Fall has arrived in our woodland ravine. Queen Anne's lace, yarrow, fleabane and the occasional buttercup are still seen, but the fall-ubiquitous asters are crowding them all out, with their less-seen companions goldenrod. The wild apple trees are full of ripening apples, dropping the colourfully ripe ones on the forest floor where they becomingly glint back bright red as shafts of sunlight illuminate them on early afternoon strolls.

They're irresistible to my husband, who invariably goes off trail, to rummage about in the undergrowth and come back triumphant, a pair of ripe-red beauties in hand. He extends both to me to take first choice, and I take possession of one, and bite in. Not all the fruit of all the wild apple trees are so edible, but this particular tree that he favours bears crisply-moist sweet apples and we enjoy their freshness.

It's clear that, from time to time birds and squirrels peck and nibble away at them as well. The squirrels also take on occasion to taste-testing morsels of fungi that are now appearing on the forest floor, above rotted tree roots. This is the season, aside from spring, when mushrooms tend to pop up in surprising formations and colour variations to delight us as we ramble along.

Already some of the low-growing undergrowth in the very bottom story under the densest of the canopies are beginning their journey back to the underground; their once-bright green foliage has turned suddenly yellow and they're beginning to dry, preparing for resorption. The summer that seemed to stretch beckoningly toward us just a few short months ago, is coming to a close.

Daylight hours are much, much shorter; we've lost two and a half hours in the last several months of summer, and the difference is notable. We note it with regret, and we know that the fewer daylight hours are already impacting the environment.

And so, the world watches and waits, unwilling witness to heinous crimes against humanity. Of course, Syria is not the sole area of the world where similar such atrocities take place, but for the time being it is the most obvious. And it represents a test, a dramatic, horrifying nightmare of a test run, a practice session, for what may yet come. A proxy, if you will, for a more far-reaching, transfixing human-designed catastrophe that has the potential of absorbing the lives and security of far more people than the Sunni population of Syria represents.

Syria and the region around it has always presented as a tinder-box of tribal animosity, sectarian violence, simmering beneath the surface of disparate groups within the geography, erupting from time to time, like a sleeping volcano. The volcano appears now primed to fully erupt. It is steadily building toward a collective cataclysmic upheaval.

And since we no longer live in a world where once regional conflicts were isolated, deplored, caused hand-wringing despair but went largely unchecked by outside intervention in the certain knowledge that 'civilized' liberal-democratic parts of the world would not be unduly adversely affected, we witness what is occurring now with foreboding for the future.

And increasingly, this has also become a unipolar world, with all eyes swivelled at the United States. Where there sits a president who was elected because he promised 'change' that could be believed in, the audacity of hope would not be misplaced in his elevation to the most powerful station on the globe, and he would ensure that hope would never disappoint. The supranatural power to avert catastrophe and pain by making the right decision.

So influential was that promise that without any time to face events and react in a manner that would effectively give witness to his promise become reality beyond the promise to support the boast, the Noble Peace Prize was awarded  him. This is not a humble man, nor a man one might suggest is entirely without hubris and tender self-regard. He obviously attempts to govern as he sees himself, a champion of the better instincts of humanity. That he fails simply reflects the reality of the complexities of human nature.

And now, faced with the reality of those complexities demonstrating fully the depths of mendacity and inhumane engagement in atrocity that human nature is capable of, he is uncertain how to move forward to fully engage in the kind of action that would support his promises and at the same time defend those who are most vulnerable, suffering the worst excesses of oppression and threats to survival.

America's old nemesis refuses to lend its support in the Security Council, abetted by another world power. While the lesser world powers normally aligned with the United States stand back, awaiting the level of response that the world's purportedly most powerful man decides upon. He is human after all, vacillating, apprehensive, uncertain and hugely unwilling now to instruct himself unequivocally to order an action that might reflect the courage of his convictions. His convictions now conflicted, because of events whose trajectory now seem clear enough, but which sane minds found unpredictable at their outset.

In the background lurks the puppet-master of the play, manipulating his proxies in their masterful game of daringly obscene action, observance of reaction, and absorbing the reassuring symbolism of inaction taking their cue leading to further actions denying their humanity and in the end, ours as well. Rehearsals that proceed well, presage the success of a final play for which there will be no end but a curtain of darkness inexorably falling.

Syrian refugees walk from Syria into the Iraqi border town of Peshkhabour, on Aug. 15, 2013. The United Nations' refugee agency said Monday that over 21,000 Syrian refugees streamed into Iraq over the past few days in a sudden influx since the beginning of the two-year Syrian conflict. (Xinhua/UNHCR/Galiya Gubaeva)

There has been a game of tug-of-war, or an instance of simple civil insubordination (disobedience?) taking place in our neighbourhood forest, the ravine where intertwined trails lead over, around, above, through the many hills and valleys, heights and creek tributaries at the very heart of our part of the city, to enable those residents with a love of nature to amble about to their hearts' ease when they so wish.

The municipality's parks and recreation department must have conducted a survey or received a complaint from a nearby resident. In their great wisdom, they decided, it would appear, to cut off access to all the bridges that link the trails together. Having made the decision that there is something unsafe about the bridges, perhaps due to environmental deterioration, erosion, extreme weather events. Whatever that unsafe-to-the-public insight might be, it has not been revealed to us, other than loosely oblique statements which explain nothing. When those links, the bridges, are closed off for public use, there remains simply no way that trails can be accessed.

The net effect is to shut down completely the use of the woodland ravine, a vast recreational outreach for the community, much beloved by many who have made it their second home as far as close-to-home outdoor recreation goes, for many decades. Without the approachability and welcome use of the ravine, to be able to wander at will throughout the forested areas, many people would have reason to believe that the quality of their lives has suddenly been diminished.

Certainly, we are among them. When various residents call the municipality to speak with those involved or write to them, there haven't been any satisfactory responses. In the sense that no one seems to have full authority there to disclose details of the situation, and no seems to know what further plans may be in the works to solve what is becoming a neighbourhood dilemma.

When those signs first went up it was thought that works crews would swiftly undertake repairs or whatever was thought to be necessary in remediation though there did not seem to be any problems we could detect with the condition of the bridges, built to robust standards and not yet a decade ago. Instead, nothing has been done. The signs remain posted, and the barriers refusing bridge access have remained.

That is, they would remain, our access to the bridges would be restricted, and we would have to continue our acrobatic manoeuvres to keep ducking under them to make use of the bridge, if some good soul hadn't decided finally to take it upon himself to remove them. Not entirely remove them, just dislodge them at one end of each barrier to effect normal entry.

So far, on three occasions workers have re-entered the ravine and put the barriers back in place, first with screws, then with long nails. And each time they have re-placed the barriers, some Sherwood Forest Robin Hood character has taken pains to carefully, without destroying the barriers, remove them again to permit access to the bridges.

Should that person's identity ever be revealed, ravine habitues would undoubtedly nominate him/her for a distinguishing medal of some notable type, a local hero.

The changes in our little dog are becoming more apparent. He evinces more interest in doing things. He is more invested in being out of doors, in anticipating our long walks in our nearby ravine. He no longer hesitates as has been his wont for years now, to descend the first long hill into the ravine from the street above, where our house is located.

Yesterday we had him out with us in the ravine, for the second time since his surgery. He was well covered to protect his wounded areas where the long incisions are located from being affected by the environment. An infection would not be the prescribed method for him to recover from his physical ordeal, the trauma of the operation. And nor do we want him to experience too much exposure to the sun, nor that nettles be caught in those areas that remain tender.

He is oblivious to all of this, happy to be out in the ravine with us. And no longer lingering, uncertain whether he really wants to proceed. It seems clear enough that the gross impediment to free movement that the numerous growing lipomas presented have suddenly, with their removal, freed him to move naturally and pleasurably. The back leg that had been turned outward as a result of the lipoma pressure, is now perfectly aligned, in a normal attitude.

Although we still take the precaution of picking him up at intervals to ensure he doesn't strain his weakened physical endurance, he makes it clear that he prefers going it alone, on his own sturdy little legs. Where once he wanted to be picked up, laden with lipomas, now he struggles to be set down again on terra firma.

There's a spring in his step that was absent for years. He no longer dawdles along like the little old man he seemed to be. His natural phlegmatic personality has now been enhanced by a touch of ebullience, a deep-seated appreciation for the ambiance and his place within it. His movement is now fluid and free, and he seems almost debonair at times.

Hid hind quarters and his belly, once so encased in fat deposits, now free of them, delineate the neat aspect of a well-formed and healthy little animal.

A week has now gone by since Riley's surgery and he is recuperating very nicely, we feel. Since the two drains in his leg were removed he no longer seeps as much serum tinged with blood as he did before. His little outfits are changed several times daily, and washed and hung out to dry in preparation for next use.

We are left to wonder what will happen, how it will appear to affect him when the last of his tiny opioid tablets is used and their cumulative effect wane, late this afternoon. We will keep him on his other medication for another week yet, until his stitches are removed. What are 'withdrawal' symptoms' like in a little dog, and will he experience them, we wonder? Will he evince symptoms of pain that we will be able to interpret, requiring another round of those opiates that we are informed can be addictive in human use?

It's a lovely sunny day, much nicer than yesterday when the humidity was so oppressive. Riley is beginning to assume his old routines. After breakfast, the outdoors beckons. He responds to the presence of the sun just as Button before him had, extracting huge pleasure from its warmth. Invariably he wants to go out and immerse himself in the sun.

Sniffing about, wandering the backyard, and finding comfortable places to lay about and soak up the warmth. We're aware that he must be protected from too much sun and it's a relief that he has to wear his little outfits keeping him from attempting to lick the incision sites across his stomach and his leg. Far more comfortable and preferable to wearing those clumsy, intrusive, preventive Elizabeth collars.  That coverage protects him from too great an exposure to the UAV rays.

Hot and humid again. As good a time as any for a leisurely morning stroll around our gardens. We've been housebound in a way we're not familiar with, concerned about little Riley who is nonetheless progressing very well in his recovery. We looked up the opioid medication we give him every eight hours and there's a warning that this particular drug is addictive to humans. Prescribed for dogs recovering from surgery unlikely since of their own volition they cannot obtain it. Still, one wonders if he will suffer any kind of withdrawal symptoms, expressed in ill humour. Time will tell; there's another day or two left of the tiny tablets.

He was happy enough to wander about in our wake, as we evaluated and appreciated the gardens. They are nowhere near as lovely as they usually have been in other years. The begonias which back in early July were exuberantly blooming, have suffered and are now assailed with mildew. In the backyard, Bergamot and Echinacea are in bloom as are turtleheads, phlox and Japanese anemone, and lilies as well. A few roses here and there.

And the begonias in the back representing bulbs we've stored overwinter for years are in fine shape, blooming beautifully. It is the begonias that we stuff into the urns and garden pots at the front of the house, nursery stock that was spring-purchased that are languishing. And that is a result of the overwhelming amount of rain we've had this spring and summer.

In the micro-climate of the backyard it is hotter than elsewhere and everything tends to dry out faster than in the front, and we assume that to make the difference.

The lace-cap hydrangea at the front is now in full bloom and its fragrance sweetly permeates the atmosphere. It's now the popular favourite of bees and wasps, even visited by hoverflies and moths. Some of the hostas have lost their luxurious fresh look and have begun dying back, much sooner than they should or would, we're convinced, in other years.

The gardens are still attractive, the red cut-leafed Japanese maple planted last year is beginning to put on some height. The growth of the backyard magnolia has quite surprised us, almost as much as the multiplicity of blooms it produced this spring. It almost seems as though there's a competition for blazing beauty between the older magnolia in the front and the much later one we planted in the back; both are magnificent, but the one in the back offers up additional blooms other than it's spring burst-out, through the summer months.

Well, then, relief. The stitched-in drains in our little Riley's thigh have been removed, both of them. He will continue to drain for a few days yet, sans the drains, until the wounds caused by their insertion finally heal. In fact, we've been informed the amount of body fluid mixed with blood can be expected to increase for a day or so. As it is, we change his little onesies several times daily including the 'leg' portion that covers his affected leg and absorbs most of the fluids. The technicians at the veterinarian hospital had never before seen a set-up quite like that. But it sure beats having to put one of those dreadful "Elizabethan collars" on the poor little guy's neck to keep him from licking the sutures and his incision.

We'll still refrain from taking him into the ravine for a while yet, until the wounds in his legs completely heal. We'll venture short walks and perhaps carry him part way until full recovery is complete. We prefer not to place him in a woodlands setting where a situation might arise that would contaminate the wounds. In any event, it will be weeks before he is ambulatory enough to go out for hour-long walks, and by then the stitches closing that horribly long incision from his shoulder across and down his belly will have been removed; not that he's devoid of energy. His recovery has been swift; we have to keep him from leaping about, jumping, but that hasn't been his style for years now.

We still monitor him but are nowhere as anxious as we were. He was underfoot this morning in the kitchen when I was baking cookies; he's a dreadful cadge, but chocolate chip cookies and ginger cookies are not canine fare, but meant for our young (relatively speaking) house guests. They're family, but guests all the same, and honoured as such. They may not be young in years but they're cookie monsters all the same.

When I preparing snap-beans to accompany tonight's dinner he tarried hopefully as well, on our return from the veterinary hospital. He was offered a small portion of an uncooked bean and courteously abstained; he prefers them cooked, unlike his after-dinner salad when he has raw salad vegetables.

And this really is a dog's life. This dog, in any event.