For as long as we've known them they've always had King Charles Spaniels, one after another. We've known them for almost a quarter-century, so the current little dog is only two-and-a-half years old, a lovely little thing that causes them no problems whatever. Quite unlike our two little miscreants whose middle name should be 'trouble'.

We haven't seen them in ages, though we used to come across them frequently in the ravine, during our roves in there. In the summer months they spend a lot of time on their sailing vessel, so they have distractions we don't have in that sense. They've got the typical Limey accent, though they've lived here for at least one generation. Friendly and personal, she just gushes enthusiasm and loves to talk about their daughter, now a mother of two, living in Vancouver.

A few years back they had rescued their daughter's King Charles Spaniel when she could no longer give it the attention it craved while tending to the needs of her own young children. That little male joined their own female and they lived together amicably until both of them eventually died. Before those two they had another little fellow, who was deaf and mischievous to a lovable fault.

They're excited about a trip they've planned, to India. The first part of the trip, the first week, is meant to be devoted to visiting a few large cities, Bangalore and Cochin in Kerala State, and the following two weeks they plan to spend quietly, close to a smaller town where they've rented a house and plan to live there until their time elapses in a return to Canada. Sounds fascinating, and they're anticipating the trip, albeit wondering where they'll leave their little charge.

We told them about a woman we've known for as long as we've known them, now retired, who with her husband loves dogs and volunteers to look after any dogs their owners need separation from for relatively brief periods and theirs would certainly qualify. Because the pair is so devoted to dogs they can be trusted to do what's in the best interests of any pets left with them, and without charging the moon.

Meanwhile, we're invested in more mundane things in preparation for winter, ourselves. It's likely that we have far more garden tidying-up than most because of the extent of our gardens, and now that's done, my husband has turned his attention to changing the all-season tires of his vehicles to ice tires in preparation for winter, looming close on the seasonal horizon.

He says it's a nuisance to load the tires onto the vehicles and drive them over to a place like Canadian Tire where the mechanics there can do the job. Far more convenient, he says, to do it himself. That he's close to 79 years of age seems to make little difference to him. It's a job that needs to be done and he's always prepared to tackle such things. I wince whenever he tells me of those plans.

Sunday was cold and blustery. In the early afternoon I put on a split-pea soup to cook, knowing my husband prefers whole green peas but chose the split peas since I wouldn't have to soak them overnight. I added celery, onion, garlic and chopped carrots along with a chicken cube and a small amount of salt, larger amount of pepper, and we had a good hot soup for dinner. But of course we also needed a main dish and I thought what I might do with a spaghetti squash.

I cooked three slices of bacon until they were crisp, crumbled them, then added to a small amount of the bacon fat sliced bell pepper and small pieces of asparagus, briefly stirring them, then adding to them several chopped green onions, and grinding pepper over them. I had earlier baked the spaghetti squash, removed the seeds and pulled the strands, and to the pile of squash strands I added a cup of shredded old cheddar, the crumbled bacon, and the vegetables. And then the resulting mass was placed in a casserole and baked briefly until the cheese had melted.

I liked the result quite a lot, but it's questionable whether I'll repeat it. My husband is fussy about spaghetti squash; he likes it only done one way. When it has been baked and the seeds scooped out he puts brown sugar, butter and cinnamon on his hot squash and eats it with relish; that is with the kind of enjoyment that 'relish' is meant to describe. Go figure.

Today I wanted to do something different with ricotta cheese, rather than prepare cheese-filled blintzes as I often do. So I thought I'd do a gnocchi dish with tomato sauce. The tomato sauce is a breeze; I sweat an onion and chopped garlic in extra virgin olive oil, add chopped yellow bell pepper, a tad of hot pepper flakes, chopped carrot, and finely sliced tomatoes - and the water I'd cooked a medium-sized Yukon gold potato in.

I mashed the potato, added a cup of ricotta, a third-cup of grated Parmesan cheese, an egg, sea salt and dehydrated onion, and finally 3/4 of a cup of unbleached flour, and made the gnocchi by rolling out portions of the resulting dough into elongated rolls, then snipping them into inch-size pieces, to be cooked briefly in boiling, salted water.

The finished tomato sauce will be served over the gnocchi and I have high hopes that my husband will enjoy this different way to serve ricotta.

The garden looks drab and miserable. It's no longer a garden, in fact, but one in mourning for what it once was. It is preparing for a long sleep. And in the process of that preparation it presents as a sad spectacle of the passage of time and the seasons. My husband has put out a tray on one of the stone benches full of seed and nuts. Instead of flowers we now have the constant presence of birds and squirrels and the occasional chipmunk. A frenzy of action replacing the slow-motion energy of growing plants thriving in sun and rain and mild temperatures.

A few days ago my husband emptied all of the garden pots and urns at the front of the house, quite a laborious project, undoing everything he had laboured to do in the early spring in preparation for planting and the expectation of taking pleasure in the fruits of that planting. Instead of colour we now see a monochrome of greys and browns.

In the ravine there is still ample autumn colour, though it's fast fading into darker, more subdued hues of surrender to the cold. I haven't been as assiduous as usual this year putting out peanuts as we amble along the trails in the ravine. Instead of daily, I've been placing them in the usual cache spots no more than once, sometimes twice a week. We miss our little black acquaintances, Stumpy and Stumpette; they too are now long gone. And we haven't seemed to come across as many of the little creatures appearing accustomed to our largess.

With the onset of the cold, however, far more are making themselves visible. From time to time we see some of them perched on the usual cache spots, as though awaiting peanuts to miraculously fall from the skies, so I've begun to scatter them about once again. Makes one pensive and somewhat sad to witness the annual transition, one that we never quite become accustomed to.

Yesterday was grooming day for Jack and Jill, not an event they particularly relish, but they did their best to heed my requests for patience and compliance, conditions of behaviour they are not known to embrace. A few struggles against what they must surely interpret as indignities to their persons, and then they more or less settled down to enable me to de-hair them adequately.

First the paws and pads, then their long scrawny little legs, and then attention to their facial hair, snipping steadily away, soft black hair falling everywhere and clinging to everything, them and me and the rug beneath us. I do keep a bag nearby to plunk discarded hair into from time to time, but snipping is very busy work and constant, leaving little time for collecting and plunking, so the rug does begin to grow an unruly mess of black which will eventually, once all the hair-snipping is concluded, in between little clients, be swooped up.

Face done, attention goes to tail, rear end, nether regions and the rest of their restive little bodies until the job is done and they appear presentable. In fact, when their hair grows out, as it does, swiftly and capaciously, they look puppy-like, the volume of hair giving them the appearance of being well-filled out. Jillie certainly qualifies as a well-packed little dog. She and her brother consume the same amount of food daily, and she has put on weight, but he remains lean and muscular.

We don't believe that his spare frame is responsible for his grace in motion and ability to make great leaps and champion-strength runs, but it can't hurt in that direction. It's possible that Jillie's girth keeps her grounded, convinces her she can't leap the way Jackie does.

It's likely I will no longer groom them in the sense of giving them regular haircuts as often during the winter months, to ensure that have adequate winter coverage. Unlike little Riley they don't seem to react to the colder weather by constantly shivering. Which could only be assuaged for Riley by pulling little sweaters over him to ensure he was warm enough and comfortable once September rolled around.

On the other hand, they don't seem to be completely averse to being dressed in light little pullovers under their halters on cold and windy days when we're out in the ravine; temporary measures to make certain they don't react to that puzzling plunge in temperature that seems to us too aggressively early in the season.

 Last week was a milestone achieved for our two little black scamps, they reached a full year of age. They're not all that different than they were as puppies. They're still puppies, in fact. A year of age does not confer adulthood on small dogs accustomed to ruling the roost in their own inimitable scatter-gun method of cutsey-appeal.

Jack and Jill, three months of age

They weigh more than they did when we brought them home. They're not much larger than they were at three months of age. They aren't as frantic to chew everything, but they still have an urge to chew, and our slippers and shoes remain prime targets. Jackie is still as fond of licking bare toes; ours; as he ever was. Jillie still runs off to hide when we tell her it's time for a walk. The former is explicable, the latter inexplicable, since she does enjoy those walks.

Jillie in her favourite little bed

Although they love one another and are constant companions they are also content in many ways to separate themselves from one another. They don't cuddle together to sleep at night, but during the day they do often warmly lick one another's muzzles; and they must know at all times what the other is doing.

Jillie, distinguishable from Jackie because of her white blaze; chin and chest

Jillie has it over Jackie in the brains department. She is far quicker than he is to clue into things, despite her wide-eyed, innocent look. She's also a manipulator, someone who wants to take control; Jackie is a follower. Yet neither has taken on the 'alpha' mantle; instead, they share it. Sometimes he initiates things, sometimes she does. Each is capable of pulling the other by the ear, without restraint.

Jackie's favourite perch

If Jackie feels particularly rambunctious, he will began flying about manically, inviting Jillie to join him. Sometimes she does, often she won't. And the reverse happens as well; when Jackie isn't particularly interested in having a good runabout, it will occur to Jillie that he should and she will challenge him to do just that; he may respond and he may not.

Jackie getting fitted with a light-weight walking halter

What they do have in common is an avaricious appetite. They will eat just about anything at any time. Fruits and vegetables remain their favourite snacks. Button and Riley would never accept cookies from strangers, and certainly never in the ravine. Jack and Jill insult polite manners by their alacrity in accepting offerings and then looking for more.

While they are partial to cooked chicken, cottage cheese, cheddar cheese, yogurt and chicken soup they are not averse to yanking foliage off spruces; needles, that's right; to grind away at them, and nor do violets escape their notice, their very particular favourite backyard treat.

Jackie favours the back of the sofas in the family room, where he fits himself snugly into the gap between sofa back and sofa cushion, while Jillie prefers her little bed sitting on the rug. On the other hand Jack floats like a leaf in a reverse-hurry in great leaping arcs to reach surprising heights, bounding about as though gravity is no concern of his whatever. For her part, Jillie doesn't believe she is capable of leaping, though when we're out in the ravine she's perfectly able to leap and clear distances.

So when Jackie is feeling wickedly provocative, he teases her by leaping onto a sofa or a bed, while she fruitlessly and feebly jumps up repeatedly to try to reach him when they're in a wrestling/tumbling playtime mode. We're just wondering if it will ever occur to Jillie that anything Jackie does she can too?

With their two daughters having long ago left their family home to establish their own and raise their own young children, Barrie and his wife restored their family unit to greater than two once again by bringing three border collies into their home. The dogs are all from the same litter, two males, one female, and their characters are all divergent, but with one common trait: they were bred to be busy. They're working dogs, even if no longer used to herd sheep.

And such dogs are restless and easily bored if they're not challenged. They need to be busy and active, to be presented with situations they must deal with. They become dreadfully restless if they aren't walked frequently. So, in the morning Brenda takes them out for a long hike in the ravine, while Barrie usually walks them in the afternoon, and in the evening they both share what is for them a pleasurable obligation to their three charges. While they live in the community they're not in walking distance of the ravine, so they have to drive to one of the entrances.

These are dogs whose physiques are well honed as a result both of their breed characteristics and that they're actively engaged, frequently. Their nervous tension is kept to a minimum; they tend to charge off in three different directions while in the ravine, but respond instantly when they're called. Their training to be obedient is beyond dispute. They are verbally but calmly chastised when they disappoint and briefly but effusively praised by name and deed when they behave as they are meant to if they're accosted by an extraordinary event.

Barrie is somewhat like the dogs. He's a former special-duty RCMP officer; only in the 'former' category because he has little choice in the matter. He is tall, lean, muscular and given to extra-curricular activities like competitive running, intense bicycling, triathlon events; meeting his own challenges, just like his charges. When he began suffering mean headaches and episodes of nausea and dizziness, he knew something might be awfully wrong, but didn't begin to imagine the diagnosis would leave him reeling with the knowledge that he would soon be scheduled for brain surgery to relieve the buildup of water on his brain.

Now, post-surgery, a shunt has been implanted, and it is permanent. A line leads from the shunt that carries the water away from his brain to the inner cavity of his abdomen where his own body deals with the liquid to dispose of it; he produces about two-thirds of a litre of water a day. Eventually some parts of the apparatus that has been inserted into his body, from his brain to his nether regions, will have to be replaced; they will wear out. There is nothing that appears externally. There is a dire need to fine-tune the pressure gauging the amount and time-lapse of the drain, since he is still suffering those intense headaches once he stands or sits.

It's a bare few days since his surgery, when his cranium was opened and the shunt installed, but he misses his ravine walks with his dogs terribly. He plans to be back in operation by the coming week. And he regrets that he will have to go into retirement at an age and at a stage in his professional career that he never imagined would be interrupted at this point in his life.

The startlingly ephemeral beauty that is fall at its colourful height passes so swiftly, we're anxious to capture its brilliant likeness before it all fades. The bright yellow foliage blanketing the forest floor fallen from the poplars, all too soon naked to the wind and the cold, no longer shielding the sky from view when the mass of the woodland canopy succumbs to the assaults of sequential night-time frosts and shortened daylight hours quickly turn charcoal grey and begin to crumble.

The confetti-likeness of the red and the gold of maples and birch, the orange of beech leaves are breathtaking in their breadth of coverage, a generously wide and thick coverlet, their shapes and shades warming the trails even as the atmosphere bites, with cold creeping through our jackets as we amble along our daily ravine walk in Bilberry Creek ravine.

The enrapturing sight of a world transformed to bright yellows, picked out with greens and reds, dazzles our eyes. The fragrance of fall is a prod to reminiscences of countless other similar events which memory extracts from the depths of our experiences, from childhood to adulthood to maturity.

It is all new to our little dogs, they would have no memory of the year before when they were freshly born to life and largely unaware of what transpired in the world outside while they were kept in a kennel before they migrated to our world of household and daily ravine walks.

With the allure of the autumn landscape urging many people in the community to venture into a natural surrounding most ignore for much of the year, we come across people walking dogs we've never seen before, or see only on the rare occasion.

On the other  hand, we also come across people we're well aware of, since we see them fairly frequently enjoying nature in the company of their canine companions, and each time we meet it is a reunion of sorts, for us and for the dogs. Jack and Jill are overcome with enthusiasm each time they see dogs they've had the pleasure of acquaintanceship with. And each time they anticipate a great fuss will be made of their presence, by the dogs' accompanying humans.

Their 'enthusiasms' are so prevalent and absorbing we cannot yet imagine allowing them to be off-leash in the ravine. So they stand and they patiently wait while we stop briefly at various intervals to speak with acquaintances, and they watch without too much curiosity as they see Ruby down in the creek, barking to  her heart's content, that she can enjoy the now-frigid water passing by her robust little frame.