our way home. Jack quickly fell asleep, but the thought bubble over his head was filled with smiley faces and a job well done. That’s my boy.

©voyager, all rights reserved

Have a good weekend everyone. Jack and I will see you on Monday.

©voyager, all rights reserved

It’s a double gravity sort of day for me and I’ve been dragging my ass. The weather is cold and damp with a blustery, biting wind, and the sky is dreary and heavy with clouds. It’s not the sort of day that invites you to come out and play. Nonetheless, I did manage to walk Jack around the neighbourhood and by the time we arrived back home, I was feeling a bit better. We took our walk slowly, and it gave Jack a chance to smell lots of fallen leaves. He tells me that it’s important to smell the leaves because that’s how the trees talk to him. I asked him what the trees were saying, and Jack told me that some of them are thirsty and some of them are looking forward to winter, and this one beside us wants him to pee somewhere else. Oh. Alright, then Bubba, I guess we’d better go. Silly mummy, he said and lifted his leg to pee

I make my own sunshine. ©voyager, all rights reserved

“Wake up. You have to get up now,” I heard my husband call out sharply from the hallway.

“Why,” I call back, already getting up. Mr. doesn’t use that tone often, so I know there’s a problem.

“There’s been an accident out front.”

Oh. Just that. Again. We live near a high school and at certain times of day a few cars speed through the corner near our house. I looked at the clock. Yup, 8:15, the busiest time of day.

I was having trouble shaking myself awake as I grabbed my robe and stiffly hurried to the door hoping no-one was hurt. Mr. was already at the door and when we looked out, the first thing we saw was a shiny black car resting on the sidewalk about a foot from our front lawn and very near the spot that Jack likes to sit and greet the kids who walk to school. The front end was bent and twisted and looked beyond repair. In the other direction, we saw another shiny black car with its passenger door smashed in, and between the vehicles, there was a field of debris littering the road and two men standing talking under a single blue striped golf umbrella. Great – no-one hurt. I made my way to the kitchen, put on the coffee and was heading to the bathroom when I heard a knock on my door. Standing there was a strapping, young fireman wearing all his gear who smiled at me pleasantly and told me that the car would be removed soon and not to worry. Mam. He called me mam. I thanked him and smiled back, wishing him a good day. When I finally made it to the bathroom and looked in the mirror, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. One side of my hair was wild and sticking out at all angles and the other side was plastered to my head. My fluffy pink bathrobe was sporting a big stain of some sort, and my face was full of pillow wrinkles. Best of all, I wasn’t wearing my dentures and suddenly realized that I’d given the guy a great big, Granny Clampett, toothless grin.

And how was your morning?

©voyager, all rights reserved

We’re having a small family feast at casa voyager today in honour of Canadian Thanksgiving. There will only be 3 of us humans, myself, Mr. V and his brother, but there will be 2 big, slobbery dogs on hand to round out the table and help with the dishes. On the menu is roast chicken with homemade stuffing and gravy, roasted potatoes, green bean casserole, red cabbage (a tradition from my family), local fresh-picked peas and carrots, and raspberry pie with whipped cream for dessert. The pie is in honour of the Thanksgiving when Mr. V’s very dignified father accidentally sprayed whipped cream all over himself and the surrounding area. It’s now a tradition to tell the story and have a few laughs over dessert. Of course, we have to use the whipped cream that comes in a can.

I try to take the time on Thanksgiving to think about all my blessings and not just those of any particular day. It’s a long, full list, and today the exercise has left me feeling a bit nostalgic and overwhelmingly grateful to be such a lucky voyager. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

©voyager, all rights reserved

The weather’s been so pleasant this week that Jack and I have met a lot of our neighbours out doing yardwork as we walk by. With some of our neighbours, I’d be happy with just a quick wave and a shout of hello, but Jack says this is rude. He thinks we should speak to everyone, even gossipy Ruth, who talks too fast and forgetful Mr. P., who asks at least six times in a 5-minute conversation how old Jack is. Eleven. Eleven. Eleven. He’ll be 12 in February. Eleven, I think.

Jack doles out kisses and cuddles and basks in the glow of adoration and I nod my head and utter pleasantries. What can I do but smile? That’s just how life is when you have a friendly, social Jack. Soon enough, it’ll be winter and we’ll go days without seeing anyone outside. Bubba hates that, and even though it makes our walks shorter, so do I.