What Can I Say About Me?

So....I'm taking this web design course this semester and for the term's work, the instructor wants us to build a personal website. Okay, fine and dandy but the first assignment is to write something about yourself. She wants us to build this site on real, live, genuine content. I hate writing these profiles and bios that all these kinds of sites demand but I went for it this time. We had free rein according to the assignment brief, so I spilled my guts. Okay....I bled a little. Here's what I wrote....

A Little Personal Truth…

Well, for starters, I live in a former Danish whorehouse……and my dog had the temerity to up and die on Christmas Eve. I miss him a lot; the “clients” knocking on my door at all hours, not so much. Maybe, I should knock on wood to help make sure there won’t be a customer later on this afternoon. It really doesn’t do much for one’s self esteem to be providing that much disappointment on a regular basis.

You might wonder how I got into this situation in the first place. I’m not a retired madam seeking a career change or anything like that. I’m just an expatriate wife who happened to lease the house, a couple of years ago, when the need for suitable accommodation near Copenhagen presented itself…along with a job opportunity. I was looking for 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, and a nice expanse of counter space (for cooking). As a bonus I got more than I bargained for…and I don’t exactly mean the in-ground pool. I got a nice introduction to the neighborhood my first morning there, and one of my “neighbors” got the shock of his life when it was me who answered the door….and not who he was expecting!

My take on life skewed a little that day…..well, on my life, anyway. I came to believe that all things are possible. Any inkling of “that would never happen to me” vanished the first time I opened the door to a man who was expecting a “very nice lady from Bangkok” and got “flannel-clad matron from Canada” instead. I am now open to the possibility that….you name it….it could happen. In a couple of months, we are moving to Abu Dhabi. I am certain a wayward poppy seed, from a bagel eaten in 2006, is caught in the weave of a sweater I haven’t worn in ages. It will get me 4 years in a desert slammer. I just know it…

Kind of a pity, really, since for most of the rest of my life, I’ve been pretty good at keeping out of trouble…a couple of speeding tickets, and a little white lie here and there. Which brings me to….

The Biggest Lie I Ever Told…

In the city that I grew up in, a child had to be 5 years old by the 30th day of September in order to start school. My birthday is in November, so there would be no kindergarten for me, in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and fifty-nine. (I’m writing that out longhand so the full impact of just how long ago that is might get lost to those of you who are just skimming.) However, my mother decided that I was more than ready to start, and to give her mother (my babysitter) a break; she enrolled me in a private Catholic school close to her office. I loved it!! Being 4 years old was no handicap there, and sometimes I got to ride in the back of Mrs. McGregor-Stewart’s old Rolls Royce…..but I can’t remember why or where we would go in it. Who knows, maybe I just climbed in, uninvited, and made a general nuisance of myself.

Mom and I were bus people in those days. Not thinking green, just lacking it….which meant that after a very successful year with the nuns at The Convent of the Sacred Heart, I was told I would not be returning to my beloved school for first grade. I wouldn’t even be going to a Catholic school because the Protestant one was closer, and more convenient. In hindsight, I wondered if there might not have been a scholarship available for a down-and-out kid who could really benefit from the network of contacts an exclusive private school would offer. I would have been one of those great alumni who give back when they make it big….and at the very least, I’d probably still be a Catholic today.

So, as it happened, due to our inability to come up with the $120 required for my tuition, I was relegated to the public school system. My first day was a nightmare for me, and for my teacher, but that is a whole other story I have to save for later. Let’s just say there were some misunderstandings and adjustment issues. The important part of this story is that I was the youngest kid in my class. Everyone was already six years old or very close to it. I was new, and I was five, and being honest about my age had just earned me the title of “baby” in the class. It didn’t seem to matter that I was one hundred times better at coloring in the lines than all the rest of those kids. I got little respect….and even less when I tried to show off my times tables. Those six year olds didn't even know what they were!

Now, I’ve always been a firm believer in the idea that you can be anyone, or anything, that you want yourself to be. By the end of September 1960, I wanted to be six…so, so badly…and a birthday party would make me six…officially…..and very publicly. I would no longer be the only five year old in Miss Ferguson’s grade one clsss. I began to deliver word of mouth invitations to my new pals. It was such a long time ago that I can’t really remember the entire arc to my fable, but I do know that when pressed for details, I provided them…..along with my address. In my head, I wasn’t really fibbing because at some point I was going to try and finagle a party out of my mother. Was it really important what order I worked out the finer details?

Everything was hunky-dory, and I was the center of some positive attention for a change since mine was to be the first birthday party of the new school year. Yeah, it felt great for a while. Then, as it got closer, I admitted to myself that just because I said there was going to be a party……didn’t meant that I was going to be able to convince my mother to actually have one. The idea of approaching my mother with an “It’s too late to do anything about it now, they’re coming!” plan seemed downright idiotic. I knew she’d never go for it.

To further add to my squeamishness, the kids I’d invited started to tantalize me about what great presents they had bought. I felt the full weight of guilt as only one who has spent a year with the sisters at The Convent of the Sacred Heart can feel. There was no option but to bail and cancel the whole thing….which I did. I told each and every person that, unfortunately, the whole thing was off for a reason I can no longer remember. I have a vague recollection of some disgruntled no-longer-invitee suggesting it had all been a hoax, but fully relieved, and having wiggled my way out of the trap….I relaxed. Whew!

I’m not sure exactly how much time passed between then and the lovely Saturday afternoon that my Mom, sister, and I took a walk over to the drug store at the Bayer’s Road Shopping Center to buy some ice cream. My guess it was one or two weeks. I do remember what a perfectly gorgeous sunny day it was. I’ll never forget the cute little girl, all dressed up, with a present on her lap, sitting in a living room chair…..waiting. And most likely wondering….what kind of twilight zone she had stepped into with her pretty little patent leather shoes. My grandmother had let her in….

I remember coming in the front door, eating a Fudgsicle. I remember my grandmother telling my mother that this girl had come to the house for my “birthday party”. I remember scrambling to come up with a split second solution on the fly. I dripped chocolate from the Fudgsicle onto the toe of white sneakers. I remember trying to be cheerful and suggesting that we could have a party anyway….we had more Fudgsicles and ice cream, didn’t we!? I really tried to put a positive face on the whole sordid affair. I knew I was doomed but maybe, just maybe, a little fast talking could get me out of it.

Unfortunately, Mom wasn’t in the mood for fast talking. I really wasn’t either but guess I figured as long as my mouth was moving and I was busy grasping at straws, I wouldn’t die of mortification. I think this was the one time in my childhood that I was more terrified by what I had done, than of the wrath of my mother. She says to this day that she has never been so embarrassed in her life. I believe her. After 50 years, I can still feel that gut dropping feeling like it was yesterday even though I can’t remember that girl’s name. I can still feel the heat in my face that I felt in my cheeks when my mother (with me in tow) took the little girl home, and made me face her mother with the truth. At this point the memories fade…but Mom says that woman was mightily pissed. No kidding!

What’s kind of funny is that I don’t remember too much more of first grade. I can remember lots of things from second grade, but I’m supposing my return to class on the Monday following this little escapade was a little too traumatic for a six year old wannabe. I do remember that I could never remember much about that year at all. Must have been a rough day, that first day back…..

Have I ever lied about my age since then? Well, truth be told, I have.

The Best Dog In The Whole Wide World...Despite a Few Flaws

I'm just taking a little space to ramble some about Kenai and his life with us. I need to move on, but I miss him. Maybe writing something about him will help me to focus all these random thoughts that have been popping up in my head since he's been gone. Then when all these memories are safely in one place, I can let him go.

The first two weeks back here without Kenai have been pretty weird and lonesome, but this week has been a lot better. I contacted the vet in Svendborg, on Tuesday, about his ashes, and was told they had just come back. John took Friday off and we drove over to collect them, and bring Kenai home. His little white urn is sitting on the credenza below my window. John thinks we should have ordered him a walnut box like we had for Blazer, but at the time, I didn't really care what the urn looked like...so simple white it is. I'm half thinking it would be nice to bury his ashes under the giant cedar tree in the backyard that he loved so much, but I don`t think John wants to leave him behind. The ground is frozen, so John will likely win this one.

Going back....


Kenai came to us as a 16 week old pup from a breeder in Moncton, New Brunswick...about 2 months after our first Sheltie, Blazer had died. Blazer, who we were convinced was the best dog that ever lived, was with us for 15 years. He was born 6 months to the day before Robert. He had a lot of chronic health problems...was deaf, probably blind, was on heart pills, and only had 5 teeth left. Despite all of this, his death one sunny June afternoon was a surprise. I know, I am probably blind myself to a lot of things I don't care to see.

Anyway, I spent a lot of weepy time over poor old Blazer, and not even some visits to breeders near us in Newfoundland, made me get over him enough to even want to hold another puppy.....let alone bring one home. My sister, on the other hand was determined that we should soon get another dog and contacted Nikellin Kennels, where she had gotten her Darcy, to see if they had any pups available for adoption.


The Cormiers, who own Nikellin, breed first for show and then for puppy sales. At the time my sister called, they had 2 puppies who would have show potential if they didn't outgrow the size limitations of the breed. In a few weeks, they told her, they would know if one or both would be available. This coincided with our summer holiday to Nova Scotia.

We went to Nova Scotia in August and the Cormiers decided to sell at least one of the puppies. They would be at the Cole Harbor Place dog show that weekend and would bring the dog with them so we could have a look. That's where we first met Kenai...in the back seat of a big old sedan, parked in the Cole Harbor Place parking lot. He was 15 weeks old at the time and beginning to get that gangly look. He also looked a little suspicious, like "What the hell is going on here?"


Len Cormier wanted us to take him right then and there, but I still wasn't 100% ready. I can't remember which relative was housing us at the time but I do remember thinking that it wasn't the right time or place to bring a new puppy. I wanted to go to pick him up in Moncton closer to when we were leaving to go back home, to Newfoundland, and that's what we did. A week or so later, our dog buying committee piled into our big white Econoline van and off we went to Moncton to get our new dog. There was Robert, Carolyn, Mom, Patty, John, and myself. I anticipated arguments all the way home over who was going to hold him for the 3 hour drive. I expected there to be a lot of sharing, but for the most part I think he stayed on Mom's lap in the very back seat.

The pup spent his first days with us out at the cottage. He wasn't called Kenai then. Len Cormier called him "Newf" because he knew that's where he was heading, but we knew we wanted to change it. Calling, "Here, Newfie!" might get some unwanted attention in Newfoundland proper. He didn't get his new name until we were back home in Mount Pearl for a week or so. I remember having a hell of a time coming up with something just right, and then the kids hit the mark with "Kenai". I can still picture us sitting on the inside stairs with the dog and one of them burst out with "Kenai", and right away we all agreed. Kenai, pronounced "Keen-eye", was the name of the town where we had lived in Alaska. It's an Athabaskan Indian word that means "mouth of the river". And what a mouth he had! Never afraid to use it, either....loudly and often. Kenai had an interesting start with us.


He turned out to be lacking in some socialization skills. He freaked and barked at most everything that moved.....cars, bikes, skateboards, kids...especially kids. Kids on bikes and skateboards were particularly problematic. He barked at the neighbors if they so much as set foot in their backyards. He frightened meter readers with his implied ferocity. We really tried to teach him not to bark, but had limited success. We even got a warning from the city about a noise violation....but that next door neighbor was a crank about everything, anyway! Winning the Lotto 6/49 had done nothing for his disposition. I think Kenai knew from a very young age that he wanted to be a guard dog. Herding was okay, but guarding was way more fun! When he got older and no longer felt required to bark at every single that moved (real or imaginary) he conducted nightly perimeter checks of the yard to ensure we were all going to be safe in our beds. He was particularly attuned to the presence of cats. He never developed any appreciation for felines, at all.


Kenai grew into a beautiful dog. His full coat came in during his second year and it was spectacular. He never lost that. His coat remained full and luxurious until he died. He settled down a lot as he got to know more people, and for most of his life he loved to be with other dogs. He loved to play. He loved soccer, he loved grass rolling, and he loved to eat. Man, did he ever love to eat! His motivation for treats was so strong, I am sure we could have turned his good looks into a Beverly Hills mansion based on his train-ability. He could do anything once he figured out just what you wanted him to do for that cookie.


He wasn't a snuggly dog like his predecessor. He was independent and preferred his own space. He didn't like to be left home alone but limited his show of displeasure on those occasions to foraging in the trash for some leftovers. (If we forgot to put the trash up that is.) Kenai never got fleas, but he had to have a few ticks removed when we lived in Baku. (Thank you, Mike!). There was only one kind of dog food he wouldn't eat. I saw him spit out a piece of tomato once. Ulrik taught him how to hi-five....so an old dog can learn new tricks if he wants to. Ulrik was his soul-mate because Ulrik knew how important it was to stop at the grocery store for a full bag of treats on his way over to visit.


As Kenai got older, he kept up his appreciation for a good game of soccer and the finer treats in life, but he soured on other dogs. He was fine at the kennel when we boarded him, but in these last years our walks were designed to avoid the biggest and baddest in the neighborhood because Kenai thought he was the biggest and the baddest in the neighborhood....and he wanted to make sure all of the other dogs knew that.....just in case it wasn't obvious under that soft fluffy coat. The bigger the dog, the more excited Kenai was to let him know who ran the neighborhood. It made for some interesting encounters with German Shepherds, Boxers, and Irish Wolfhounds. No more, sniffing of your buddies allowed once that began. The vet said he was just getting older and wanted to be treated with the respect due a tribal elder. Whatever....good thing he was obedient, and ignored on command. Eventually, he ignored on his own and turned a shoulder to all that we met....pretending there was something more interesting to sniff below a bush anyway.


Today, I went out for my first walk without him. It's taken me 2 weeks back to be able to do it. I started to go a few times but I changed my mind at the last minute. I went today, and it wasn't so bad. Not near as interesting or as much fun....I wouldn't have minded wiping his dirty paws when we got home. Yes, he had become my almost constant companion over the past 5 years. We made road trips together. He was a dream to travel with and loved the new smells of different hotel rooms all across America. He was an excellent traveler and a real trooper during those times when he didn't get to come with us, and had to stay behind in a kennel. In 2009, he had to spend 5 months away from us before we moved here to Denmark, but he did it just fine. He was so adaptable that as long as he had food, lots of walks, and some companionship, his life was just fine.


We are so grateful that he was feeling good and still frisky until the day before he died. Penny and Ulrik said they were all out in the woods on the morning of the 23rd and Kenai had a great time....eating the snow, sniffing all the new smells, and walking off leash. To Kenai, that was a perfect day.

I took Blazer's passing pretty hard at the time, but the kids were young, then, and there were many more distractions in those days. These days big things happen to me in chunks...the day to day is pretty quiet, and most days are the same. The kids are older and gone onto their own lives now....and there's part of the rub, I think. That dog was my connection to those days, when we were all together under one roof. John and I moved away. The kids stayed behind...but we had the dog with us who bridged the gap from those times to these.



But, anyway......my many hours of self-analysis this month (trying to figure out why I was so tired and dismal all the time) have produced this one little kernel of truth...I might not have been as ready to let them all go when the time came to do it. As long as I still had the dog, the days when my family was all together, weren't completely over, yet. I think that's it. Couldn't have been the 2 solid weeks of gray, overcast skies, could it?


Well...maybe a little. No chance for a new puppy any time soon. John got word yesterday that the move to Abu Dhabi is about to progress. I won't take a new dog there. Kenai would have hated it, but at his age it would have been okay to just go out once in the evening for a walk, and stay in the air conditioned house when it was too hot to go out. I think I'm going to be pretty busy over the next little while, and there won't be any gray days in the Emirates, that's for sure.