They're a pair of ravenous little beasts. They will eat anything, anything at all. They've taken to leaping about me as I prepare food in the kitchen, anxious not to miss any opportunities to have something in their grasping little maws. They swallow anything they don't have to chew instantly, making us wonder if they even taste what they ingest. They've had asparagus, celery, tomato, banana, carrot, cauliflower and apple in tiny tidbits, all disappearing into that black hole of their digestive tracts.

More frequently they eat post-dinner salads that they avidly await being served. And they're prodigious drinkers. I moisten their dry kibble with chicken soup I've cooked leaving out the onion until I've removed their portion, so they have that source daily, but they drink water constantly and what goes in certainly must also go out.

For reasons of their own they're avid about licking as far up my legs as they can reach when I step out of the shower, lapping up the moisture clinging to my skin. They make certain to enter the bathroom just around the time I'm stepping out of the shower, although up until then they race about everywhere, managing despite their focus on 'catch me', to time things just right.

Another source is the dishes I've rinsed before placing into the dishwasher. Those dishes and pans awaiting the wash-and-dry cycle in the mechanical contraption that they have learned to regard as a source of delectable after-use moisture is an especial favourite of theirs. These are habits that will become ingrained unless I take steps to wean them away, but they've become established as a source of fascination to them, and amusement for us, so why bother?

Others perhaps might gnash their teeth in frustration, but in our regard these are harmless distractions, and if we cast our minds back in memory, escapades that our beloved Button and Riley also indulged in as puppies, then grew to discard in their more mature years.

Strange, what sticks in a child's mind. My husband always says that children recall those times most often when those upon whom they most depend for their security, their emotional well-being, the values they emulate, and their hopes for outcomes even at their young age, fail them. Mostly, he contends, because the child senses a glimmer of a notion that he/she is not that valued after all.

I can dimly recall my father presenting me with a tricycle. That would have been perhaps when I was four. He patiently taught me the rudiments of empowerment in sitting on the thing and pumping it with my legs, just barely touching the pedals. My father was physically small, and he was able to squeeze himself onto the thing to give me an idea of how it would locomote. I may have thought this undignified of him; surprising at the very least.

When someone who lived on the street bullied me and took possession of the tricycle I went home crying. My father insisted that I stand up for myself, and confront the bully and get the tricycle back on my own. I resisted, telling him I was too afraid. Disgusted with my lack of character he went down the street himself and wheeled the then-abandoned tricycle back to where we lived, in a rented flat in a house on an inner-city street where, when I was old enough to go to school, I needed only to cross the street, for there was the school, directly across from the house where we lived.

In time I became comfortable with playing on my own in the schoolyard; eventually brave enough to try the swings on my own. I hadn't many toys. But I did have books at an early age. That was my father again. My parents were poor but as the old saying goes we were never hungry. I recall my shame when I realized that I was the only girl in my class when I did begin school, wearing broken shoes. And then I began to appreciate how well some other children were dressed, and I was shabbily clothed.

Although my parents just managed to pay their way into the future with their four small children -- I was the first-born and the next was born four years later -- I was sent to a socially-progressive Jewish school. They may have struggled to afford the modest fee for the parochial school, but I became accustomed to after-school and week-end classes until I was in my teens. My husband, in fact, when we were fourteen, used to wait outside the community centre where the classes were held, until I was free to join him.

We've both been busy in the kitchen today. My husband, measuring out herbs for the production of a jar of pizza spices and herbs. It's a little heavy on the hot peppers. He brought it over to me for a sniff-test and my involuntary catch of breath told him all he needed to know about the formula. We both like a little bit of heat on/in the pizza and this will surely deliver. On the other hand, I'd do well to approach its application with some caution.

He had been out shopping on his own, something he does regularly, and one of his favourite places is the bulk food store where he picks up all manner of herbs, spices and nuts and seeds for our kitchen. Before he left I asked what kind of cookies he'd like, and he responded that he'd like, instead of the sugar cookies he usually asks for, some crisp ginger snaps. So ginger snaps it was, their delectable fragrance wafting through the house when he returned. I cross-hatched them with the potato masher I've had in my kitchen for the last 60 years, a set of kitchen utensils that we bought when we first married, to help make me a more efficient cook. Some pieces of the set have seen more use than other parts, but made of stainless steel, they have weathered continual use and time better than we have.

Jack and Jill think that any time we're busy in the kitchen they should be included in whatever is happening; so they tend to hang about, keenly watching what we're doing. And should a shred of something quasi-edible fall to the floor they're swift to leap to the taste-test. Anything seems to taste good to them, the quirky little imps.

Now that they've discovered the allure of the afternoon sun blasting its light and warmth through the sliding glass doors in the breakfast room, it's where they can be found at that time of day, taking a rest from romping recklessly through the house at breakneck speed, somehow managing not to break their delicate little legs in the process as they slam into objects then careen off into other directions; here, there, everywhere. The languid pacification of the sun shining directly on one of their little beds gives them a break, and us as well.

So today we met the appointment for Jack and Jill to get their rabies vaccination. We have more or less decided that we will not return to the veterinary hospital which we had been using for the last twenty-two years. Not that they hadn't given us good service. Particularly at first, when there were just two vets, and they were brothers. Then the older one retired, surprisingly, since he wasn't all that old. And the  younger brother took over the business.

And it grew like Topsy. More veterinarians and technicians came aboard. They were operating out of a small converted bungalow on the corner of two local main streets, and their clinic became quite popular and their clientele grew in numbers. They decided to expand, and looked to buy the properties in either side of them to give them the opportunity to do just that. And eventually that's what happened, they bought the properties and on that expanded property built a bright and modern, large new facility.

Of course part of the facility became a pet shop. And the clinic acquired new high-tech diagnostic tools. And in came a few more veterinarians to work out of the expanded site, and more technicians as well as office staff. Every individual but perhaps one in that expanded professional workforce was cheerful and adept at what they did. Including selling the owners of pets on the need to consume ever more services.

In the pet store portion all the usual, popular dog food is sold, but not any of the type produced in Alberta that bills itself as biologically appropriate, and is quite a bit more expensive than the run-of-the-mill, containing prime ingredients specifically geared toward ensuring a dependent animal will eat nutritiously sound food. But the much smaller veterinarian service we visited today and which we may decide to use on a permanent basis, also has a store selling pet food, and it's clear that Royal Canin has locked up its popularity through a costly and clever public relations ploy to bring vets on board their bottom line.

In any event, the veterinarian we saw today, one of two at that clinic, is popular with his clients and trusted, a few of whom we had questioned about the quality of service. He seems a very nice person, and we had a casual chat about what we expected as clients, leaving him and us to weigh the results. Jack and Jill got their rabies shot, and we left for another destination, somewhat further afield, but still within the community; the sole pet shop that sells the Origen brand pet food that represents the pinnacle of food quality, to ensure good nutritional health for our two little dependents.                 

Our next-door neighbours have returned from their two-week getaway to tropical climes, escaping however briefly the brutal winter that nature has treated us to this year. Their Hawaii trip, however, left much to be desired in their hopes for nature to allow them a brief respite with sun and warmth. The warmth was certainly there, but it was tainted, unfortunately, with unforgivingly never-ending rain. And then they returned to what they had left, feeling little the better for the effort.



They should have gone to wonderful British Columbia. There, they would have found moderate temperatures ranging in the daytime high range of ten and twelve degrees, and ample sunshine; little rain affecting the atmosphere. And as for natural beauty ... well, can you beat cherry-blossom time? Vancouver has all of that in abundance.

On the week-end, our son went canoeing on a lake less than an hour's distance from Vancouver, and thoroughly enjoyed himself.

As for us, well, the bellowing wind, with the continuing frigid temperature that has settled truculently over much of Canada, aided and abetted by snow events, have conspired with old man winter to shuffle the deck in favour of his royal grumpiness, denying eager spring the opportunity to make an early entrance.

Environment Canada has warned us there are two more months of unseasonably cool weather ahead. Joy.

We had a one-day break in this abysmally frigid weather pattern yesterday when the day-time high stretched into the stratosphere to give us a minus-7-degree opportunity to take Jack and Jill for a snowy trek into the ravine. The snow was piled high on the trails, though tramped down to a certain degree after the all-day snowfall of the day previous.

Lots of others were out enjoying that break. And Jack and Jill, to their delight, got to meet a panoply of other dogs out similarly taking advantage of the 'warmer' temperature, romping in the fluff of the new snowfall. Mostly larger dogs, and mostly of a mild temperament, though one obviously enough thought unkindly of small, very young dogs and made his distaste for them evident enough. Our puppies were able to divine that for themselves and gave him a wide berth.

And then we came across Catherine, out with Scamp. I was first introduced to them about ten years ago when they moved into one of the houses down the street, and he had been newly rescued as a mischievous juvenile. He's moving into his 15th year and though slowed immeasurably, still holding his own. We hadn't seen Catherine since we lost Riley. When we mentioned our impressions of the Alta Vista Animal Hospital, the premier location in this city that pet owners are directed to by their own veterinarians who have reached an impasse in their ability to usefully diagnose and treat a malady, she reacted quite negatively.

Telling us that a year and a half ago she had taken Scamp to them for help. They had diagnosed him with a sever gall bladder problem; informing her that unless he was operated on immediately there was a very real danger it would burst. They wanted first to do an ultrasound to confirm their diagnosis and it alone would cost two thousand dollars. That's when she turned around and gathered Scamp and the two made their way back home. A year and a half ago, and somehow, his gall bladder has caused no problem, and he is easing into his elderly years quite well.

This is the very same diagnosis and extreme warning we were given; that our little Riley would not live out the day, given the results of the ultrasound we authorized them to conduct. That without a swift resort to surgery he would die. Assuring us that his age was no problem, he would easily surmount the effects of the surgery. We assented.

If our own trusted veterinarian service had advised us after their own X-ray and bloodwork that he needed more specialized service than they were capable of, who were we to question their wisdom? Everything, his bout with diarrhoea, his listlessness, had happened so suddenly. Feeling we had little other choice if we wanted to have him survive the medical crisis we were informed he was suffering.

The immediate results of the surgery were his vital signs diminishing hour by hour as he was placed on emergency life support, drugged and comatose, as we watched his life disappearing, thanks to the ministrations of this premier animal hospital dedicated to the welfare of its vulnerable patients and their trusting owners.

Note to Dar: please spare me your egregiously gratuitous comments.

I can barely credit this for sheer bad luck and I don't know what else, other than wretched coincidence to account for this latest twist in the saga of what our daughter calls the black cloud hanging over her life. Our daughter's boyfriend owns and drives a vintage truck. He's proud of the vehicle, takes outstanding care of it, and keeps it well maintained. A week ago he bought new tires for the truck, and had other work done on it to ensure it would continue to operate as well as it has in the past few years.

He had entered the main highway headed for our daughter's house. The plan was for him to take her out to do her regular grocery shopping, which she had had to abort yesterday. Her own vehicle is temporarily out of commission, given that it was discovered the wheels hadn't been installed properly by the garage she had taken it to nearby where she lives, and one actually became dislodged while she was driving. That vehicle is in another garage, for repairs; the mechanics there had identified the problem being that whoever had changed her tires from all-weather to ice tires in preparation for winter driving hadn't adequately fastened and firmed up the bolts holding the wheels to the vehicle.

Partway on his drive, our daughter's boyfriend's truck stopped and became disabled, tipping the back downward as it slid to a screeching halt; he had been travelling at 60 klm/hr. Two of the back wheels had collapsed, one of which had separated completely and fallen off the truck spinning behind him onto the highway. If there's a ray of good fortune anywhere in this latest tale it was that he hadn't been injured. He is awaiting a tow truck. He called a friend who owns a garage, who advised him to take photographs of the condition his truck was in. A passing motorist had stopped to help, then having seen the separated tire, had gone back to retrieve it but hadn't been able to find the wheel itself.

He was advised that he had a law suit in the making for a compensation claim lodged against the garage that had obviously not done its work well. What's going on here?

Her father offered to change her all-weather tires to the ice tires early in winter. He's done it for her before. He's accustomed to changing the tires, come the prospect of winter driving, on his own vehicles. He had taken all the tools he needed to do just that. But when he drove over and expected to do the work, she expressed her firm intention to have it done professionally. She'd take it to a garage herself, in the next little while, she said, and have it done. No big deal.

She wouldn't be persuaded otherwise. Understandable, given her father's age, and her unwillingness to have him exert himself unnecessarily. So, then he returned home without having achieved the purpose for the trip. And she of necessity took her vehicle in soon afterward to have her tires changed.

Some time afterward she noticed there were slight clunking sounds she couldn't identify, but she shrugged off any concern she had. Her vehicle was a tough little SUV, had an excellent reputation and she hadn't had any problems with it over the past few years; it was in fact, in almost-new condition. Well, not quite; driving constantly on country roads is harder on a vehicle than driving in an urban area. But it's been reliable.

She should of course, have taken the vehicle in for an inspection when it began sounding so clunky. It hadn't occurred to her to check the wheels. She wouldn't know what to check. But it wasn't just the tires that were changed back then, but the extra wheel mounts they were ;laced on as well. It's likely a man would have been more alert to the possibility that something should be checked out there, rather than simply ignore the problem.

The end result was that when she went out to do a little shopping yesterday afternoon, the vehicle suddenly broke down, wouldn't respond, and she was stuck there. She waited a half-hour until her boyfriend, who left work early to respond to her predicament, picked her up, arranged for a tow, and had the vehicle taken into a nearby garage. At the garage they diagnosed the problem. Whoever had changed the tires/wheels on the vehicle simply hadn't bothered sufficiently tightening the wheel bolts. They'd come looser over time. Until, in essence, one of the wheels more or less separated from its improperly bolted connection, and the vehicle  ceased functioning.

It was a nasty day to be stuck on the highway like that, with colder-than-normal temperatures and a driving wind with light snow flurries. No pride in workmanship among so-called professionals? Little wonder her father, and likely many other men double-check if they ever have work done by mechanics who are supposed to know what they're doing.

My husband is a wine drinker. He usually prefers red wines, but white sparkling wines excite his taste buds as well. Usually he has a glass of wine with dinner, but oddly enough only when we're having a meat-based meal. And since half our meals are non-meat-based, he doesn't drink daily, but when he does he certainly enjoys it. It's nothing new, he's always liked wine with his meals.

As for me, I rarely drink anything but tea. It's my beverage of choice on all occasions. But we both enjoy eating, and often look for new whole food items to introduce into our diet. Or ways to prepare foods that we're familiar with. The result being that we're both interested in scanning recipes; perhaps more for ideas on how to incorporate different ethnic-based cuisines, than to follow any given recipe.

When my husband makes his occasional trips to pick up wine he also often picks up a glossy public relations publication put out by the Liquor Control Board of Ontario, the source of our wine-buying escapades. It's free in the sense that you don't pay for it directly; rather it's paid for through the stiff prices that the LCBO can command through its outlets, as the sole venue in the province for liquor purchasing. Beer is obtained from another enterprise, The Beer Store. In the province of Quebec liquors can be purchased at any local store.


It's an obvious enough advertising device in large format with wonderful photographs and includes intriguing recipes; at least some of them. Always, with a recipe comes the recommendation for the wine that would best complement it.

We've tried one of their recipes for banana cake and found it wanting, to say the least. A few days ago we tried a different version of the classic French onion soup. This one started out with the sliced onions being roasted after drizzling them with balsamic vinegar and olive oil. That was actually a method to give a different, and appreciated taste to the soup. Spoiled, however, by the addition of potatoes that the recipe also called for.

What usually works best, I've found, is using my very own memory to dredge up recipes that I've used countless times over the many years I've been baking and cooking. There's far more satisfaction in the outcomes, and it's far easier to use what I know in the various food categories, and then just improvise. Invariably, the resulting product is just what we wanted. With experience and success comes repetition, but that isn't at all bad, since the choice selections are myriad.

This morning, when I finished baking a blueberry pie and preparing bread dough for pizza, and putting on a chicken soup to cook, our two little black scamps did their utmost to help me clean things up; anything, even a mote of flour, that happened to fall to the floor was immediately scooped up by them; they're far quicker than I am, in trying to prevent them from eating what they don't need to have. That's when it's time to give them a chewy and let them vent their teeth frustration out on it.

Well, that was different. In our ravine walk yesterday we came across people and their dogs we'd never seen before, obviously not regular walkers. One of the dogs was six months old, the tubbiest, short-legged but extremely large golden retriever we've ever seen; likely a cross and not a very serendipitous one, given the results. But it was a puppy despite its size, and its rambunctious curiosity and lack of awareness of its size and strength mitigated against our two pint-sized puppies playing with it. Besides which, at the very same time, same junction, appeared a youngish man with a German wire-haired pointer with questionable social skills.

The pointer barked threateningly, its stance signalling its dislike for what it saw before it. This was not a neutered male, and it required being restrained in our near presence, seemingly prepared to lunge. It appeared obvious that this was a dog kept primarily for hunting. Its owner had the usual sneering attitude that certain dog-owning demographics have toward small dogs, and his patronizing comments assumed we were two dodderers just discovering the ravine as a potentially pleasant place to take our two little wretches. Not a nice encounter.

But it was a gloriously beautiful day, the landscape to be fully appreciated, thick with a blanket of snow, the sun doing its best to forge its way through a light cloud cover, the winds abated and the temperature soaring to minus-7C, enabling us to go out for a long woodland ramble for the first time in almost a week of bone-chilling cold and blasting winds.

It's also given us a break in allowing Jackie and Jillie to enjoy being in the backyard, taking their time to romp about a bit and also perform their bodily functions on cue. Their precocious attention to everything around them, the changing scenes they encounter, the occasional person other than ourselves they come across and their corresponding interest, points to their youthful awareness and attempts to place things in some kind of perspective.

Previous to our experience with them, it was somewhat different with Button and Riley both of whom were not ravenous consumers of everything that came across their path. They were both picky eaters as puppies and nor when they matured were they besotted with their food, although additions like plain cooked chicken, cheese, chicken soup, scrambled egg and vegetables did serve to whet their appetites.

With these two little rascals, their raging appetite never rests. To begin with, their serving portions at mealtime are larger than Button's and Riley's ever were, and even after eating they aren't satiated. They look for more things to munch on, craving chewing options at this stage in their puppy-teeth evolution to mature teeth.

When are out in the ravine, they keep their sights on what's tantalizing before them on the trail, leaping on anything that resembles an opportunity to chew; the only things they pass by are pine needles and bits of evergreen that have fallen. We're constantly on the alert to ensure they don't pick up garbage. In the house it's little different, they nose about continually in the kitchen hoping to pick up stray bits of food on the floor. When I'm chopping vegetables they become insistent that something is due them.

Never, ever a dull moment. Although we hugely appreciate their antic puppy performances, we equally appreciate it when they're temporarily in rest-mode, quiet and still and comfortable. And then, so are we.

Winters in Canada can be cruel. There are stories of 19th Century rural Canada where settlers and farmers, concerned for the welfare of their animals, have gone out into blinding snowstorms to secure their safety, then blinded by the blizzard surrounding them, never finding their way back home again, freezing to death a mere amble from home and safety.

And then there are their 20th and 21st Century counterparts. As when people living on the streets, and setting aside pleas from social service and humanitarian groups to shelter however temporarily from the threat posed by such inclement weather in spaces set aside for them, succumb to the icy temperatures, wind, frostbite and ultimately death, frozen in place where they huddle where comfort is simply not to be found.

In Toronto on Saturday night when the temperature dropped to -25C (-40C counting windchill), in an area of the city that just happened to have lost power, a 29-year old man froze to death just a few metres from the front door of the home he shares with his mother. And that's more southerly Ontario, where normal temperatures don't dip quite so perilously low and for such prolonged periods. This is certainly an odd winter. It was sunrise when a neighbour saw Mark Stroz face down at the front of his house, his wheelchair nearby

The young man had been out with friends, then got home by cab. He was a member of the Ontario sledge hockey community and popular in those circles, once a player at the Ontario Paralympic Winter Championships. When an ambulance arrived on scene just after 7:00 a.m. Sunday, paramedics described his condition as "vital signs absent"; no breathing, no pulse.

Toronto police are investigating the death, awaiting the results of an autopsy, and are looking to interview the cab driver. "It's considered a sudden-death investigation" advised a spokeswoman with the Toronto Police Service.

But then, it's not just in Canada where these things happen. The very same day, Sunday, the body of 66-year-old Olivia Benito was found at 7:00 a.m. face down on a sidewalk in Lakewood, New Jersey. She had visited with a friend the evening before, making her way home at midnight. Authorities feel she had suddenly collapsed while walking home, and then froze to death.

The bone-chilling cold stubbornly refuses to leave us. In the news this morning there was note that watermains have burst in some municipalities. It's far too cold to insist that our puppies remain out of doors when they haven't performed on schedule. And as a result the danger of treading where we would rather not increases. Doesn't help that we so love our dark marble and ceramic floors; they absorb the colour of what is left on them and we aren't always, alas, sufficiently vigilant.

Our son in Vancouver innocent regales us with stories about blossoming cherry trees. Their daytime high yesterday was 8 degrees. Unimaginable for us at the present time, when the thermometer refuses to be nudged above minus-17-shivering degrees. Toronto, usually much more weather-moderate than here, is miserable with the cold.

Decided to give the little black imps another hair shearing. Their hair grows so incredibly swiftly. Their bulk is comprised mostly of their flyaway silky hair. After their haircuts when we cleared away the mess of scattered black hair and put their little sweaters back on them, they just hang on their delicate little frames; small as the sweaters are, they themselves are still much smaller.

They're not the easiest little fellows to have becalmed and still while I'm snipping at their coats. They'd far rather romp about, and who can blame them? Although they do come running every morning when they hear me in the powder room because they don't want to miss having their eyes swabbed with cool water. That ritual is usually followed by a brushing of their haircoat, but this morning the brushing was preempted by the more intensive grooming I decided they required.

The differences in their personalities continue to be demonstrated through their actions and their antics. What they do have in common, however, is a huge eagerness to snuggle at my feet when I'm in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. Hoping for something to fall, or better yet, my hand to offer them thin strips of bell pepper. They've learned early to appreciate fresh vegetables.

Oh, who'm I kidding?! They would eat just about anything; they're ravenous scavengers par excellence!

A strange winter this has been. Early in the season we had acquired quite a snow accumulation, but then the temperatures began to rise, and we had a few episodes of rain, and the two; rain and rising temperatures, conspired to melt much of the snowpack. January was cold enough, but we missed our usual January thaw; it just failed to arrive this year.

February, though, has made up for a lot of things, in spades. It's been a shovel-worthy month. Plenty of snow to more than make up for what was earlier lost, and that's really nice because we don't mind snow. What irks us is unrelenting cold and the wind that accompanies it. And we've got both those elements now, usually termed a "cold snap", but it's no snap. It is a pressure system that just hangs around and refuses to budge.

Leaving us with day after day after day of enduring cold exacerbated by howling winds. Actually it doesn't take much of a wind on these extraordinarily cold days and nights to make life really miserable. We have had many visitors of the avian and small-furry variety visiting our various feeders. Just as well my husband had recently filled them up, because it's too cold even to do much of that if you don't have to.

People's water pipes have frozen because of the cold and that's a different kind of misery altogether. And I shudder to think of the homeless wandering about downtown looking for shelter. Here's hoping they've agreed to accept shelter and hot food and warm extra clothing now, because no one should be exposed to these temperatures and wind conditions without some kind of break.

Our puppies aren't too fond of this extreme cold, either. Two weeks of minus-25-degrees and colder at night, with day-time highs budging up to minus-17C at most make for misery. They think we're miserably cruel sadists to keep taking them out in the interests of puppy-training and house-hygiene.
Jack is always game to go out, Jill tries to avoid us, but to no avail; out they go, and us with them.

And having done that they're anxious to zip immediately back up the stairs to the deck to slink their way back through the sliding doors to the warmth of the house interior. Today it actually is warm in the house, since the sun whose warmth can't make a dent in the cold outside, is warming up the house very nicely through our two-story windows.

One of my nieces lives in a condominium apartment in north Toronto. Nearby where she lives there are many feral cats. I remember the prevalence of feral cats in the compound we lived in, when we were living in Tokyo. There, cats could be seen often running about. In Japan, there are central points in neighbourhoods where, on trash collection day, everyone leaves their garbage for pick-up. Without doubt, those places would represent primary foraging grounds for the cats. I'd see tiny kittens roaming about, and several times attempted to catch one, but they are incredibly street-wise in avoidance and seem to melt right into the gutter leading to storm drains.

The jungle crows that live there too, hunt for the cats as prey, constituting their own foraging for meals, so it's little wonder cats are elusive, since it's a life-and-death matter for them to evade being swooped down upon and carried off to be eaten, a gruesome prospect for any animal. In Toronto, needless to say, nature raw and bloody in tooth and claw doesn't appear quite as deadly to feral cats. On the other hand, it can get pretty cold in winter, though nowhere as mean and nasty as Ottawa. Today, however, Toronto's temperature dawned colder than Ottawa's, at minus-25-C; a real atmospheric anomaly.

My niece has become skilled in capturing many of the feral cats, and she is absorbed in this mission she has set for herself. She takes them in, calms and feeds them, and then tries to find adoptive homes for them. She usually succeeds. Those she cannot find homes for she retains herself, and she now has a good dozen cats of all kinds.

A few months back she had rescued two sibling male kittens and successfully placed them. Successfully, until the elderly couple who had taken them in returned them to my niece, informing her they just weren't able to complete their commitment. But, they assured her, not to worry, they'd been given the requisite inoculations and been neutered. My niece appealed to her mother who of course loves cats and has two of her own; she's had a long, long succession of cats in her home, and rabbits as well. My sister is dedicated to cats and rabbits; having them makes her feel she is doing her little part in giving good homes to these dependent creatures.

So my sister agreed she and her husband would take in the two kittens who were by then five months old. They took them actually directly to a veterinarian they use who confirmed they hadn't been neutered at all and proceeded to do just that, along with their required inoculations. After which they were taken home to live with my sister and brother-in-law.

Now seven months old, the two are inseparable, and every bit as rascally as our two four-month-old puppies. They're competitive and rampage through my sister's house in a cross-reflection of species that find an inherent affinity in living with humans. My sister has learned to grit her teeth and look away to try to relieve her anxiety when the two young cats balance themselves on a slender railing of her two-story staircase, hoping they won't misstep and lead to a huge regret.

My sister tells me that her son and his wife who last year bought an existing business called the Cat's Meow, have found satisfaction in their enterprise, a cat-boarding and -care establishment in rural Ontario. What's even better, it provides a decent living for them, two people who care deeply about animal welfare and who happen as well to be cat lovers. Now, cats surround them.

It's odd, in a way; love of animals seems to run our family, though not all of our family members are as devoted to animals as some happen to be. We are ourselves 'dog people'; our daughter keeps both dogs and cats, mostly rescues, while my sister's older daughter rescues feral cats and finds adoptive homes for them. My sister is devoted to cats, though many years ago she did have a dog. And her son has given over his life to the advocacy of animal welfare.

In their living quarters, a beautiful country-stone house, my nephew and his wife have their own cats to cherish. And within the confines of the business they have the presence of any number of cats whose owners for one reason or another require a place to temporarily board their house pets with confidence they will be well taken care of.

My nephew has a doctorate in philosophy, and his field of study was animal welfare. He is a passionate advocate for animal rights, a strident anti-vivisectionist, and he has written numerous scholarly articles arguing for the rights of animals, deploring the casual manner in which their humane and existential interests are treated by societies everywhere.

He's had experience lecturing abroad as well as at Canadian universities, has engaged in sessional academic lecturing, and advocates continually for the welfare of animals. His partner, equally engaged in their lifelong campaign for animal rights, helps complete the brace of animal defence commitment.

They've found meaning in their lives through their advocacy, their concern and care of animals and their commitment to one another, aiding and assisting those who cannot speak in a language that humans can readily interpret.

He hasn't lived in the neighbourhood for very long. The first time our paths crossed was perhaps a year or two ago. And although we haven't seen him very often, we were struck by his friendliness. He has a very large-breed dog to which he is quite devoted. Not his first of the breed, the earlier one died when it was only three and a half years old, stricken by some malady that often affects such dogs. The current one is just under a year old, still a puppy and massive.

It's a Bernese Mountain dog, a bit restrained in its attitude, not the kind of rumbling friendliness say for example, of a Lab or a Retriever, two breeds we see far more often being walked in the ravine. And just as well, obviously.  I would imagine it might be difficult to control such a gargantuan beast if it felt like being stubborn at any given time. Our friendly neighbour seems to have no problems in that direction.

It seems fitting that this young man, who towers over us, like a friendly giant, would love this breed, and he does. The dog fits the human, as we've often discovered for ourselves. And as I mentioned, we've had only a few encounters with this particular dog-and-man in the ravine, but stopped each time to chat, as people are wont to do who think highly of dogs.

A few days ago he came knocking at our front door. I've no idea how he knows where we live. He had informed us that he lives on the street behind us, and likely we casually mentioned we live on the street behind him. But there he was, tall and imposing, a very nice young man, and behind him was the dog, sitting majestically and obediently on the porch. Jack and Jill were energized at the presence of the dog, but as they leaped about on the porch, back and forth into the house, they were careful to keep a little distance. The size differential can be intimidating.

The occasion of the visit was to explain to my husband that he was going off on a trip to Uruguay. His wife would not be accompanying him, but remaining behind at home with their two young children. His relatives, he said, had moved from Germany and emigrated to Uruguay quite a while ago, because he said, they felt discriminated against as Mennonites and found comfort in Uruguay. He was planning to visit for a few weeks with his relatives.

Would we be agreeable to walking his dog in the ravine in his absence? Undoubtedly he cannot have been aware that we now have two very small puppies. But even as he proposed entrusting his dog with us for walks, there were our two little black rascals cavorting about. When we'd seen him before we had Riley with us, our older little dog, same breed as our puppies; toy poodles. My husband, because we always like to be obliging, felt badly to have to pass on the opportunity to help someone out, explained that we and the puppies would find it enormously difficult to walk his gentle giant at a time when our own minuscule-by-comparison companions are just learning how to walk on leash and any distractions would be most unhelpful to the process, to put it mildly.

Then, asking if we knew anyone who might be interested, we recommended Suzanne who lives down the street and who most definitely is a dog-lover, who since she lost her own Golden Retriever fifteen years ago has made it a part of her life to walk other peoples' dogs, though none of them have ever approached the size of the Bernese Mountain Dog.

Yesterday brought us a mixed bag of events and news; in a way almost just like any other day, but somewhat a little out of the ordinary. We had hoped that the temperature of minus-ten would enable us to have a nice ravine walk, and it did, because under the sun illuminating the snow in the forest it was beautiful, but the wind had a razor-sharp edge that bit our exposed flesh a little more than was almost bearable. Despite which, Jack and Jill didn't seem to mind. They're enthralled by the world around them, and obviously trying to understand as much of what they're exposed to as possible. Which doesn't stop them from trying to scarf up everything on the trails if we're not quick enough to stop them.

Something we didn't know; the woman from whom we'd adopted our two little black rascals had sent on to us transfer-of-ownership papers with the Canadian Kennel Club. And among other things it was noted they had been 'stamped', as it were, on their little bellies. Can't see anything there unless the hair is shaved, but as she explained when she called us yesterday, should either or both ever get lost they can be identified and their owners notified by the information contained on the tattoo. Which, she said, she much preferred over micro-chipping; they tend to wander, she said.

And of great importance, yesterday I spoke with my younger brother. He and my sister-in-law had their interview with the radiologist and oncologist looking after his stomach cancer. The good news, he was informed with some degree of enthusiasm, was that the chemotherapy he had been undergoing succeeded in hugely reducing the lesions on his liver; in his stomach not so much, but they're hopeful, and another round has been scheduled. My brother sounds fine, and he's pleased with the results but not shouting from the rooftops. He's been busy finishing up two manuscripts for publication; one, in fact, has been sent off to the publisher, completed. And he plans to forge ahead in the coming spring with his earlier-laid plans, from acting as a scientific adviser on cruises to Alaska to going to Point Pelee for some bird-watching.

Well, we did get more snow overnight. Just as well it's of the light and fluffy variety. My husband was out from 7:00 a.m. clearing the snow on the backyard pathways for Jack and Jill. He had been contemplating using the new snowblower to clear out the driveway and front pathways, but those front pathways were done by shovel too, this morning.

Yesterday, he had topped up the oil in the crankshaft of the new snowblower, and filled it with gas, after having read the instructions for use of the newly-acquired machine...but the beast must have overheard my husband gloating that it would be put right to work on the following day. That being the case, it went on strike, and refused to even start. Giving it time, in case it had flooded made no difference. Last night, this morning, no action.

So it had to be loaded back onto the truck to be returned from whence it came. A good, sturdy, expensively reliable product, it is.

Yesterday, Jack and Jill were delighted to be introduced for the first time to Canelle who is their next-door neighbour. Canelle lives with Lynn and Daniel, and she's fourteen, slowing down a little. She was a hellion in her day. Rambunctious and a bit of a whirlwind, temperamental as well. She always loved to see people. Lynn and Daniel were a little intimidated by her because she could get pretty snarly sometimes. Like when Daniel wanted to get into bed at night and Canelle decided she wouldn't let him.

Jack and Jill kept popping in and out the front door while I was speaking with Daniel who had just returned from a street walk with Canelle. He wanted to tell me, in my husband's absence (he was out doing some shopping) that their snowblower was at my husband's service any time he needed to use it. At the very least, he said, until this winter and its snowstorms were over. They were set to go off on a two-week vacation to Hawaii, leaving their son Nicholas at home to look after things.

When this family first moved into the house next door they were the second owners, and Nicholas was four, his sister two years older. She's a pediatric nurse now at the Children's Hospital and she lives in her own house, not too far from her parents'. Nicholas has aspirations to join the RCMP, he's working with a security firm at the present time. He had done a stint with the cadet Reserves when he was younger. They're the sweetest kids imaginable. Nicholas, in fact, was prepared to use their snowblower himself and blow out our driveway after snowfalls.

But the problem, if I can call it that, has been solved in another way. My husband decided to put our 25-year-old snowblower to rest. True, it's not operational in any event, possibly a drive belt, since my husband changed his mind about the problem leading to its collapse. So out he went this afternoon and brought home a new snowblower. Just in time for a snowfall expected to begin this evening.

There are so many things that my husband has to do in the course of a day, that sometimes he leaves the clearing away of the accumulated day's snowpack to evening, when it looks beautiful out at night, the snow softly cushioning the landscape, and illumination from the street lights and our own night-time lamps cast a lovely glow over everything.

Which calls, in turn for comfort food. And in the winter, on these really cold, windy days, damp with snow in the atmosphere and frigid nights when the temperature plunges even further toward Arctic level temperatures, a good hot, nutritious soup really fits the bill. I make my choice from a variety of soups, from lentil-tomato to split-pea to beef and barley and beyond, and last night's choice was split-pea soup.

We had a brief respite today, however, from the incessant cold. The temperature reached all the way up to minus-7-degrees Celsius, under a clear, blue sky and blazing sun. The micro-climate in our backyard suddenly felt like spring was on its way, an illusion that often occurs in February, when we can almost imagine spring elbowing winter out of its overlong residence.

Our ravine walk with Jack and Jill has not yet become a peaceful, enjoyable part of the day. They're far more intent on scrutinizing closely every centimetre of the trail, so they don't miss the merest speck of woody detritus that happens to have fallen from the trees onto the snowpack. They're consumed with fascination for everything that might conceivably be edible. And 'consume' is the operative here. Everything makes its way into their mouths, and the result is they'd prefer to remain where they are, gnawing happily at whatever they've scooped up, rather than continue trotting alongside us. The very phrase 'alongside us', is in and of itself delusionary, but may one day occur.

They're either ahead of us, pulling on the leash, or behind us, stalling, and pulling back on the leash. Just occasionally, as though offering us a glimmering of hope for the future, they do walk alongside us, but no more, it seems than an instant, lest we be spoiled, ingrates that we are.

What luck. But isn't that the way it always happens? In the midst of winter that's when a home furnace is likely to poop out and require replacement. Well, our furnace is one of the few originals installed when the house was built on our street that hasn't been replaced. Most of our neighbours have long ago had to have new furnaces installed because their original furnace just gave out. Ours, a technician who was replacing a part for us, was of a type of furnace that seldom didn't last a long time, unlike the types that were more vulnerable whose 'blocks' or something tend to crack. And ours is still chugging away.

No, what happened at our house yesterday was in the same vein but a little different. Our trusty old snow blower really is old. It had been bought, 23 years ago by my husband from the enterprising son of a colleague from work. His colleague's son had thought he would be able to earn some money toward his university tuition by starting up a small business of snow removal. As it happened for one reason or another his enterprise didn't take off and he was left with a really rugged snow blower that hadn't seen much action.

So my husband bought it soon after we bought the house we're now living in. And yesterday, when he hauled it out of the shed it's always stored in, the snow blower refused to go into gear. My husband immediately thought the dear old thing had bit the dust, that the transmission had gone. It had given us good, reliable service over the years, so there were no hard feelings about the inconvenience of having to shovel out the driveway by hand. And this morning, shovel out the piles of snow that the municipal snow plow had left at the end of the driveway.

And then my husband began to think about the situation, recalling how a few days earlier he had run into a wire which had got caught in the rotor blade. He'd removed it successfully and used the thing again, and it seemed just fine. What had happened is that a peony cage that I'd failed to take in from the garden was left there, and it had fallen over, with one of its legs inching close to the line between the garden and the walkway. And that's where the snow blower had been introduced to the wire.

It occurred to my husband that a shearing pin had snapped. And so now he's looking for snow blower parts to replace that shearing pin. Trouble is, most places sell only parts for the newer models, and he'll be lucky if he can find one for his golden oldie.

Our weather continues on its stuck-in pattern of unrelenting cold, but added to it now is the end of our long dry spell, with snow tumbling out of the sky on an almost daily basis, now. Necessitating, of course, shovelling and snow-blowing without cease. Despite the cold and the snow; perhaps even because of it, every morning at the break of dawn redpolls, juncos and mourning doves appear at the various feeders at the front of the house. As do squirrels.

We've stood there, at the door, watching the activity, thinking it would be of interest to Jack and Jill but they rarely focus on the action more than a few seconds when the squirrels in particular leap about, scrabbling for choice spots at the morning smorgasbord.
 
The battle of wills that arises whenever we place Jack and Jill in the back seat of the car as they struggle to gain the front seat where I am located, has come to an abrupt, though not entirely peaceful halt. Although we've placed a constraint between the two front seas, closing up the gap that allowed them to jump from back to front, to take up comfortable (for them) residence on my lap, Jack still insists on trying to clamber the barrier to reach me.

Of course if we used individual restraints, like the safety belts that are produced for dogs travelling in vehicles we might also have solved the problem that way. Knowing that they would gnaw their way through the safety leashes sooner or later. My husband had fixed up the back seat to ensure it was safe and comfortable for them, placing two beds side by side, should they ever prefer to separate themselves from the tight bundle of black hair they usually resemble, cuddled together in one bed.

So yesterday afternoon as we travelled the Eastern Parkway to access downtown and the Western Parkway, they finally, after a few complaints and attempts to surmount the barrier, settled down to a nice snooze together. When we parked in front of the stained glass shop they became alert, but remained obligingly passive, curious but not overly, about what was going on around them. And so the trip turned out less of a mini-nightmare than previous ones.