He's a very nice fellow, someone we've known for many years as a ravine walker, once an engineer with Bell Canada and now long retired. His former dog was crotchety and getting along in age when Button and Riley were in their own deep maturity. His present dog, a Kerry-blue terrier, is a quietly, furtively, bumptious, obnoxious dog with a tendency to leap up on people, and although he hauls it off, at every opportunity it will repeat and be a general nuisance. The dog's name is Rufus and my husband has renamed him Dufus.

It's been at least twenty years since we last saw his wife out in the ravine. We'd first become acquainted with her, then her husband, and her two boys, both of whom are now local paramedics on ambulance crews. She's just undergone hip replacement surgery and with luck she'll be sufficiently improved to be able to do things she hasn't been able to manage physically for many years. We've another close ravine acquaintance whose surgery has made a mountain of difference to him. One of our long-time street neighbours has also just undergone similar surgery.

We're a community of retirees, it seems, with age and genetic inheritance taking its toll. Rufus-Dubus also takes his toll on our receptivity of his presence around little Jack and Jill. He terrorizes them. Sniffing them out assiduously at first, and then clumsily attempting to corner and mount them. Our friend hauls him off, and he repeats the performance, so in deference to Jack and Jill's well-being, we are now inclined to cut our congenial conversations short as much as possible, to enable us to move on -- and as we do, we're followed, of course, by Rufus-Dufus, who, when we pick up our two, will simply leap on us with his considerable weight, to get at each of them.

Contrast that to the large dogs we so often come upon, familiar to all of us, whom Jack and Jill are delighted to see, happy to greet and nuzzle briefly with, some of them tolerant and even inviting that contact, others preferring to avoid it, but never posing any measure of threat in the process. So, they're learning their lessons well, our two little charges. They're nonchalant about being off leash now, and move about with huge confidence, delighted no doubt to be free to indulge whatever impulse instructs them.

We're gaining confidence ourselves, less worried about some incident occurring that might contain a threat to their safety. They're always within eyesight, and when they occasionally trot too far ahead, will stand and wait when we call out to them, or return, when it's clear that's what we want of them. When, as so often happens, we stop to talk with an acquaintance, they oblige by stopping as well and patiently waiting. When they used to be on leash, Jackie would indicate his patience ebbing by pulling on Jillie's leash to drag her ahead, and we got the message.

We often consult about what I should bake on a Friday morning for Friday evening dessert. This time I thought I'd go about preparing Chelsea buns, because my husband is such a huge fan of those yeast-raised, raisin-filled treats. Sheer coincidence had him before I began, suggesting that if I was looking for something to bake, why not Chelsea buns? Perhaps it's not the least bit strange that from time to time we seem to be thinking similar thoughts.

But there are so many various types of sweet desserts that I bake for Friday night dinner, from fruit pies to cream pies, cupcakes to muffins and squares, cakes to fruit crisps, that when our thoughts come together like that it always makes an impression on me that he would pick out at random something that perfectly reflects what I'm thinking as well. On the other hand, since we've been living together rather intimately for sixty years, perhaps not that odd.

So, first thing was to prepare the dough. Softening the yeast in warmed-up-sugar-water, then slightly scalding a half-cup of milk, adding two eggs when the milk has cooled, adding the risen yeast, then a bit of salt, and finally enough flour to make a soft, pliable kneaded dough, and setting it aside to rise in a covered, oiled bowl. When an hour has passed, the dough gets rolled out to a semi-rectangular form, and smeared with butter or a good-quality margarine, then sprinkled with brown sugar, cinnamon, raisins and chopped pecans.

Rolled up, cut into sections and placed into a waiting springform pan that has itself been prepared with ingredients similar to the filling. Again it rises for an hour, and finally goes into the oven at 350-degrees Fahrenheit for a half-hour or until it's well-enough browned and sounds hollow when I knock the top.

Then turned out onto a waiting plate to await dinnertime. It's a simple enough recipe as far as ingredients go, but it is time-consuming, since there are hour-long intervals between various required procedures, but it's also fairly wholesome as a prepared food, and one that my husband particularly responds to.

We're breaking weather records this month in the Ottawa Valley. Admittedly, there has been another December in our memory in the past two decades that was green, not our usual depths of white coverage, but this year's prolonged mild spell and lack of snow is highly unusual. We've had more than our share of precipitation, but it's come down as rain, and on occasion freezing rain. Only once, about three weeks ago, did we have what we assumed would represent the first snowfall to begin the layering of the snowpack that would remain on the ground for the entire winter, and it melted in record order with following days of moderate temperatures.

Not complaining, mind, no one that we know is. And because it's been so mild, there has been increased traffic in the ravine, people wandering onto the trails drawn by how pleasant the atmosphere has been. And bringing with them new dogs, and sometimes puppies. Yesterday, for example, Jack and Jill, no longer restrained by being perpetually leashed, found an unexpected new playmate, however temporarily.

Yesterday dawned with copious rain completing what had fallen steadily throughout the night. But the rain clouds cleared in short order and we were soon comfortable with wide, blue skies and a bright, warm sun that took up the late morning and early afternoon. Then a brisk wind came up and soon afterward more clouds began to assemble, and it was clear that we'd soon be entertaining rain again. In fact, the weather forecast was spot on.

By the time we set out on our regular circuit the sun was playing peek-a-boo with light grey clouds crowding the horizon and pushing their way over our landscape. Half of our ravine walk took place mostly with the sun shining, although it doesn't penetrate all that deeply into wooded areas, even those shorn of foliage, but it was exceedingly pleasant, given the prevailing temperature. Among others we came across was a young woman walking a puppy, and our two ran briskly over to introduce themselves, rather overwhelming the puppy.

It was a four-month-old Collie, a beautiful little fellow with long white socks and a pudgy and soft-furred body who soon regained his composure and began to frolic with our two. The young woman was clearly besotted by her puppy and who could blame her, it was quite a lively, lovely little guy. Jack and Jill thought so, too, and their play became fairly rough-and-tumble. The puppy, even at four months, was sturdier and slightly larger than either of our two, and as confidence built, he became increasingly aggressive, rather alarming Jack and Jill. Because the little fellow was rough and they were tumbling.

The young woman whom we'd never before seen had been training her little guy to be obedient, to sit on command-and-reward, and wanted to begin doing the same with Jack and Jill. When she began giving orders and doling out treats she won their greedy little hearts. They weren't necessarily responding to the orders, but were certainly responding to the prospect of treats and they soon swarmed her.

When it came time to part, the puppy would have none of it and decided he'd rather troll along with us and enjoy tussling with Jack and Jill who by this time were trying to evade him. Putting the puppy on leash to encourage him to accept that they were headed in the opposite direction proved a challenge; he was quite skilled at evasion. But part we eventually did, to Jack and Jill's relief.

And then we witnessed the reverse when we came across their old pal Charlie, a large shaggy cross-breed who, whenever she sees them, makes a swift beeline for the ravine slopes as yet inaccessible to Jack and Jill, happy to wait until she relents so they can greet her by leaping all over poor Charlie.

By the time we parted again, the occasional raindrop reminded us that rain was again imminent. But as luck and an accelerated hike had it, we made it back home on the completion of our usual circuit just before the rain became seriously drenching.

That old adage that you never know what you've got until you've lost it, and another that cautions be careful what you wish for has come home to roost in Canada. We had a leader of the nation who was endowed with intelligence, integrity and a moral compass that led him to represent the country's values well. But a segment of the population representing a minority of forty percent decided his personal style did not reflect what they wanted to see, and they voted for a man whose background and personality reflected the Janus face of Stephen Harper's.

Justin Trudeau photographed in Ottawa. Photo: Norma Jean Roy

Enter the Dauphin, His Eminence Of The Perpetual Smile, Justin Trudeau whose self-esteem nothing could impair, not the fact that he is supremely unqualified to lead the nation, though his previous experience as a drama instructor in a private boys' academy did reflect his psychological root in thespian display, validated by the acclaim he was given as a pseudo-intellectual capable of holding an audience spellbound by his 'sunny ways' and the fact he inherited a name that Canadians alternately venerated or loathed, commanding huge speaking fees to augment both his vanity and his aspirations.

So beloved of the class of people who adore celebrities that they felt it appropriate Canada have one of its own sitting as office-holder of the Prime Minister of Canada. His sainted father's love of public attention along with his mother's irresistible urge to display herself in self-besotted situations to draw public attention, set the mould for their eldest son to emulate, and surpass.

Junior Trudeau and his wife have brought their self-absorbed egos to the fore, with their focus on public demonstrations of devotion to one another. Public displays of affection have not been unknown nor seen to be inappropriate in the past, but a long and lingering kiss with its undertones of passion will never be suitable for a public ceremony mourning and commemorating the sacrifices of the fallen in the name of liberty at the National Cenotaph.

And nor will professional celebrity shoots of costly jewellery-on-loan, couturier-garbed prime ministerial wives flaunting sexuality, youth and beauty to the public stage bring anything but raised eyebrows to the highest elected public office of the land. The obviously-salacious poses affected by this man and his wife for publication in a social-style magazine are more than slightly detrimental and offensive to the place they now hold in public life.

Their lack of good taste, common-sense restraint and respect for that office represents an insult to the country he claims to have the skills, intelligence and acumen to lead.

Justin Trudeau and his wife Sophie in a photo from the January 2016 issue of Vogue magazine. (Norman Jean Roy/Vogue)

He was in the care of a foster family associated with a small-dog rescue group, living in the downtown area. That's where she went, to pick up the-then-year-old. She had a thing about looking directly at a dog, to evaluate how it would respond, convincing herself that she could see into the soul of the animal and in this way predict its character. She had predicted that he would get on well with her chihuahua and toy Pomerian and her small border collie and larger Australian shepherd. And he did.

He particularly took to the border collie, a young dog whose personality was similar to its own. He was himself a Pomeranian, a white fluffball of insecurity whom someone had decided was not in each of their best interests to nurture. He might have done well with a family of one or two children, the only dog in the house on whom affection could be heaped. As it was he had to make do with the attention and nurturing he had to share among the other dogs.

He had been named by that same unknown source that had surrendered him to the rescue group, an unimaginative "Whitey" in reflection of his extravagant white haircoat. The first thing she did when she brought him home was to rename him Zoey. He didn't seem to mind, and responded happily to his new name.

Zoey found his new accommodations to his liking. They were all house dogs, and that's where they spent most of their time, although they lived in the country where it's common enough to see dogs roaming about freely on their owners' property. They had ample room to roam, but did it only when they were taken out three times daily for trail walks on the seven-acre property. Otherwise, they could be out unsupervised within a large outdoor enclosure in fine weather, or troll about close to the house when someone was outside to keep an eye on them.

Over the years other dogs were introduced to the pack, rescues that sometimes came from as far away as Nunavut; German shepherds, Malamute blends who needed homes, until the pack had grown to ten. The years passed, and there was a move to yet another rural property, this one an old farm with a heritage stone farmhouse standing on seventy acres of land and the prospect for wider-ranging trails stood before them.

There was a fence that ran along the front of the property where the house stood, stopping however, where the fields began either side of the house. The trails were behind and beyond, and that's where the pack went on their daily hikes, more loosely supervised now, permitted to range out of view at times, responding when they were called to return.

But two days ago Zoey didn't respond. And he didn't rejoin the pack. And though hours were spent on the trails calling him, there was no answer.

We had never seen the muscular little dog before, nor the young man who was with it, and when I asked if it was a Staffordshire terrier, the young man responded, no a bulldog, to our surprise. We'd never seen a bulldog that looked like that before, but this was not the typical English bulldog, we were told, this one was bred for slightly longer, less crooked legs, and a breathable snout. He hardly resembled what we were familiar with.

He was exactly the same age as Jack and Jill, 13 months, and as springy and enthusiastic as they were, but he was off leash and ours, as usual were on leash. We've never been able to convince ourselves that they would be entirely safe to be able to roam at will, fearful that it would be difficult to keep them in sight at all times, that they mightn't respond to our calls to remain close by. We'd had no reservations about such things with Button and Riley before Jack and Jill; they were off leash when they were quite young and responsive to us, though we experienced occasional frights with them several times.

Perhaps we haven't factored in the fact that we're not as young as we were back then, now approaching our 80th year, with less confidence in our own ability to react swiftly enough to extricate them from dangerous situations. In any event, the young man was extremely friendly and so was Chase, the little bulldog, multiple times heavier and larger than our two, but not overly large, so we let Jack and Jill off leash and they didn't behave too badly with Chase, and nor did Chase overwhelm them.

We walked along together for a half hour or so, in conversation with the young man, as we all watched and took pleasure in the interactions of the three dogs. And then we came across another young man we'd never before seen and his companion was a Labradoodle, a black, woolly six-month-old larger than Chase, and even more exuberant, happy to find others to play with. The two larger dogs were fairly well matched and enthusiastic about rumbling against one another, occasionally lapsing into dangerous territory, where snarling and nips began to surface, leading to their brief enforced separations.

Jack and Jill, still off leash, were leery over all the commotion, and although at times tried to engage, soon found their slight weights were no match against the two larger dogs who bowled them over repeatedly, until both of our little fellows thought it wiser to withdraw, well decorated with dry foliage sticking all over their haircoats.

Eventually, we all separated and we moved on, and we left Jack and Jill off leash, free to trot happily along the trails they're so familiar with. They did respond extremely well whenever we asked them to wait, or to return to us, always keeping well within view, and we were pleased with their behaviour. Their tendency to browse and pick up rotted bits of vegetation always elicits a 'no!', and they responded well to that, as well.

(Later in the afternoon Jillie threw up when we were travelling in the car, and there we saw -- on a towel I keep there for that very purpose -- in what her stomach had rejected a half-dozen well-preserved wasps, leaving us to wonder when, where and why she would have ingested such an obviously delectable treat.)

On our return home from our ravine perambulation, we praised them mightily, but it seemed as though they felt fairly casual about the affair, as though nothing unusual had occurred, making it a success by any measure.

A month ago we had our first taste of winter when a ten centimetre snowfall fell and covered the landscape. But then, the weather turned mild and in a few days' time the snow melted. And, unusually for the Ottawa region, we've had no snowfall since then, but for a few flurries that amounted to nothing left on the ground. At this time of year the ground is usually penetrated well by frost, and there's a good layer of snow over it which forms the basis for what's to follow.

None of that has yet occurred this year. Yes, it's been cold enough to penetrate the top layers of soil and freeze it solidly, but then a thaw occurs and we're back into that time when night-time freezing followed by day-time thawing takes place with the result being afternoon mud on the ravine trails.

We're no longer seeing an assortment of birds and plenty of them at the bird feeders. Since there's no snow there remains ample for birds to feed on in their natural foraging without being dependent on bird feeders, though we still get the doves coming around regularly, some juncos, chickadees, nuthatches, redpolls and occasionally the cardinals and hairy woodpeckers.

At the lower level feeder trays there are always crowds of squirrels. They can be depended upon to take the easy route in scrambling for food at any season of the year. Their antics provide us with plenty of amusing little scenarios as the red squirrels claim ownership of everything, challenging the black and the grey to stand up to them, which they rarely do, simply taking to awaiting their turn at the pleasure of the reds.

Last year and the year before, when the landscape was well snow-covered, we had occasional visits of rabbits to take their share of the seeds and nuts we put out, and that was always fascinating. As were the night-time and occasionally day-time visits of local raccoons. Particularly when a mother raccoon brought along her three kits and they all somehow fit themselves onto/into the tray holding the seeds and nuts.

This year, with pickings still in abundance in the broader environment, not yet covered with snow, our visitors have been predictably the squirrels, not yet any of the more exotic creatures that surround us.