Elihu Entertainment

The Cariboo section of the holiday was fun. The days passed with swimming, boating and trail riding, not to mention churning out meals for four hungry kids and keeping Max from assaulting Alfie in the campsite next door. Everything in the country seemed to go in slow motion. On the way back from a trail ride, we stopped at a farm for provisions and took twenty-five minutes to buy two lettuces.  First I had to check all the buildings until I found the owner; then I had to follow her down numerous trails to the garden where I got to pat the dog and assorted farm cats, admire all her vegetables and take appropriately serious care in selecting the two she was going to cut for me.

Max quite liked country life, but the wildlife began to impact on his naughty genes. He would go swimming with us in the lake and paddle alongside us in formation—until he saw a loon, at which point he would change course and dog-paddle determinedly in its wake. He never seemed to register the fact that water birds could elevate or dive, making his quest utterly hopeless. He started to be very misbehaved on our trail walks, and one night, he ran off up the mountain and I stood in the dwindling light, blasting my dog whistle for fifteen minutes before he returned, wild-eyed and exhausted.  I thought he was going to have a heart attack from running so hard.  We made a very slow trip back to camp, stopping every few steps so he could lie down and rest. After that, it was strictly leash walks, even though Mr. Mutinous was not impressed.

After a week at Timothy Lake, we had to strike camp and move on to our next booking.  We said our farewells to our friends in the next campsite, but Max managed to blot his copybook yet again. His idea of saying goodbye was to get into a scrap with Alfie. We had to detach them from each other’s ears and jowls and stand them in opposite corners while we finished our adieus.  After that, it was a long, hot drive to Salmon Arm.  Max hated it. We had to keep pouring water on him to cool him off.  Finally, we stopped at a Petrocan station and hosed him down. Then we bought ice creams for everyone. Max swallowed his whole, down in one gulp, his eyes bulging with greed.

We reached Pierre’s Point at four-fifteen and quailed the moment we arrived. Why had we left the Cariboo? This site was like a big city, a glorified tenement by a lake.  There were miles of sites and masses of people; no-dogs-on-beach signs, concessions and video games; radios blaring and washrooms full of mothers with screaming tots—and worst of all, trains roaring by every forty minutes.  We gave up trying to be productive and went for a swim.  Then we bought dinner at the concession and collapsed in our deck chairs to listen to the blare of portable radios and the screams of train whistles. Max’s face was eloquent: he clearly thought we had entered a madhouse and were as insane as the occupants to be there. After a ghastly night with trains running every hour, we called Peachland and arranged to move on the following day. This was definitely the right decision, for after dinner, the wind and rain started. Then there was a set-to in the adjacent campsite that caused the police to be called in.  That night, I stuffed earplugs in my ears, wrapped my head in my sweat top and took a sleeping pill.

The next day, we headed for Peachland, stopping at the Kelowna waterslides along the way.  Hugh and I bought more provisions while the kids enjoyed the slides—four teens and preteens ate an amazing amount of food—then we drove the rest of the way.  The Peachland Trailer Inn turned out to be small and quiet with manicured gardens. It was the antithesis of what we had just left, but the sense of orderliness was a little ominous. Hugh and I looked at each other and read each other’s minds:  A boy in a pup tent, three girls in the Pigloo, and Max? Maybe not quite a match made in Heaven!

Next: More disasters and another speedy exit.

Max loved the summer. He particularly enjoyed the extra visits with my parents. There were more of these than in previous years, given my father’s health. Dad was being very brave about his cancer but Mum was extremely anxious. She had high blood pressure and a minor heart condition, and she was becoming very nervous about my father’s illness. What we did not realize was that she was having a series of mini-strokes that were ultimately to lead to her dementia, so both parents were in need of care and assistance.

Max loved Nana and Gamma dearly. He was always thrilled when they arrived at our house, and visibly put out any time he came to the station to see them off and saw them swallowed up by the Skytrain. He particularly enjoyed the trips to their house in West Van, and these became increasingly frequent once we realized we could go over in the motorhome, complete with a small BBQ, and provide meals-on-wheels service using the camper kitchen as our base. Max had great fun trotting between the house, the camper and the BBQ. We became most proficient at this, serving up menus such as bacon wrapped steaks topped with asparagus, crab and béarnaise sauce combined with new potatoes and home-made fudge for dessert.

Max was delighted when it was time to set off for a proper holiday in the motorhome. This year, we had extra youngsters in tow. Caroline had her very first boyfriend and was reluctant to head out of town for a family holiday, so we said Andre could come along as long as he brought his own tent and camping gear. Katie immediately demanded equal treatment, so her friend Candace had been invited as well. Thus, we were planning a trip to the Cariboo that involved me and Hugh sleeping and cooking in the motorhome, one teenage boy in a pup tent to the right of the camper, and three giggling girls in an igloo-shaped tent (immediately christened the pigloo for the state it was usually in) on our left. Max found all this extremely entertaining. He liked Andre and approved having another guy-guy along. Candace and Katie were young, loud and shrill, so he was not so sure about them. When I saw the ears going flat and the wolf mask scowling, I knew it was time to make him sit with me and tell the girls to keep their distance.

Our first stop was Timothy Lake in the Cariboo. Once we were settled, Hugh and I took Max out in the boat and checked out the islands at the far end of the lake. Max scampered about, delighted to be free once more and we threw wood for him so he could swim. He was not so pleased when we returned to the campsite and discovered that a gigantic ten-year-old German shepherd named Alfie was in the next site. Alfie had huge ears and a calm manner, and obviously considered Max a naughty young whippersnapper. The two were tied up side by side and soon settled into a truce, though Max took great pleasure in flaunting his chew toys in front of Alfie. Needless to say, Max was most indignant when I gave Alfie one of the toys. Alfie chewed happily for the rest of the day while Max just guarded his and looked baleful.

Having a dog family next door was useful. Alfie’s owner told me where the best trails were for dog-walking, and that evening, while Hugh went fishing, the girls and I took Max for a run. The next day was great fun. We were in and out of the water all day. Katie and Candace enjoyed the pedlos and the other camp children. Caroline and Andre set off to explore the connector to the adjacent lake. Seeing them heading out in the boat reminded me of the Swallows and Amazons books my brother and I read as children. How we would have loved the opportunities that my children enjoyed. As a little London kid, I only got to read about such adventures, but my girls were both proficient little boaters.

Once the kids returned with the boat, Hugh and I took Max out and explored the river at the end of the lake. We found a minuscule isle in the second lake, so stopped to let Max swim. On the way back, we saw a mother duck with an adorable fleet of babies. I was so busy cooing that I didn’t notice the gleam in Max’s eye and before we knew it, he’d leaped overboard and was gliding through the lily pads with the smoothness and determination of a naval destroyer. Poor Max. No matter where he looked, all he found was a host of lily pads. Once he realized the ducks were impossible to catch, he swam back to the boat. Hugh and I were swamped heaving him on board. He was very pleased with himself, but we had a very wet trip back to base. As we squelched into the campsite, Alfie looked up from his chew toy. His expression said it all. What do you expect when you adopt a delinquent!

June was busting out all over, and with outdoor fun and summer weather, Max was in a mellow mood.  For all that he was a feisty dog, he enjoyed the action when the children and their friends were around. One weekend, when Hugh was away on a fishing trip, the girls had a camp-out in the garden. Max was very interested in the whole process.  While the girls set up their camp, his fluffy bottom kept disappearing inside the tent.  He was undeterred, even when sections of canvas collapsed all over him, and he would probably have stayed to sleep with them if I hadn’t insisted he come inside with me.

Suddenly feeling social, Max wanted to be friends with everyone.  When I walked Katie to the pool for school swimming classes, he shook hands with Nancy Ebert, Katie’s lovely teacher, who was also a friend from Vagabond Players.  When we returned tapes to Video Spot, he shook hands with the lady in the store. He enjoyed a daily session of pats and praise from our mailman, and he performed ‘Bang, you’re dead’ for the store clerks at Early Bird when accompanying Hugh on an errand.  When I picked up the girls from a visit at a friend’s house, Max did his tricks on the family’s front lawn.  It was a new and welcome phase. He seemed to be in love with the whole world.

One Saturday, we took him to the Foreshore Park. It was raining and we thought that we’d have the place to ourselves. However, on our arrival, we found hundreds of people, cars and canines.  It was the annual dog show for the Lower Mainland association for whippets, wolfhounds and their ilk.  Max was fascinated.  I don’t think he realized there were actually that many dogs in the world.  He didn’t know which way to look.  Finally, when we stopped to watch some whippets in the show ring, he tried a playful lunge at an amiable looking mutt who was also an onlooker.  They strutted their stuff, as if to say, “We can do that too.” Then, having drawn the attention of the people around us, he settled down to watch, satisfied that he had done his bit to participate.

Summer brought a burst of growth in the woods, so Edna and I began taking clippers on our walk so we could cut away some of the brush. Max and Brandy were confused by this activity, but after a while we noticed that they were falling back and whiffling around in the debris.  On closer inspection, we saw they were eating the salmonberries from the branches that had fallen on the trail.  Quite enterprising, except that, as the summer wore on and the weather became hotter, they became lazy and expected us to pick the berries for them.

Sadly, those summer walks were marred by an invasion of bulldozers, razing sections of the forest for future development. Masses of birds and forest creatures evacuated their homes, circling and crying the oddest cries as their nests were destroyed. Edna and I were sad to see this, but the dogs shared none of our sorrow. They were hot on the scent of all the animals that had scurried off in terror.  What a time we had, keeping them from running off into the bush. Brandy was generally obedient when told to stay, but Max could not resist the temptation. At one point, he actually came nose to nose with a rabbit.  The poor creature froze in fear, and for a moment I thought it was about to become rabbit stew. But then, to our amazement, Max froze as well. He simply didn’t know what to do with it. He stared back at the cornered bunny as if willing it to make the next move. Then, when it gathered its wits and ran, he tore off after it, darting back to check that we were waiting for him, then racing off again.  No killer instinct in this dog.  The chase was everything to him and he considered the other critters were there to play with him. Max might be naughty, but he wasn’t mean. He wasn’t called a Ho Hum Husky for nothing.

May of 1994 was dominated by trips to the ice rink in preparation for Caroline’s figure-skating competition and family time in front of the TV as the Canucks steadily made their way to the Stanley Cup Final. Max dutifully tagged along on the trips to the rink or sat at our feet while we watched hockey games. Amid all this, I was trying to make sure the girls’ homework had equal time with hockey, helping my parents with their ongoing struggle over Dad’s illness, and attempting to fit in training sessions with Max. Somewhere in between, my tired brain was still struggling with my recording system.  Needless to say, haute couture was the last thing on my mind, witness the following diary entry:

My watch, whose battery is dying, coughed feebly at six am, so I dragged myself out of bed, threw a coat over my nightie, stepped into my wellies and drove Caroline to the rink.  Caroline stared at the glasses perched on my nose and the rest of my ensemble. Her silence spoke volumes. 

My stress level even showed up in my sleep.  One night I dreamed I was transporting Caroline, her skating friends and Max (plus all the girls’ skate bags) up a never-ending hill—on a bicycle!  Awoke, not surprisingly, with a splitting headache.

Once again, the constant turmoil had a negative effect on Max’s behaviour. Walks were chaotic. He began to take off after the coyotes and go on long runabouts through the bush while Edna and I blasted on our dog whistles and bellowed to call him back. Brandy would sit demurely during these episodes, her body language expressing disapproval of her friend’s bad behaviour. On one of these occasions, Max hit gold and actually found the coyotes’ den.  He came back reeking of fish and extremely pleased with himself, although he wasn’t so happy when we got home and I hosed him down.

Edna and I went back to searching for alternate routes, and to our delight we discovered a network of new trails, including one that went right down to the Brunette river. Max and Brandy loved this walk, and would splash and play in the river, bounding in and out after sticks and roughhousing at the water’s edge. However, Brandy was more timid than Max, and no matter how Edna tried, she couldn’t get her to swim. Max was the one who finally motivated her to try.

On the May school professional day, Katie decided we should take our new motorhome to Sasamat Lake and have a picnic.  Her friend, Jennifer, came too, so we packed our lunch and set off to pick up Brandy and Edna.  Brandy was startled to see the motorhome rolling up, but she finally condescended to hop aboard when she saw it contained me and Max. Having decided she liked this new mode of transportation, she promptly took over, sat between me and Edna, growled at Max and refused to let him sit up front.  Amazingly, Max took this treatment docilely and padded back to sit with the girls. Brandy obviously had special status in his life—or it might have been merely the fact that the girls had snacks for the trip.

When we arrived, we hiked around the lake. Brandy, who had never been there before, was wary of so much water. However, Max became the canine equivalent of the jock in a Speedo showing off at the pool.  He leapt in and out of the lake and took every opportunity to demonstrate his prowess.  He kept swimming far out from shore, which frustrated Brandy as she liked to be with him.  Finally, she ventured further out, fell into a deep spot and found to her surprise that she could swim, albeit with a rather panicky dog paddle.  From then on, any time we visited the water, Brandy would plunge in and do her frantic splash step while Max performed his stately battleship glide. As for Max, he seemed very proud that he’d taught his friend to swim.  He wasn’t an Alpha male for nothing.

According to my diaries, the two challenges that dominated the last part of April that year were conquering my 8-track recording system and keeping my naughty dog in line. Max was so unpredictable.  One day, he’d be good on our walk in spite of meeting new dogs and spotting a coyote.  The next, he’d go walkabout on the trails and refuse to co-operate. He behaved impeccably while being pet-sat by my parents on the North Shore, topping off his gold star by trotting round Lighthouse Park with me and Dad without so much as a woof at the West Vancouver dogs.  But the very next day, on his own territory, he promptly got into a scrap with Harley, the dog he’d challenged a couple of weeks before.

Once again, Edna and I headed for the lower, less-frequented trails in the hope of dodging such encounters.  On the plus side, on one of these walks, Edna found Max’s collar where he’d lost it in the bush, but on the downside, there was always the risk of coming across the coyotes. We tried taking different routes to keep Max off guard, although this backfired on us one day when he plunged into the bush, lost his sense of direction and had a panic attack. For a tough guy, he could be a real baby at times. It took the two of us several minutes of pats and soothing talk to calm him down.  Max was actually quite a nervous dog, being easily startled and frightened of loud noises.  Once when Hugh and the girls were watching hockey on TV, they broke into hoots and cheers as the Canucks scored. Poor Max slunk off to the deck, ears back, head down and his wolf mask signaling bewilderment and distress.

But of all his traits, the one that made him most difficult to train was his stubborn refusal to accept that I was ‘the master’.  He wanted so much to call the shots.  One day, I worked with him after dinner. He went through his paces nicely, and then it was time to practise retrieving. At this point, we hit an impasse over the tennis ball.  He chased it part way, then stopped, abandoned the idea of retrieving it, came back and looked at the cookie in my hand.  When I told him he wouldn’t get the cookie until he fetched the ball, he lay down and glowered at me.  I promptly sat on the steps, told him he knew what he had to do and stared back at him.  After a few moments, he burped and looked at me for a reaction.  Seeing none, he tried to ignore me.  He looked off into the distance, glancing back periodically out of the corner of his eye to see if I was still watching him. The stand-off lasted almost five minutes.  Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore.  He got up, the mutinous scowl still on his face, fetched the ball, and threw it at my feet.  Victory at last, but Gary Gibson was definitely right. Naughty Max was more dog than most!

The Easter break had been great fun, but it was back to school for everyone, including me.  Right around this time, Hugh and I decided to get serious about the soundtracks for our marionette shows, so we had gone to Annex and invested in some good recording equipment. We came home from our shopping trip $4000 poorer and with enough manuals to make me feel as if I was back at university.  It took me two months of intensive practice, amid phone and onsite tutorials, to learn the system. Max, resigned to spending his days hanging out in the music room while Mummy struggled to conquer her new creative tool, found a comfortable spot in the corner and claimed it as his own.

However, boredom was setting in, and it soon became apparent that Max needed to go back to school too.  His nose was out of joint at my preoccupation with my sound equipment, and his annoyance began to manifest on our walks.  For the first time, he charged at a leashed dog and got into a scrap—and was naughty and unrepentant afterwards. Once home, I put him in a long down, and he scowled mutinously the whole time. He was also becoming very possessive about his toys and treats, sometimes carrying his chew toy throughout an entire walk rather than leaving it behind when it was time to go. Often, he would simply find treasure along the way. Once he cracked up everyone who saw us by walking around the block with a McDonald’s chip container wrapped, muzzle-like, around his nose. Tennis balls frequently accompanied us home, and soccer balls too, even though it was obvious that he was struggling to get his jaw hooked onto them. And woe betide anyone who tried to get his loot away from him.

Given Max’s rebellious mood, Edna and I started walking the less-populated lower George Derby Land trails to avoid running into other walkers. These trails were lovely in the spring. Triliums, bleeding hearts and wild forget-me-nots abounded, along with ferns, fiddleheads and curly ground cover.  Max could run his little legs off there, and there was less danger of an incident.  But to my frustration, even here, Max found trouble, one day getting a scent of a coyote and taking off through the bush. When he finally responded to my shouts and whistles, he wheezed his way back, utterly exhausted, and we discovered he’d managed to lose his collar during his escapade.

I forged on with my sound project, but realized I had to take breaks in the afternoon and give Max some extra training walks. These proved a mixed blessing, however.  Max loved doing his reverses, and sitting and staying. He glowed with enthusiasm and went through his routines like a little circus horse. However, from the corner of his eye, he was always looking for anything that would provide some extra excitement. This was usually found in the form of the neighbourhood cats, and several times, I nearly dislocated my shoulder holding him back after he’d spotted a wandering moggy.  I became very conscious of watching my dog as we walked, since I could tell from the set of his ears whether he’d sighted anything of interest. But one day, this stratagem backfired on me dramatically.  As we turned into our driveway, I was watching Max like a hawk so he couldn’t didn’t take me off guard. I was wearing a Tilly hat with a wide brim, and with my head down, I did not notice that in manoeuvering around our parked car, I had gone too close to the overhang of our bay window.  The next thing I remember, I was lying on my back with a very bewildered Max standing over me licking my face. I had knocked myself out cold. Talk about going flat out for my dog.