In all seasons and for a multitude of reasons, our neighbourhood wooded ravine provides us with a whole spectrum of various types of pleasurable encounters. In the spring, a succession of wildflowers bloom to delight us with their fresh shapes and colourful presence, and throughout the summer others take their place in seasonal succession.

And then there are the birds, everything from visiting great blue herons and dabbling ducks transiting through seasonally, to the three types of woodpeckers that normally inhabit the woods; from the tiny downies to the slightly larger hairy woodpeckers and then on to the impressively large Pileated. Bluejays visit, crows abound joined occasionally by ravens, and we host seasonal hawks that nest there and owls as well. Goldfinches delight us with their bright presence, and cardinals with their exquisite songs, vying with song sparrows for attention.

We see the early-appearing butterflies Mourning Cloaks and later skippers and Monarchs and everything in between; as well as damselflies with their iridescent bodies not quite the measure of the more voluminous-presence dragonflies, but almost. And bees and wasps going about their business of pollen-collection. We appreciate the blazing floral display of the ravine's wild apple trees and their later ripening many of which please our palate.

And then of course during the winter months when we slog through the snow drifts with our little dog we are presented with downy snow-covered scenes that appear as though they have been lifted out of someone's imagination of a white wonderland.

But it was only this past week that I fully realized the potential of the ravine as a place where hugs can be given out freely. Apart, that is, from those my husband and I exchange in a exuberance of appreciation of our lives and the good fortune that caused us to move close by such a wonderful recreational source that so enhances our daily lives.

Last week we happened to come across a small family on the trails, a father, mother and a tiny four-year-old girl of surpassing charm and social skills. A child who suddenly approached me and gathered her tiny presence close around me in a distinctively warm hug, taking me completely by surprise and warming my heart at her guileless humanity. The child had gathered a number of very small apples into a pocket of a vest she was wearing, and in her hand was a bright maple leaf; clutched beside it a small piece of white birch bark. A nature lover recognizing the presence of another nature lover, over 70 years separating them in age.

And then, several days later, we came across a young man accompanied by two very young children and a rambunctious black Labrador. The four-year-old child was initially quiet, grasping his father's hand as they clambered up one of the hills. The five-year-old was loud and inquisitive, roaming about almost as wildly as the family dog, overjoyed at the ambiance. The older of the two children decided too that I was deserving of a hug, and he grasped me close, happy to have me stroke his small back and say how pleased I was to meet him.

This was a Down Syndrome child, but obviously high on the spectrum of achievability, enjoying his surroundings and eager to communicate. Our very brief acquaintance soon brought his younger brother out of his shy period and both boys wanted to know why I was distributing peanuts and whether they could do the same. Their inquisitive dog soon discovered that the small objects the two boys were tossing about were very much to his taste.

And a good time was had by all, before our most amicable parting.

Christine Caron, a 49-year-old mother of four, who suffered a morbidly rare infection back in May is in the process of recovering. The infection that assailed her was a rare one, reported no more than two hundred times worldwide since 1976. It exacted a catastrophic toll on this woman, who happens to be a dog lover.

She has four dogs of her own. Three and a half months ago she was playing with her dogs. A game of tug-of-war with two of the dogs. During which event she experienced a small accidental nip from her three-year-old Shih Tzu. So slight, she thought nothing of it. The other three dogs, as dogs are wont to do, licked at the small wound.

And three days later, she subsided into a coma, one that lasted a month and a half in duration. A few days after she regained consciousness, doctors informed her that her condition was so dire it demanded amputation of her four limbs. Before that took place, however, some signs of life were detected in her right hand, and she was informed her right arm and hand would be spared amputation. The other three limbs, both her legs below the knee and her left arm at the elbow were taken, to spare her life.

It cannot be known which of her four dogs transmitted Capnocytophaga canimorsus to her, a bacterial contamination commonly found in dog saliva. A bacteria that rarely leads to infection in humans. Public Health Agency of Canada affirmed the rarity of the condition that afflicted Christine Caron.

Since that time of her surgery and her initial withdrawal from accepting the reality of her new condition, she has rallied enormously. She has been at the Ottawa Hospital's Rehabilitation Centre in downtown Ottawa since that time. Her recovery has her exposed to an hour daily devoted to learning how to walk on her prosthetic legs. Extremely fit-conscious before her personal tragedy, she now aspires to begin jogging again on special running prosthetics.

In the community where she lived, residents raised several thousand dollars to assist with her rehabilitation back into the community. A larger fundraising campaign named Caring for Chris on fundrazr.com has raised almost $80,000. Funding she plans to use in renovations to a new house that will accommodate her wheelchair.

Christine Caron, who lost three of her limbs following a dog bite in July, gets her new prosthetic limbs put on for exercises by her physiotherapist, Alison Davis, at the Ottawa Hospital’s Rehabilitation Centre Thursday. “I plan on dancing soon,” laughs the upbeat Caron.   Photograph by: JULIE OLIVER , OTTAWA CITIZEN

This dauntless woman kept photographs of her four dogs beside her bed at the Rehabilitation Centre. "A lot of people have asked me if I put my dogs down or am afraid of dogs now. I am not", she said, looking forward to reunification with her beloved companions.

Despite the turn of the weather to unseasonably cold, our little sun dog insists he must be out there, enjoying the sun's rays on his poor little battered body. In the last few days, morning has dawned bright and cold. Cold enough on one morning to have left a light layer of frost on the roofs.

Riley has never liked it when summer passed into autumn. As soon as it begins to get cooler, he begins to shiver. Our solution was to use a light-weight infant-size tee-shirt for him. And that seemed to do the trick. He became accustomed over the years to wearing a little tee-shirt for bodily comfort removed only at night time when he would be sleeping, and worn throughout the day.

As the days would progress into winter the little shirts became progressively thicker and hence warmer and more comfortable for him. He missed the natural light and warmth of the sun, and any time it could be captured shining through any of the windows he would position himself just there until the opportunity passed as the day wore on.

While he was recovering from his surgery, he kept insisting he must be out in the sun, and we couldn't resist his demands, so out he went. We had to keep him covered with a more protective-sized infant garment, little sleepers that we bought used from the Salvation Army thrift shop. On the past several mornings it has been not only cold but windy, so here's how Riley looked out in the sun.

Yesterday he was taken to the veterinarian hospital to have his stitches removed. It was just two weeks after his surgery. And there were plenty of stitches to be removed. He's not a stoic, as Button before him was, and in fact as most dogs tend to be. If he's uncomfortable he'll complain, whimper, whine and snarl. All of which he did as the technician, as gently as possible, removed all of those many stitches that marched down the length of his belly and the side of his haunch because of the extremely long incision to remove all those lipomas.

His hair is beginning to grow back and his bare skin looks just a trifle less vulnerable and shocking to the eye. And finally, we're able to handle him without fearing that we'll inadvertently hurt him where the injury to his body was so tender, post-surgery.

Living in the Ottawa Valley for the past forty years of our lives we have learned to expect the unexpected as far as weather is concerned. In this area Nature loves to practise her penchant for unpredictably perverse and fickle tricks and treats.

Last week it was extraordinarily hot, the last dog days of summer. And this week the weather has suddenly turned its imperturbable face toward fall, so precipitately that though we're accustomed to such quick changes, we're still taken by surprise. This morning there was a discernible frosting of rooftops. Only once before, in the 1940s, was overnight temperatures seen to have dipped so precipitously.

We'll manage our way up to 21-degrees today under sunny skies, we're assured by weather forecasters, while yesterday struggled to get up to 17-degrees with a pervasive wind. Meaning that when we ventured out for our ravine ramble we were well advised to wear light jackets.

The flora in the ravine have responded to the change in seasons. Many of the Hawthorns have lost their foliage, their dark, slender branches with their sharp thin barbs naked to the sky above. But not quite; it has been a bumper year, it would seem, for tree fruits and the haws glow red and numerous, food for the birds if they want to take advantage of nature's offerings. And the staghorn sumachs' brilliant red candles beckon birds as well as our appreciative eyes.

Jewelweed is blooming bright orange, their tiny orchid-like flowers on tall stalks down by the creek a bit of what else, but jewel-like brightness? Red baneberry's bright red berries light up the dark green of the underbrush, but it is noticeable that many understory plants have begun to die back, their leaves turning yellow, preparing for resorption back into the the earth to enrich the forest soil.

Asters are in bloom everywhere at the edges of the woods, and alongside them bright plumes of goldenrod, nodding in the wind. There is one wild apple tree in particular that we know offers the most delicious, crisply sweet and juicy Macintosh-type apples, whose bounty has become a regular treat for us of late.

A strange contrast to the nursery-grown stock that some unknown neighbourhood homeowner strips of their apples and trundles them presumably in a wheelbarrow to the ravine entrance, dumping them in a colourful array of perfectly good fruit, consigned to waste, but for the attention of birds and furry wildlife venturing a nip of the intrusive bounty from time to time.

I'd taken with me a book to read yesterday in the waiting room at the Eye Institute. A much-acclaimed novel about the earliest days of New South Wales where Sydney, Australia began its life as a penal colony. Great Britain's undesirables, men and women and children who were cast off to fend for themselves, those who were largely poverty-stricken, born into endemic indigence and destined to die within its cruel clutches, and who were sometimes caught stealing bread or objects for resale to feed themselves and their families and whose penalty under the laws then practised, was capital punishment. The fortune ones, those who escaped the public spectacle of the noose, were exposed to the rigours of a nine-month voyage within a crowded dank, dark ship's hold, their families held elsewhere on the ship, experiencing no more pleasure in the passage than the 'criminals'.

The book's narrative kept me engaged for awhile, but the tension and boredom of awaiting medical attention never fails to grip one. The large waiting room area was full of others awaiting attention and many eyes were focused on the large overhead television screen. On it, endless images of American officials being interviewed over the carnage in Syria and the atrocities that the regime of Bashar al-Assad was treating his Sunni civilians to. Thankfully, the sound was turned off and people had to make do with the printed headlines, but in fact, anyone interested in those occurrences knew precisely what was being discussed.

Directly across from the waiting room is an infrastructure stretch of a reception area behind which a number of receptionists were kept busy by the people streaming onto the Eye Institute floor of the Civic Hospital building through the elevators situated directly across from the elongated reception desk. I was to be informed later by one of the receptionists that this particular day was noted for its chaotic busyness, an unusually stressful day for all who work there.

From time to time I would take my eyes off the pages of the novel to briefly scrutinize what was happening, as names were called and people in the waiting room were ushered off to examination rooms and others steadily took their places, awaiting their turn for attention. On one occasion I saw exiting the elevators a man in a bright orange jumpsuit, his hands shackled before him, accompanied by two burly plains-clothed security personnel.

My husband, waiting patiently for me down below on the first floor's capacious waiting room, observed the later departure of the trio; the prisoner had been given preferential treatment, was speedily examined and whatever transactions needed to be done, concluded, allowing all three to leave without experiencing the need to wait their 'turn'. Expediting attention and passage and allowing medical staff to continue their professional scrutiny of those who haven't run afoul of the law.

Perhaps leaving some to arrive at the silly conclusion that crime does, after all, pay?

I have one eye with impeccable vision, the other whose peripheral vision is quite good, but the central portion has been impacted by a tear in the vitreous, creating gross distortion. A vitrectomy was unsuccessful in solving that issue, so that eye is useless for reading. So when I felt slight pressure appearing to present at the back of my one good eye on the week-end, I didn't think too much of it until I noticed what appeared to be a blister on the lower left eyelid and realized it was that which was responsible for the pressure I felt.

I immediately thought of shingles, having gone through a bout of it once, about four years earlier and it was an absolute horror of an experience, one I would not the least appreciate re-experiencing. Knowing too that shingles can be dangerous to eyesight if it is sited proximate to the eyes, I resolved that as soon as I could, I'd see my doctor. It was Saturday of a long week-end and I preferred not to go to a health clinic. On Tuesday morning I was given an appointment for that day at 1:30 p.m. My doctor didn't think it was shingles but operating on caution prescribed a powerful anti-viral medication. Amazingly, mere days after I'd first noted the presence of that 'blister' on the eyelid, it began to subside and I thought how wonderful modern medicine is.

To be on the safe side, however, my doctor insisted I have an appointment at the Eye Institute. The very next morning there was a call from the Institute informing me of an appointment that very day at 1:15 p.m. Two young ophthalmologists examined me carefully, after having taken exhaustive notes of my eye history, my symptoms and what they were able to observe, through the use of a battery of tests and electronic devices. Coming to the conclusion that nothing ocular was involved, but that tiny ducts in my eyelids might have become obstructed causing a backup of the normal moisture that emanates from them, ensuring that the eyeballs never dry; an eye-health-critical natural protocol.

I'll return in two weeks' time for another final check just to ensure that the condition has cleared. Which it already has started to do; the single 'blister' appearing now to be scarcely noticeable, although two days earlier it looked as though it was spreading, and the area under the eye was notably swollen and alarmingly red. At the present time I look almost normal; my personal panic subsided.

The doctors were young, professional, sweetly attendant, and genuinely concerned. Encouraging me should anything appear untoward in the future, I should be just as vigilant, and turn to their expertise in examination, diagnosis and prescribed solutions at any time; that's what they're there for, they emphasized. From the receptionists to the nurses, busy as only a community hospital can be, to the doctors who staff that necessary monument to compassionate civility and health care, they have no peers.

Instant attention to a suddenly presenting condition that appears to confound and frighten. Top-notch medical care, as needed, when needed. Canada's universal health care system is quite simply the absolute best.

The forested ravine close by our house, an entry to which exists just across from one of the group mailboxes that service the street we live on, represents quality of life to us in our easy access to green recreational opportunities. The majority of those who live within the area make no use of it whatever.

On the other hand, it is occasionally used as a dump. There can still be seen household objects, once an old abandoned sofa, and occasionally bedsprings and mattresses, even old used tires. Every fall someone rips ripe apples off their backyard apple tree and hauls them over to the ravine to dump them rather than using them. There they lie, a colourful offering to the denizens of the forest. And there they rot, filling the atmosphere with a sour fragrance of fruit gone to waste.

There is a good soul who goes around the ravine on occasion, hunting mushrooms. He always carries on his large, strapping back a capacious rucksack and into it he deposits any detritus he turns up, from discarded water bottles to broken bits of ski equipment. He has been responsible for dragging bedsprings and vehicle tires out of our beloved ravine. We certainly owe him a debt of gratitude, but he tells us he feels compelled to do that, it fulfills a need within himself.

Most days when we're ambling through the ravine we see no one else doing the same thing. Particularly on clear sunny days when the temperature is very pleasant, and that's quite puzzling. Yesterday, on the other hand, the sky was overcast all day. When it didn't appear like a solid lid of pure aluminum, there were clouds scudding across dark and menacing. Surprisingly, there was a ten-minute block of pure sunshine.

I cleaned the house yesterday and that took hours so it wasn't until fairly late in the afternoon that we were free to embark on a ravine ramble, intending to make it a relatively short one, given the time. I carried with me in a pocket little Riley's rainjacket, and a small umbrella dangled from one of my wrists, along with a bagful of peanuts to dole out. We thought, though, that we'd make it through the hike without fear of a sudden downpour.

But just as we began the downward ascent into the ravine, we heard a far-off distant rumble, and weren't certain because of its dim quality whether it was a truck somewhere on the road or indeed thunder. Indeed, it was thunder; that was verified as it continued and gradually drew closer. Surprisingly quickly, it overtook us so that by the time we were merely halfway through our ravine walk it was deafeningly loud, almost overhead. Amazingly, despite the weather, we encountered more people running through, bicycling, or simply hiking as we were, than we would normally, in a month of rambles.

One young man, just mounting a hill wasn't even aware of impending storms; he had ear buds tucked securely into place, obviously the sound up high, and could hear nothing else until we alerted him. The cracks of thunder were, as we closed in on the last quadrant of our hike, right overhead, and the volumes increased in number just as lightning too began to strike close by. We were amazed, as we exited the ravine to see a group of young bicyclists just preparing to ride down the first long hill into the ravine. We urged them to find shelter quickly.

And then, there was a muscular young man with two large dogs also just entering the ravine obviously for a leisurely ravine walk. He paid no heed to our greeting and continued on his way. We no longer felt hurried as we entered the street and walked down to our driveway. And just as we came abreast of the garage, a long streak of lightning rent the air close by. It had grown appreciably darker, so much so that as we entered the house it resembled night in the dim interior.

And then the rain broke with massive torrents spilling out of the sky. A spectacle we enjoy watching from the comfort and safety of the interior of our home, far less so caught out in the middle of a forest.