Aren't people strange? We do, as a species, seem to have an absurd sense of avoidance in acknowledging our inconsistencies which, side-by-side, make no good sense whatever. If we have one serious failing it is finding fault with others, while preferring to remain oblivious to our own. Or perhaps even persuading ourselves that whatever those faults may be, since they're ours alone, they're tolerable.

In the last several months we've come across a new face in the ravine. A middle-aged, quite pleasant woman, walking a lovely little poodle mix, a light brown-coloured mass of tight curls not yet a year old, an impish scamp forever on the move. Invariably, when Jackie and Jillie spot the little dog they exercise their usual mandate to inform the intruder that they are permitted to share the forest confines on a condition of sufferance.

Behaviour toward others must be respectful, with a tolerance toward light play and shared adventure. This, from a pair of siblings whose behaviour toward other dogs leaves much to be desired; prancing assertively about, challenging dogs they're not familiar with, steeped in a barking frenzy, until the usual sniffing session reassures all parties that a truce is in order, and they settle down to familiarize themselves with one another, sharing a run-about.

Jackie, behaving....

Try as we might to mitigate this offensive behaviour, we've been met with only partial success. The penalty for misbehaviour is having their freedom temporarily revoked, and they're put back on leash. This doesn't happen with any regularity with Jackie, since Jillie is the one who initiates all this frantic behaviour and Jackie is merely a follower. I finally took Jillie off leash yesterday in our ravine walk when we came across the miniature Apricot poodle-mix so they could all have a good run. It starts off nicely enough, until the younger one gets really obstreperous and aggressive.

He's twice the size/weight of either of our two, so his tactics are intimidating, causing Jackie and Jillie to retreat and seek shelter, resuming their barking, and in the process their brief camaraderie is shattered. Eventually the woman, who observes all this with amusement and admiration of her little fellow, will emit the occasional mild reproach to her dog to 'be nice', and then moves on. We always visualize that the little fellow will challenge and offend the wrong dog, large and more aggressive with a propensity to put little dogs in their place. Evidently, that hasn't yet happened.

Soon after we parted, we came across another man we've seen on occasion, walking his middling-sized white terrier mix. He had obviously experienced exposure with his dog to the frenetic antics of the little poodle. He expressed his outright condemnation of anyone failing to take their companion dog's behaviour in hand right from the get-go. His dog is nine, with a passive temperament, and never seems to bark. We mentioned our difficulties in guiding Jackie and Jillie toward a more stable behaviour pattern, and he looked surprised, commenting that they seem perfectly well behaved to him. But the Apricot poodle mix, he asserted, needed strict disciplinary direction, and to avoid that is to look for future problems.

And then he just happened to speak of one of his own dog's predilections that he had been unsuccessful in curbing; an attraction to rabbits; cornering them and terrorizing them. He never saw his dog mouthing or biting a rabbit, only holding it firmly, pawing it to the ground and keeping it there. Countless times, he said, he had rushed over to free such a rabbit victim only to find it had died of fright, in a heart attack. He couldn't recall how many times, it was such a frequent occurrence.

There are some people who walk their dogs constantly on leash, and likely to be able to control their troublesome behaviour. I know that if we had a dog, nice and quiet and biddable, but with a propensity to hunting rabbits and killing them by default, we'd keep it on leash to prevent repeats.

Keeping abreast of the news you really do have to ask yourself from time to time whether the world has gone mad. At least, our corner of the world which, in comparison to other geographic regions embroiled in deadly conflicts. is not completely without a peaceful social contract. Certainly whether those we place in positions of authority have the best interests in mind of justice being served, of acting on behalf of victims, and not in support of those within society whose psychopathy victimizes others.

That an unrepentant woman convicted of a truly base murder of a young girl who wanted nothing other than to emulate the social peer success of her murderer was given the privilege of conjugal meetings with another convicted criminal she had met within the prison they both shared, so a pregnancy ensued and this sinister woman was enabled to manipulate the parole board calling on her human rights as a 'mother' of a newborn to exact further privileges leading to freedom, is mind-boggling.

That in the last little while it has been brought to the public attention that one judge scolded the victim of a rape for not "keeping her knees together" and providing avuncular advice to both the young woman who was raped and her rapist, while choosing to exonerate him and set him free, as another instance of someone sitting on the bench of justice whose moral sense is clearly misaligned.

And another following soon afterward of a judge declaring that a young woman who had hailed a taxi to take her home, so inebriated that she fell into unconsciousness might have agreed to sex. When a police officer discovered her still unconscious, half-naked in the back seat of the cab, the driver in a compromised position trousers unhitched, this judge still felt justified in stating that she might have given consent, so that no rape occurred, leading him to free the rapist from responsibility.

Then more latterly, another week, another revelation, of a judge deciding that a police officer had taken too long -- ten minutes to be precise -- to give a breathalyzer test to a driver whom he suspected of being drunk who was involved in a crash, and rejecting the results of the test double the legal limit, allowing the charge to be dismissed, would lead anyone with a modicum of common sense to feel outrage at yet another miscarriage of justice.

Almost twenty years ago when my husband was in his infant 60s, he had decided to replace the floors in our kitchen from the conventional builder-laid linoleum-type to ceramic tile. It was an enterprise that took some time, from ripping up the old material, laying down and screwing in thick plywood, and finally mortaring in the tile. While he was at it, he decided he would also do the walls.

And oh yes, rip out the existing countertops, rebuild them and tile them too. Come to think of it, why not do the laundry room? and the breakfast room, abutting on the kitchen itself. So why overlook then, the powder room just off the small hallway leading to the laundry room and the powder room from the kitchen? And if all that is being done, surely the hallway couldn't be left undone?

So, if the floors are being done, the vanity countertop ripped out of the powder room and its walls tiled as well, makes good sense to do it all! And so, he did it all. Including my baking island that centred the kitchen floorspace. It is, in fact, topped with the very same tiles that were laid on the floor, and it has proven to be a perfect surface for rolling out dough for pastries, or kneading bread dough.

When my husband rebuilt the kitchen counters, he put back the original double stainless steel sink in its countertop, but he bought a new faucet set. This was an expensive faucet, produced by American Standard, with a lifetime guarantee. It was different, in that besides a spray function it also had a ceramic water purification system built into it. There was a little computer in it that would alert when the ceramic water purifier needed replacement, about every three months. Eventually the store where we'd bought the set no longer bothered carried those cartridges.

And eventually, over time, one thing after another went awry with the faucet set. Each time we would contact American Standard and they would respond by immediately sending to us a replacement part to rectify any situation that arose, and my husband would replace the offending part. Several weeks ago the faucet went completely rogue, nothing seemed to work, and suddenly water was being sprayed everywhere.

Again he called American Standard and as was usual with them, two days later we received parts that in theory were supposed to eradicate the problem and make the faucet once again fully functional. Except that wasn't was happened. So yesterday my husband hunkered down under the sink counter to disassemble the faucet set and remove it, preparatory to replacing it. Easier said than done. It took quite a long struggle the removal process was resistant to wrenches, and eventually he had to resort to using a reciprocating saw to get the job done.

And then off we went to one of our local big box stores to select a replacement. This one, by Moen, a company which also excels at responding well when something goes awry with one of its products, is simple in comparison to what it was replacing; no filter, less to install, and the job was completed in good time, much to my astonishment.

The tiling in all those areas of the house has stood up well to time and use; a practical and beautiful solution to both time and use.

Now that we're back in the dudgeon of winter, with punishing wind thrashing the atmosphere of temperatures that plunge into the minus-20C region at night and manage to nudge up to minus-8C during the day, it seems as good a time as any to find comfort in spending more time in the kitchen. As in trying out new recipes, type of thing. To bake special desserts that fragrance the house, and grace the dinner table for dessert.

I came across an interesting recipe a week ago at a website I occasionally look at, Tablet. It was the photograph accompanying the recipe and the name of it that caught my eye: Chocolate Babka. Yeast-raised breads are a favourite of my husband's. He also enjoys chocolate flavours, but is very picky about their combination. I turned to him to ask whether he was interested; if so, I would download the recipe, and he enthusiastically responded "yes"!

I had merely glanced at the recipe. I'm an old hand at baking and there isn't much that makes me balk at ingredients and preparation, but I was still surprised when the recipe printed out on three full pages of ingredients and instructions. I set it aside and decided I'd give it a try. And that time was yesterday, for Friday-night dessert.

First thing I always do when making such a product is half any recipe, and so I did with this one. The instructions for the dough were quite precise: the use of an electric mixer with a dough hook, and I'd long ago surrendered the one I had to the Salvation Army thrift shop because I rarely used it, much preferring to do my preparations by hand. So I assembled the ingredients and prepared the dough with half the recipe amounts. The dough was to be made the day before the dessert was to be assembled and baked. I did that. Quite the dough, too, inclusive of eggs, butter, grated lemon zest, nutmeg, which was why the creator, one Melissa Clark, recommended day-before preparation, to enable all the constituent parts to meld their flavours.

The dough recipe was followed by a recipe for the fudge filling. Which was followed by a recipe for the 'chocolate streusel' to be sprinkled over the finished product before baking. And yet another for the 'syrup', which I decided to forego; the syrup meant to infuse the baked product, which I felt was rather extraneous.

I ran into problems with the fudge filling which, when prepared was far too watery to be a reliable 'filling', so I set about thickening it, with the addition of flour. The streusel topping called for among other things chocolate chips and though I added them, I would delete them a second time around.

The assembling of the dessert was fine, albeit a little picky. The reward was, of course, the finished, baked product. It was worth the time and effort it took to put it together, all three pages of ingredients and instructions. My husband loved it and I just might make it again, some time in the future.

When I'd finished with the baking and cleaned up the kitchen, off we went for our daily ravine walk in the snowy, frigid forest, to the delight of our two puppies. But it was extremely cold, and we went at a good pace, to work up some warming interior steam, all of us.

Our ragamuffin duo, try as I might, are difficult to capture in photographs. It's almost as though they're averse to having their photographs taken. Any time I have my camera handy and want to capture one or both of them indulging in some really fascinating behaviour, by the time I aim and shoot they've gone on to other activities. What I'm invariably left with is a useless, blurred photograph.

Of course, my trusty old camera is just that, randomly trusty but creakily old. Newer iterations have been designed to correct those little irritating lacks of capacity, because the camera is in its elderly years. Like me. Technology leaps forward in great bounds. I still recall back when I was in my youngish adult years how amazed I was with the emergency of transistor technology.

When my then-young husband bought a small transistor radio in the late '50s we felt we had entered the world of ultimate technological revolution. Little could we have imagined back then the imminent world of truly modern technology with the world-wide-web of the Internet, and how communication and information would be achieved so effortlessly.

But that's another story. This one is about our two puppies, Jackie and Jillie, black woolly little imps that they are. They seem to know without even waiting for obvious clues, whatever is happening in the house. They sense our moods and react to them. They entertain us endlessly with their capers. In short, they earn the place they have in our home and our hearts. But try to capture them in a photo that looks directly at their physical attributes?

Forget it. They have none, in fact. They are totally absent that 'cute' factor that melts the hearts of onlookers. On the other hand, they have all that in abundance, in our estimation, in a 'for your eyes only' type of resonance.

This morning when my husband prepared to take out the usual pailful of accumulated compost from the kitchen to the backyard composter, we noted that it was snowing. Yesterday it was so frigid, with the temperature managing to nudge up no further than minus-sixC, and wind gusts measuring 50 km/hr, that I felt not the slightest urge to dig into a pocket to retrieve my camera, unlike most of our ravine jaunts. Particularly when only the day previous it was mild enough to rain.

Before my husband even got his jacket on, our two little black sheep were whirling about in an ecstasy of expectation. A little ritual has resulted with the taking out of the compost; they know what it is comprised of, fruit and vegetable skins, egg shells, coffee grinds, and of huge interest to them in particular -- leftover, buttered bits of morning toast. It's tidbits of that toast that they avidly anticipate, and my husband never fails to ensure they are not disappointed. I can complain 'till the cows come home that they don't need those leftovers, but to no avail.

After which, following hard on their breakfast and ours, they're prepared to settle down for a while, resting after the rigours of the morning.

Impulsive March, a month that always likes to keep us guessing, entered courteously enough, stage right, like a drenched lamb. The first day of the month gave us  unending rain. Picking up from departing February which exited, stage left, with its own drenching rainfall.

We found a bit of an early afternoon lull and took that opportunity to gear up for a shorter circuit in the ravine with the awareness that rain could descend again in earnest, at any time. We stopped only briefly to talk with a neighbour about our whacky weather before moving on to the ravine, me anxious not to waste time and make the most of the rain-absent interregnum.

Infinitesimal droplets of rain hung on the atmosphere, in that brief pause of the day. It manifested as a near-distant fog, and closer to the ravine's creek as we descended, into a fine, grey mist. It is a beautiful phenomenon, lending a wistful air to the forest. It is mystical in appearance as though suddenly the landscape has been transformed into an evanescent fairytale.

Jackie and Jillie are oblivious to these naturally-occurring differences in atmospheric conditions. They take everything for granted as their natural playground undergoes minute and sometimes compellingly-obvious temporary alterations. Their interests lie in their olfactory senses, in what they can spy with their round little eyes, alert to movement they're eager to respond to, in feeling out what the forest offers day to day.

Brief encounters with other dogs walking their human companions are their favourites, but the occasional squirrel impudently appearing as a streak of black or red in motion on the snowy landscape certainly perks up their attention. And away they go!

By the time we came across Max, whipping his way through the trails, a frail looking man of slender proportions who never, even on the most frigid of winter days wears more than a slight rainjacket open at the throat as he hurtles his way through the forest, walking stick in each hand, the atmosphere had noticeably darkened once again and light rain began to fall. At that juncture we were almost home but he had a long way yet to go.

It has on occasion occurred to us that there could be some mountain goat in Jackie's genealogy, quite unlike his sister. Even his gait has a balletic grace. He is light on his feet, and his legs are extraordinarily long for such a small fellow. His elegant movements resemble those of a gazelle, as well. Making his sister's locomotion look clumsy in comparison. Best not to compare since they have little in common respecting personality and habit.

He prefers heights and she any comfortable place which doesn't require too much energy to attain. So she snuggles up on the seating portion of a sofa, while he leaps effortlessly up to its back where he settles down in supreme comfort. Mind, if we had sofas of a different design that would create a bit of a dilemma for him in achieving the goal of  height plus comfort.

From where he sits in sublime comfort at the top/back of the large sofa in our family room, he has a birdseye view of the desktop computer I work on. He's always on the alert for any videos I might happen upon on Twitter, featuring animals. That excites him to re-position himself so he rests his little head directly over my right shoulder, avidly peering so he can respond immediately any of those videos appear. He sends his verbal messages unmistakable in their capacity to instill caution in the minds of the animals appearing on video, because Jackie takes his self-assigned task as protector of our home seriously.

Seriously, though, we're concerned about him. At least once weekly he will refuse his breakfast, and when that happens, he usually expresses complete disinterest in his dinner, as well. This, from a little dog who the evening before was ravenous and couldn't wait to have his meal presented. As it is, we've had to resort to giving him a special-formula dog kibble designed for dogs with digestive problems. With it, his bouts of food intolerance have been much relieved.

But he still frequently undergoes these periods of feeling ill and being turned off his food. This morning, after a full day yesterday of eating nothing, despite our usual vigorous ravine walk, he also refused his breakfast. We know that he enjoys and even craves fruits and vegetables over any kind of manufactured kibble. Even the chicken that I cook for Jackie and Jillie in a chicken soup takes second fiddle for him to the vegetables. Truth told, both he and h is sister enjoy a daily salad, more excited over it than their regular food.

And this morning, my husband decided to cut up a peach, red bell pepper and sugar snap peas into a salad for Jackie (a much smaller one for Jillie who had, as usual, eaten everything put before her; she will never refuse any kind of food) because when we sat down for breakfast, Jackie approached my husband to obviously appeal for something from the table (forbidden).

He went at that salad with great appetite, to our relief. Isn't it amazing how susceptible we mere humans are to being manipulated by our little companion-dependents?