Elihu Entertainment

When we were young, my brother and I read Arthur Ransome’s Swallows and Amazons and yearned to be like the adventurous children in the novel. However, as Londoners, our boating excursions were restricted to whatever was available during our annual two-week holiday at the seaside. Our experience consisted of sedate trips on pedlos, an inept expedition on a kayak inspired by the movie, Cockleshell Heroes, and one memorable occasion when a WWII duck offered rides for trippers. It wasn’t until we came to Canada that we finally discovered the joy of sailing.

Nevertheless, our voyage to Canada on the Empress of Britain provided us with a demonstration of the power of the sea, for we crossed the Atlantic in one-point-less-than-hurricane-force winds. I was violently seasick most of the time, and it was little comfort to be told that even the most seasoned members of the crew were ill on the crossing. For two days, we were instructed to stay below, and when finally allowed up top, we found a network of ropes to hold onto as we navigated the decks. The waves loomed over us like mountains. One minute, we would be struggling up a steep slope, and the next, we’d be skidding downhill, with all the deck chairs bouncing and sliding beside us. Some unwise programmer chose The Admirable Crichton for the afternoon movie, and as the shipwreck played out on screen, the curtains swayed back and forth like pendulums.  Every few minutes, another viewer would lurch out of a seat and stumble from the theatre. When we finally arrived at Montreal three days late, everyone agreed that it was an adventure to remember. However, in spite of the fact that we’d experienced an Atlantic storm, we were still novices when it came to water travel.

My husband’s youth was much more exciting. Boats are part of Hugh’s family tradition, and he can trace his family tree all the way back to Admiral Hood. Hugh’s grandfather was part-owner of the Harbinger, a clipper ship that sailed between England and Australia in the late 1800s.  Hugh’s father joined the British-India Steam Navigation Company as an officer-cadet at the age of sixteen. Later, Hugh Senior built two sailboats, the Lucky Chance and the Adamastor, the latter of which undertook one voyage that is a story in itself. In retirement, Hugh Senior preferred fishing to sailing, and traded the Adamastor in for the Optimist, a twenty-foot fiberglass clinker runabout that was perfect for setting his prawn traps around Pender Harbour.

Our daughters had the Swallows and Amazons childhood that my brother and I had longed for, for they grew up with boats.  Not only did they take trips on ‘Grandpa’s boat’, but they also enjoyed rides on the outboard Hugh used for lake fishing.  There were many excursions to Nelson Island for picnics, where the girls had to swim ashore as the dinghy was too small to hold more than two people.  Caroline and Katie also loved the smaller islands where they found shipwrecks and derelict cottages to explore.

The girls enjoyed clambering over the Adamastor when its new owner sailed it into Pender Harbour.  They also had lots of fun on the inflatable dinghy, Sunfish II, although there was one never-to-be-forgotten occasion when Hugh convinced me that I could manage river rafting on the Bonaparte River.  I tried taking Caroline for a ride down the rapids, lost control, and dumped us both  in the shallow, churning water.  Not an experience I remember fondly.  My girls were much better sailors than I was.  I was definitely more suited to being a passenger on the slow, but steady Optimist.

By the time Max came to live with us, Hugh’s parents had passed on and ‘Grandpa’s Boat’ had become our boat.  Max first laid eyes (if not paws) on the Optimist at Caulfield Cove. The boat had been moored on the Sunshine Coast, but Hugh decided to bring it down to Ioco. He bussed up to Pender Harbour, spent the night there, and set off on the Optimist early the next morning. This was the pre-cellphone era, so when I finally heard from him, he was calling on his single side-band ship-to-shore radio via Nanaimo and the sound was ghastly. However, I received the key information that the weather was OK and that I should bring the girls to Caulfield Cove by noon. The girls were excited, because the plan was for them to travel back with Hugh on the boat. We set off for West Vancouver, where we picked up my father, then drove to Caulfield to watch for the Optimist. Hugh, magnificently punctual, pulled into the dock on the dot of twelve. Max was most perplexed to see his daddy arriving via the ocean and he was highly suspicious of the floating object that had brought him there. All attempts to get Max to board were met with resistance. Finally, we gave up and Hugh came ashore for a picnic lunch. Max was much happier once his people were on shore and the food had appeared. He was even happier when some more dogs appeared on the dock, although he retreated to sulk when one of them bit him on the nose.

Once it was time for the sailors to set off, Max became anxious again. Seeing the girls follow Hugh onto the boat elicited whining and whimpers. When the boat set out to sea, Max became even more agitated. Dad and I took him into Lighthouse Park and ran him around the ten-minute trail, but he still kept looking back, his wolf mask set in a worried frown. His restless mood continued throughout the afternoon. I took Dad home, stayed for coffee, gave Max another walk, and drove home to await a call from the sailors. Max watched me guardedly the whole time. When it was time to drive out to Ioco, he was so tired that I had to coax him out the door. All that fretting had worn him out. When we reached the boat club, Hugh and the girls had already arrived and the Optimist looked cute tucked up in its new berth. Max was thrilled to see his people again, though he still regarded the boat with a wary eye. However, once we were all in the car and heading home, I noticed that he flopped down and slept peacefully. He could finally relax. His pack was all together again.

It wasn’t until June that Max had his first boat ride. He was quite happy on the drive to Ioco. He’d had his morning walk, and was content to go for a car ride with the family. However, once we reached Ioco and went down to the docks, the panicked expression reappeared. Horrors! There was the contraption that had kidnapped his people. Poor Max was scared. He cowered on the dock and flatly refused to go on board. Commands were futile. Tugging on his leash failed to move him. Finally, Hugh simply picked him up and dumped him on board. Then I held on to him so he couldn’t escape while we got underway.

By this time, I anticipated the trip becoming a nightmare, but it took all of five minutes before Landlubber Dog turned into Dog Ahoy. He settled in the stern well with his nose to the wind. He grew very excited every time a seabird skimmed past. He became outright jubilant when we went up Indian Arm and docked at Twin Islands. What a bonus! His new mode of transportation had brought him new trails to be explored. However, his sense of whoopee did not last long. There were several other dogs on the island, and Max, feeling like a hotshot because he’d mastered a new experience, was thoroughly misbehaved.  He ended up leashed, and was forced to sit beside me on the rock while the girls swam and played.   As usual, he perked up when the picnic appeared, and when it was time to leave, he hopped back onto the Optimist, took his place in the stern well, and puffed happily all the way home.

From that point on, Max became a seasoned sailor. He watched the Optimist come out of the water for its annual barnacle removal; guardedly surveyed the winch that lowered it back when the hull was clean; then, once the boat was back in the water, roared down the slope and jumped on board. He was determined to have his ride, even though it was only from the marine ways to the dock. We soon discovered, though, that Max only liked the boat if it was in motion. He wasn’t very happy when Hugh stopped to fish by the old power station. Max had inherited my queasy stomach, and he had to try really hard not to get seasick when the boat was bobbing up and down in one spot. But as long as the Optimist was taking him from A to B, he adored being a boat dog.

That summer, Max had a wonderful time. Trips up Indian Arm and picnics on Twin Islands were favourite adventures. He splashed at the water’s edge while we swam. He made friends with the RCMP officers who patrolled the area. He saw seals on the floats by Wigwam Inn, which perplexed him at first, but seemed to delight him when he realized that they could bark like dogs. During the week, the islands were deserted, so he had the freedom to run and romp to his heart’s content. However, when we went ashore at the top of the Arm, we had to leash him as we were afraid we’d lose him up the mountain. Max’s wolf genes kicked in whenever he was surrounded by wilderness. He was a dog that strongly felt the call of the wild, even though he did not have the ability to survive on his own. Those voyages on the Optimist provided a lot of excitement for a young dog. One of my diary entries from a day on the boat reads, “Home by five. Little Max wiped out.”

Yes, Max loved the Optimist. I loved it too, and have many happy memories of the dear old tub. It looked like a child’s bathtub toy. It didn’t go more than seven knots, which made for a serene ride, and it proved to be what Hugh called a ‘fishy’ boat. I was very sad when Hugh sold it in order to buy a faster boat that he could use for salmon fishing. However, the Optimist continues to feature in my Beary books, and Bertram Beary will never be allowed to sell it. The Optimist is now berthed on Nelson Island, and we wave to it whenever we go by in the new boat. Every time I see it, I imagine two pointed ears sticking up out of the stern well. Dear old Max.  Dog Ahoy!

Next:  My Family and Other Animals

Spring break brought Max’s first experience of school holidays.  He enjoyed it; I did not.  The first day, I came home from grocery shopping to find a mob of little girls roaring around the garden with Max in hot pursuit.  How cute, I thought.  How nice that they’re having fun.  Leaving them to enjoy their games, I took advantage of some time to work on the sets for the puppet show.  In the meantime, the girls’ antics including encouraging Max on the bed, letting him run through the flower garden, and making him play Mr. Dressup.  After dinner, I did some more painting, not tuning in to the fact that Max and his entourage had been getting progressively more hyper throughout the day.  When they roared in to see what I was doing, Katie dumped my paint water all over the kitchen and Max simultaneously did a runny pooh all down the hall carpet.  End of set-painting for that day.

The next morning, we awoke to another hall streaked with runny pooh.  I scrubbed and scraped for an hour, then took Max to the vet for a checkup.  General consensus:  kids-at-home = kids-having-snacks = kids-sharing-snacks-with-Max.  We came home with pills for Max’s tummy and instructions for the girls to stop sharing their loot with the dog.  However, the girls were not the only ones home and stirring things up during the holidays.  Hugh was off school too, busily catching up on gardening and never remembering to close gates and doors as he went in and out.  Result, a major panic in late afternoon when we suddenly realized that Max was nowhere to be found.  A frantic search around the neighbourhood ensued, but finally Hugh and Caroline tracked him down.  He was up the lane, having decided to visit two dogs that we walked by every morning when we started our daily outing.

After that, I wised up, abandoned the marionette projects and concentrated on activities that involved Max and the girls under my supervision.  We took some long rambles with the girls’ friends.  The woods below the George Derby Centre stretched all the way past Cariboo road and down to the Brunette River, which gave Max a wonderful run and provided the girls with fabulously imaginative adventure walks.  Deer Lake offered an exhilarating hike too, especially as rainfall had flooded the area and made sections impassible, so that we had to loop back and forth to ford the streams.  Max discovered the joy of chasing ducks through water that came right up to his armpits.

Home activities were fun as well.  Max and I played audience, while the girls organized a Barbie fashion show.  Katie and I trained Max to come to a whistle, although he was more interested in chewing on the rope that we attached to his collar in order to yard him in.  The vet had OK’d Good Boy canine chocolate drops for training treats, so after a while, Max realized that the treats tasted better than the rope, and he began to figure out that coming when called wasn’t such a bad idea.  We also introduced him to his first squeaky toys.  At first, he was hesitant about taking his loot.  He seemed overwhelmed.  However once he realized the toys were his, he was blissfully happy for the rest of the evening, chomping, squeaking and tossing to his heart’s content.  However, I could not watch him every minute of the day, and the Max-gets-snacks problem still went on when I wasn’t looking.  Sure enough, the following weekend, we awoke to another giant pooh.  I cleaned it up and took him for a walk in case there was more to come.  Then off to the vets for more pills.

It was a relief the following Tuesday when everyone went back to school.  However, Max scared the crossing guard out of her wits.  When she blew her whistle, he leapt up into the air and puffed at her enthusiastically.  I explained that he’d come to her whistle and was expecting a Good Boy.  Kate giggled all the way across the road.  However, Max soon forgot about the Good Boys, because dropping the girls at school meant we were back to walking with Edna and Brandy.  At soon as we reached Edna’s, Max heard Brandy barking inside the house, and he sat down and wagged his tail as if to say, “I’m not moving until she comes out.”  When she emerged, it was kisses galore!  The two had a great post-holiday reunion.  It was so nice to get back to the regular routine.  No more worrying about open gates, or rivers on the carpet after overdoses of popcorn and jellybeans.

As we walked, I told Edna about the trials and tribulations of the holiday and expressed relief over the fact that I no longer had to worry about the after-effects of junk food on Max’s digestive tract.  Edna listened sympathetically, but as we reached the last stretch of the walk and approached the end of the trail, she shrieked and pointed behind me.  I spun round and followed her gaze.  Max was sitting at the side of the path, his smiley best-boy-in-the-class face shining with pride under his pointed ears.  From his clenched jaw, a dead mole hung by its tail.

I looked at him sternly and told him to leave it.  He stared back innocently.  The mole remained where it was.  I offered him a Good Boy, which normally would guarantee he’d open his mouth.  He refused the trade, turning his head away from the treat.  Pendulum-like, the mole swung with him.  I tried physically to separate Max’s jaws.  It was as effective as trying to open a vice with a toothpick.

Finally, in desperation, I stared Max straight in the eye and bellowed, “Drop it!”  Max stared right back, and promptly dropped it—right down his gullet!  Then, pleased as Punch, he burped, ducked out of my reach and trotted back to play with Brandy.

To this day, Edna still reminisces about Max and the mole.  Somehow, the incident summed up his personality to perfection.  It was the first of many confrontations, but Max was happy.  He knew the score.  Max – 1; Owner – 0.  Obviously, I still had a lot to learn.

Next:  Dog Ahoy!

When our daughters, Caroline and Katie, were four and one respectively, my mother gave me a diary for Christmas. With the gift came the instruction: “You have to write down all the funny things that the children say. Otherwise, you’ll forget.” For the next twelve years, a new diary arrived every Christmas, and dutifully, I wrote up the family activities at the end of each day. How wise my mother was, and what a treasure these entries have proved to be. Every so often, I drag one of the books out and have the family in convulsions over things the girls said or did when they were young. Some of the entries are things we remember, but often as not, they are things we have completely forgotten, once again proving that Mother knows best. And, of course, the diaries have proved invaluable for the dog blog, since Max’s earliest years are all on record. What is proving particularly fascinating, though, is that, with the power of hindsight, the early entries pack a lot more significance and make me realize how bad we were at understanding our new pet.

The truth was that Max’s alpha-male genes were starting to kick in, but we weren’t picking up the signs. To us, our kindly treatment of him was simply a natural way to behave with a household pet; to Max, it was interpreted to mean he was king of the household and we were his subjects.  He liked to play rough, too.  Balls and sticks were soon in shreds, and less than four weeks after Max came to live with us, we saw the first sign of aggression. Max had had a busy day. His morning walk had been short, which annoyed him. Later, Hugh and I dropped Caroline at the skating rink, and since Katie was playing with a friend, we went on to do some grocery shopping. Throughout all this, Max waited in the car, but he was visibly put out at the changes in routine. Once we were home and had unloaded the bags of food, the combination of Max’s sulks and our guilty consciences made us take him to the park, where he promptly decided it was his prerogative to let off steam. He became thoroughly naughty and boisterous, and when another dog tired of his wham-bam style of play and growled at him, Max flattened the dog and growled back in spades. Oh well, we thought. Boys will be boys.

Lesson not learned: Boys may be boys, but when they’re bad boys, rewarding the misbehavior doesn’t make them any better.

I was still determined to socialize Max with other people, and persevered with my efforts every time an opportunity presented itself. I introduced Max to my “I’d rather be sailing” mailman who decided he had David Bowie eyes. Instead of lunching with my friend, Pauline Clitheroe, after our weekly swim, I invited her back to our house so that she could meet Max.  Pauline was a glamorous and clever friend from my teaching days.  She was godmother to both of our girls, and had been well loved by George and Beanie.  Pauline was an excellent teacher who stood no nonsense in class, and it was fun to see how Max took to her immediately, but behaved like a perfect little gentleman, shaking both paws and sitting nicely, as if he knew he was not allowed to be a class clown.  Of course, with the children, his goofy side came to the fore, and when the girls had friends to play, I let him roar around the garden with them and join in the fun. He seemed to be coping well with canine-human interactions of every variety.

Soon came the day of my parents’ golden wedding anniversary. My father, typically, insisted that nothing special needed to happen to mark the occasion. However, we all felt that Mum deserved a gold medal for her fifty years of servitude, so we set off to surprise them with home-made cards, champagne, chocs, cashews and champagne glasses. The event turned into quite the party, because Katie’s godparents, Carla and Ron, appeared almost the moment we arrived; then my brother and his wife dropped in. Max was very well behaved, though we had to leash him when the food appeared or he would have demolished the plate of scones that my mother placed on the coffee table. Carla and Ron were much-loved family friends, but they were definitely not the Squire-Western-cuddling-with-his-dogs types like my father.  Ron, who was a tall man with an imposing expression, declared Max a handsome dog, but one who needed to know his place. Throughout the visit, Ron would look sternly at Max and throw a command his way. Max seemed quite indifferent to this and merely looked the other way.  After a while, he moseyed off to lie in the corner and went to sleep. I, misguidedly, interpreted this to mean he felt so secure within the family circle that he could handle visitors of every type, even those who didn’t gush over him and tell him how cute he was. My, but I was wrong, as we were to find out later.

Lesson not learned: When he looks the other way, beware.

The next few weeks were incredibly busy. We had decided to turn our marionette hobby into a performing company. Elwoodettes Marionettes was about to be born. However, taking on gigs for money was a far cry from doing shows on a volunteer basis. For one thing, instead of writing lyrics to established songs, I now had to compose the music for our shows. Babes in the Wood had to be adapted for a small team of puppeteers, and new shows were in the process of being created. There were sets to paint, scripts to write, and most challenging of all, soundtracks to be recorded. This all had to be fitted in around the girls extra-curricular classes in musical theatre, tap, skating and gymnastics, not to mention Caroline’s figure skating tests and competitions. I was still taking singing lessons, too, from the wonderful Luigi Wood, and we were all active with Vagabond Players, volunteering with front of house. Hugh was extremely busy, teaching full-time and making puppets when he came home from school.  Max and I were walking regularly with Edna and Brandy, and on occasional weekends, we were also babysitting Spike, the resident gerbil, from Katie’s elementary-school class.  How we kept Max from eating Spike, I cannot imagine, but we did manage to return him safely to the Grade 3 class on Monday mornings, so we must have had a system that worked.

I look back on that time and wonder how we did it. We were going flat out all the time, and the odd diary entry shows that everyone was feeling the pressure. Although we would be using a friend’s sound studio for the music recordings, we were recording dialogue at home, with, what I realize now, was very primitive equipment. At one point, during a long and arduous evening, a phone call disrupted a take. Caroline answered politely, but Katie, frustrated, roared over to the phone and bellowed, “Go Away!” into the receiver. Caroline cheerily reported that the real estate agent on the other end said, “All right,” and hung up. All this activity meant that Max was ignored for long stretches of time, especially when we began the studio sessions with our old friend, Gary Kehoe, or Black Bart as he was called on his country and western CD’s. Gary, who wrote and sang the hockey song that is played at Canuck games, was great fun to work with, and it was his introduction to the world of recording that inspired me to start thinking about setting up a studio of our own. But back to Max. Our first recording session with Gary turned out to be a very long day. Max wiggled with joy when we all returned home and behaved with perfect manners all through the following week. I failed to correctly interpret his return to good-as-gold mode, but in retrospect, I realize that it was the lack of attention and stimulation that turned him back from a wild-eyed tough guy into our ho-hum husky.

Lesson not learned:  A bit of neglect and quiet time helped put Max in his place. Too much attention and security wasn’t good for an alpha male.

Katie was taking tap lessons at the Shadbolt Centre for the Arts that year, so while she was in class, I would walk Max round Deer Lake. One day, we met two boisterous water dogs who swam in the creek and came out to shake, whereupon bone-dry Max who had watched from the bank, shook vigorously as well. As the other dog owner said, “Monkey see, monkey do!”  When we’d all finished laughing, Max roared on ahead, miscalculated a jump and fell in the lake. Then he got to shake for real, but the expression on his face showed he was not impressed. The following day, he was around water again. Caroline had a skating competition in Coquitlam, so we got up early and took Katie and Max along for the ride. Once Caroline was settled at the rink, Katie and I walked Max along the bank of a surging river in the adjacent park. Max was nervous of the water, and I wondered if he was remembering falling in the lake the previous day. However, after Katie and I had watched Caroline’s competition, we went back to the car to get Max and repeated the walk with Caroline. This time round, Max displayed no nerves at all. He bounded along, causing me to be afraid that he’d land in the river and pull me in after him.  He even tried to climb a tree while pursuing a squirrel.

Lesson not learned: With Max, familiarity bred contempt. Once he’d tackled a new experience without a problem, he assumed he was invincible.

Yes, we definitely misread a lot of Max’s signals. Twenty years and a lot of professional help later, I can see the significance of the behavior described in those diary entries, but then, as everyone knows, hindsight is always 20-20.

Next: Spring Break and Veterinarian Bills – Could there be a connection?

In the days following Max’s defiant sprint after the dog in the woods, he reverted to good-as-gold, and we were back to debating whether his misbehavior was just puppy high jinks or whether he needed serious training from an outside source.  He had done very well during his visit at the George Derby Centre, and other than a lapse when he took off to tree two young raccoons on the trails, he had settled down well again.  He was as happy being leashed for a walk to the store or coffee shop as he was being taken for a romp in the woods.  He was attuned to our daily patterns, and woe betide me if I tried to send the girls back to school on their own after lunch.  Max would get his leash and tear up and down the hall with it until I gave way and said we could go too.  So although Hugh and I were still talking obedience school, some of the urgency had dissipated and we were content to roll along, guiding Max as best we could.

Three weeks after we acquired him, something happened to make February 22 a momentous day in Max’s life.  The bitter cold had continued, and on the Sunday, it had snowed, so come Monday, we were well bundled up as we set off for our morning walk.  Max was very frisky, thrilled with his introduction to snow.  After dropping the girls at school, we continued on to the Derby Woods, and he bounded about and had a wonderful frolic in the exciting new white stuff that lined the trails.  As we reached the old sports field, I saw another dog-walker on the far side of the grass.  This turned out to be a neighbor who lived near the Derby Woods.  Her name was Edna Lotocky.  The dog racing back and forth beside her was her new pet, Brandy.

Over the years, Edna and I had met many times in Robert Burnaby Park, where I walked with Beanie and she walked with her aptly named St. Bernard, Trouble. The name sprang from the fact that Edna’s son had presented the new pup to her one Christmas Day when she had twenty-two people coming for dinner. However, the name turned out to be sadly appropriate. Poor Trubby was from a puppy mill. She was only six weeks old, full of ear mites and fleas, and had lost the sight of one eye. Mind you, Trubby could easily have been christened Lucky, because she couldn’t have found a more loving and caring owner than Edna. Still, true to her name, Trubby tended to be feisty, and whenever I had met Edna in the park, she had been squished into the bushes, holding onto Trubby to make sure there were no incidents. I was aware that Trubby had passed on and that Edna had acquired Brandy, but as yet, I had not met her new dog. Judging by the way Brandy was running free, I realized that Edna had acquired a more easy-going pet this time round.

I hailed Edna and hurried across the field.  Max loped ahead, excited at the prospect of a new friend.  However, when he reached Brandy, he jammed his brakes on.   Brandy was six months older and already full grown.  Max was daunted.  He only came up to her undercarriage.  Brandy, however, had no qualms about the newcomer.  She was delighted to meet this eager new pup and started to run circles around him.  Max was still overwhelmed, because she was boisterous as well as large, but she soon won him over to play with her.   Edna and I continued our walk together, while the dogs raced about us.  They were hilarious together.  Brandy, with her long slim legs, would bound like a deer, circling around us, then charging back and forth.  It was as if she had springs on her feet.  Max, short and stubby-legged, thundered across the ground with as much deviation as a torpedo seeking its target.  Brandy would leap in the air, and low-slung Max would zoom underneath her.  By the time we finished our walk, he was exhausted.  He flopped on the lawn in front of Edna’s house and had to rest before we set off for the walk home.  When he finally got up and was ready to leave, he and Brandy kissed each other goodbye.  It was the start of a lifelong friendship.

This first meeting with Brandy made a big impact on Max.  The next day, we didn’t run into Edna on our walk and Max was visibly disappointed.  When we reached the field, he looked for Brandy and was very dejected when he failed to find her.  Then, the following day, when we met Edna again, Max was overjoyed. The two dogs frolicked so much that Max seemed relieved to go back on his leash at the end of the trails.  Once again, there were kisses when they parted.   After that, Edna and I did not leave meetings to chance.  We arranged to walk together.  Edna would wait with Brandy on her front lawn until I dropped the girls at school and crossed over to meet her.  Thus began a daily pattern, and the dogs were thrilled to set off together for their morning adventures.

Over the course of his lifetime, Max did gradually develop a circle of friends, both canine and human, but the special friend whom he loved above all others was Brandy.  He certainly showed good taste with his special pal, for Brandy was a lovely-natured dog.  She was a Heinz 57 whose breed no one could pin down, although sheepdog was in there somewhere.  That was obvious, not only from her appearance, but also from her herding instincts.  On professional days, Edna, who looked after her grandsons, would bring them along to keep Caroline and Katie company on what we jokingly referred to as forced marches.  If any of the children lagged behind, Brandy would leave Max, and zoom back to shepherd the laggards into line.  Then she would hurry back to play with Max.

They were an odd pair to have struck up such an alliance:  Max, with his wolf throwback genes, and Brandy, the sheepdog wannabe.  So devoted, and so utterly different.  He was feisty where she was friendly, suspicious where she was accepting, adventurous where she was cautious, and dominant where she was pliant.  Yet the two of them forged an alliance that stood the test of time and outweighed their friendships with any other dogs.  Lucky Max.  He’d found a home with people who were willing to cope with his challenges, and now he’d found a friend. I was lucky too, because I’d also found a wonderful friend in Edna. Many happy years of walking lay ahead.

Next:  Hindsight is always 20-20.

Max’s predecessor, Beanie, was a gentle dog.  Throughout Beanie’s life, we had a love affair with the George Derby War Veterans’ Centre, where we served as Pets and Friends volunteers through the program founded by the SPCA.  Beanie was eight years old when we began at the Derby Centre, and we continued there for five years, only stopping when she developed a heart condition that made the long outings too tiring for her.  Her time there covered the transfer period to the new facility that was built in 1987.  Beanie even got to ride on the bus and take part in moving day.  I could write a book on our experiences there and all the wonderful men we met during those years, but that’s another project.  However, some background is warranted.

The original George Derby Centre was built in 1946 as a rehabilitation centre for disabled veterans returning from the war.  Named after George Cleveland Derby, a First World War veteran who was awarded the Order of the British Empire for his patriotic and philanthropic work, the facility provided a home for veterans and assisted their return to community living.  The original centre was a fenced compound, nestled in a large tract of woodland, and comprised of a series of buildings surrounded by spacious grounds, which encompassed gardens, fields and horseshoe pits.  The buildings were connected by paved pathways, and the stroll between each one was picturesque and enjoyable.

There was an administration building, which contained a vast, high-ceilinged auditorium for special events, and a games room with full-sized snooker tables.  There was a separate crafts building with equipment for pottery, painting and weaving.  Then there were pavilions with the living quarters for the men.  These resembled army huts.  The men’s rooms, screened off by curtains, stretched along either side of a corridor that ran from one end of the building to the other.  The layout made it ideal for Pets and Friends visiting, since Beanie enjoyed a run in the woods on her way to the centre, and once there, had ample outdoors time between buildings.  The pavilions made for easy visiting too, as we could come in one door, proceed straight down to the exit door and see all the residents along the way.

We were quite the hit on our visits, because those who loved dogs were delighted to see Beanie, but others were thrilled to talk with Katie, who seemed to assume that she had acquired a vast number of additional grandfathers. Considering the indulgent way the men treated her, it wasn’t such a bad assumption.  On her third birthday, she proudly brought her new Barbie doll to show the men, and when we returned to the administration building at the end of our visit, we found her stroller decorated with Happy Birthday balloons.

Both my daughters enjoyed talking with the veterans.  Katie was refreshingly direct with them, and would begin conversations with amputees by saying, “That bad owie.”   Caroline, who was already in grade one, only got to come along on professional days, but she would roar through enthusiastically, insisting that we had to talk to everyone, even if she had to wake up the ones who were having a nap.  We referred to her as “Shake and Wake Caroline” and the staff decided she had the makings of a good nurse.

Both girls were fascinated by the craft rooms.  They tried pottery with Stan, discussed painting with Mr. Graham, and learned about weaving from Homer or Gerry, the latter, a quietly charming man who had survived being a POW in a Japanese camp.  Jimmy and Scotty were also favourites, always with candy in their pockets for the girls, cookies for Beanie, and lively anecdotes for me, although Jimmy would occasionally elicit scowls from Katie when he greeted her with a boisterous rendition of “K-k-k Katie, beautiful Katie!”  The men’s stories were as varied and fascinating as their experiences.  One handsome, upright gentleman, whom I’d assumed was only in his seventies, turned out to be a veteran of the Boer War!  Our visits were educational for me, as well as for the girls: a wealth of information from the livelier residents, and a lesson in the importance of patience and compassion from those who were not in good health or who had trouble communicating.

Over the years, our whole family got to meet the men.  My mother had been a VAD in London during the Blitz, so she was welcomed warmly when she accompanied us.  If I brought Hugh along, he would head for the snooker tables and enjoy a game with the resident pool sharks.  Glossy, black Georgina even got in on the act, coming along one Halloween when the girls and I were dressed as witches.  Beanie looked cute in her cat hat, but we needed a real feline to complete our ensembles.  The men enjoyed having a visiting cat, even though Georgina was indifferent to their attentions, being more interested in the abundance of fish tanks around the facility.

We loved the special occasions.  Sports day was a riot, with a BBQ lunch, a dance in the auditorium, an Olympic torch, and Frisbees and lawn darts taking the place of discus and javelin.  Caroline, always ready to participate, teamed up with Stan, holding his stick while he threw his dart, then returning it to him so she could take her own turn.  Having tried every event, she then volunteered to sit in the dunk tank, and swam around like a little fish every time she was knocked in.

Also great fun were the tea dances, where all the old favourites from WWII were played.  The men gallantly took turns holding Beanie so that the girls and I could dance with them, and Caroline and Katie often helped to serve the food. The girls were happy to sit with the men and supervise Beanie if I was asked to sing—except for one memorable Christmas party when Caroline decided she wanted my attention mid-number and Santa had to come to the rescue to prevent me from being distracted.  I still cherish the Santa-is-sternly-watching-you photo that one staff member took on that occasion.

The move to the new centre in 1987 was a mixed blessing.  There was no doubt that the new facility was going to provide far better personal quarters for the men, for now they would have individual rooms in a proper residence.  The downside was the loss of the vast parkland, smaller communal facilities, and a much larger number of residents.  Even though most of the men were looking forward to the move and considered the new facility long overdue, many suffered anxiety over the change, and it was sad reality that several men died during the year of the transfer.  One week, we ended up making our visit at Shaugnessey Hospital in Vancouver, because so many of our friends had been transferred there due to ill health.  It’s a mark of their strong personalities that I can still visualize those men, even after so many years:  Mr. Dundas, a thin, quiet man who always seemed pleased to see us; Lionel who said very little, but never failed to slip Katie a sweet; friendly Mr. Bell, who would engage Katie in earnest conversation; Howard, the one black resident, a sad, troubled man who never talked, but who always reached out to pat Beanie when we stopped to say hello; and John, an odd little man with a puckish face and spiky hair, who had up and down moods that made me unsure whether he wanted to see us or not, yet who always had something for Katie, as well as for Beanie.  After John died, I was informed that he had referred to Katie as his granddaughter.  There were sad times at the centre alongside the good times, and the year of the move was one of many losses.

From the perspective of a visitor with a dog, the new facility seemed busy and bustling, and locating our friends was more difficult.  Beanie, who was aging, was visibly tired at the end of our visits, especially as there were so many more residents who wanted to see her.  However, she valiantly persevered, although, as her health declined, I had to limit the time she spent there.  We continued for another two years at the new centre, but I finally had to retire her.  It was timely.  Our wonderful volunteer supervisor, Shirley Conlon, who had initially welcomed us to the centre, had now retired, and most of the men we had befriended in the early years had passed on.  However, one of our favourite veterans was still there. This was Joe, an active WWII vet who looked after the unofficial resident cat, helped out at events and always had the inside story on what was happening.  Joe was the veteran who had arranged for us to bring our early production of Babes in the Wood to the Derby Centre, and he had been in proud attendance, some years later, when we brought the show to the Shadbolt Arts Centre.  Joe and I had kept in touch, on and off, after I retired as a volunteer, and he was disappointed to hear that my new dog did not have the temperament to take over where Beanie had left off.  However, even if Max was too boisterous and unpredictable to be a Pets and Friends dog, I decided the least he could do was go round to meet Joe.

I phoned Joe to arrange our visit, not just to discuss a mutually convenient time, but also because I could no longer march through the main entrance, given that Max was not an approved visitor.  The staff at the new centre was very picky about things like that, and one bossy supervisor in particular had made it quite clear that dogs weren’t welcome on the property unless they were part of the facility’s programming.   Joe was delighted to hear we were coming, and he proceeded to plan our visit like a military operation.  The war vets were great fun that way.  Circumventing the rules and getting one up on the staff was a prime entertainment.  Whenever the fire trucks roared down 16^th Avenue, we always figured it was just one of the vets smoking in his room again, and I always got a laugh out of the notices on the bulletin boards, such as directives banning speeding in the corridors with the wheelchairs.  Since Shirley Conlon was no longer there to vouch for us, I agreed with Joe that discretion was called for.  He assured me there would be no problem as he had a corner room next to an exit that was screened from the front entrance.

On the day of our visit, I walked Katie to school, and then continued on with Max until I reached the woods.  The new hospital had been built adjacent to the former one through another land exchange, and the housing developments slated for the old grounds had not yet been started, so much of the surrounding forest was still in place.  The fields also remained, although now overgrown into rough meadows.  Below the old grounds, trails stretched down to the Freeway.  This woodland was another area that nature had reclaimed, for in the early part of the last century, houses had stood there. The trails were reminiscent of a deserted village, with the odd apple tree, building foundation or lamppost emerging from the ground cover to remind walkers of what had gone before.

It was a bitterly cold day, and I wanted to burn off some of Max’s energy before we reached the Derby Centre, so we took the long route around the trails.  We emerged from the woods at the point closest to the corner where Joe’s room was situated.  I leashed Max, avoided the driveway, and strolled across the grass.  Then I knocked on Joe’s window, and he slipped round to let us in the side door.  Joe was delighted to meet Max, and Max seemed equally delighted to make a new friend.  He settled happily in Joe’s room, probably encouraged by the fact that Joe still had the cookie box that Beanie had loved so much, not to mention the elusive smell of cat that hung in the air.  Joe assured me that the cat would stay in hiding until Max left, and he gave Max treats and made a big fuss of him.  Then Max, reverting to best-boy-in-the-class, sighed, flopped onto his side and promptly went to sleep, thus enabling me to have a cup of tea with Joe and a lovely reminisce about old times.

When Max woke up, he was still in ho-hum mode, so Joe urged me to try taking him out into the corridor so the other men could see him.   Apprehensively, I agreed, and keeping a watchful eye out for roaming staff members, we ventured forth and took Max to see some of our old friends.  To my delight, Max behaved in exemplary fashion.  All those men, and not a single cower!  Max might be racist, sexist and anxious, but obviously war veterans were exempt from his prejudices.  The men seemed delighted to see us.  Mr. Brady, another of our old favourites, sent me home with chocolates for the girls, and Murphy, who had never been that partial to dogs, beamed when we appeared.  It was a lovely afternoon.  I had a sense that Beanie was trotting along beside us, perhaps because she was so dearly remembered by the men.  So, egged on by a contingent of vets with a we-didn’t-take-on-the-Germans-just-so-we-could-wimp-out-before-a-bunch-of-government-employees attitude, we made our way through the northwest wing.  However, I didn’t want to push my luck, so once we reached the next exit door to the garden, we said our farewells and headed for home.

That afternoon with Joe is a very special and treasured memory.   Sadly, because of Max’s increasingly unpredictable nature, I was never able to make him a regular visitor at the centre, even though he had managed well on that first occasion.  Pets and Friends was not for him.  It was Beanie’s job, an activity that made her feel important and gave her a sense of purpose.  Max needed a sense of purpose too, but it wasn’t going to develop through any of the traditional programs.  However, he was going to find his niche; it was just going to take a very different turn.

Next:  A momentous day in Max’s life.

Max’s first few days with us had been deceptive.  As he’d arrived on a Monday, he was introduced to a household where three of the four humans were out during the day so that many hours were spent having quiet time while the lady of the house did chores or worked on arts projects.  He had a nice outing in the morning when we walked the girls to school and continued on for an amble in the park.  Once the girls were home, there’d be some playtime, but even that was limited as both girls took dancing and gymnastics, and Caroline was heavily involved in figure skating, so often as not, Max’s after-school activity was to hop in the car and ride along while I delivered the girls to their classes.

If he was lucky, the activity of the day was at the Totem Figure Skating Club. Then he would get a bonus walk around Queen’s Park while we waited for the session to be over.  He particularly liked the smells by the petting zoo.  Based on how well Max coped with those first few days, I’d assumed that he was going to settle down to become a best-boy-in-the-class, good-natured companion.

But then came the weekend.  Max, I discovered, was only good as gold when temptation did not fall his way.  Once all the gang was home, best-boy-in-the-class became hell-raising-class-clown-with-an-attitude.  A walk and a play didn’t tire him out; he just wanted more.  As the day wore on, he became thoroughly naughty, dumping my vase of roses, ripping up his soccer ball, jumping on the bed and chewing the dowels on the kitchen chairs.  He was so excited having everyone round all day that I had to forcibly isolate him and make him take a nap.  It was just like having a naughty toddler again.

On Sunday morning, we took Max for his first off-leash walk in the woods.  He had a wonderful time, racing around on his stubby legs and getting wild-eyed with excitement, but trying to settle him down afterwards was like trying to stop a steam engine under full throttle going down a 90% gradient.   He puffed all the way home, still emulating a steam engine.   I was merely the caboose on the other end of the leash, probably causing him to work a bit harder, but certainly not having much control over his progress.  That afternoon, Katie had a friend over to play, and between them, they got Max thoroughly over-stimulated by setting out a mini-gymkhana in the garden and encouraging him to roar around the course jumping the hurdles.   Later, he was still hyperactive, so I took him for a stroll through the George Derby Lands.  Nothing seemed to tire him out.  As long as we were up and about, he wanted action.  I was very relieved when Monday came round and we were back to the quiet routine.  However, having had a taste of whoopee, Max’s guarded observation of me had taken on a new aura.  A question hung in the air:  “When does the fun start again?”

The following weekend, some friends that we knew from Pender Harbour came to visit.  The Whittakers owned a tiny ball of fluff called Tootsie.  This little Pomeranian was not impressed with Max, but he was fascinated by her.  In the interests of canine bonding, we took them to the park together.  Max bounded all over the place, showing off, obviously trying to impress, but Tootsie decorously trotted alongside the humans and ignored him.  Once home, Max was still determined to play, so much so that we were afraid he would sit on Tootsie and squash her.  Finally, we had to place him on the far side of the living-room door, where he sat with his black nose flattened against the glass panes, the wild eyes tracking Tootsie’s every move.  It wasn’t until close to the end of the visit before Max calmed down enough that we were able to settle both dogs in the same room.

On the Sunday, during his off-leash romp in the woods, we met a lady with a small white dog.  Whether Max mistook the dog for his would-be lady love of the previous day, or whether he just wanted to make a new friend, he took off after the woman and flatly refused to come when he was called.  When I say ‘refused’, I mean ‘refused’, and not simply that he was too excited to hear me, because he looked back at me, sized up the alternatives, and then made a conscious decision to run the other way.  The owner of the other dog kept power-walking on her way, clearly contemptuous of the incompetent dog owner at her rear, and I had to jog half a mile before I could catch her and corral my misbehaved mutt.  It was quite apparent that Max was no longer getting a gold star for behavior, but it was equally apparent that I was flunking dog ownership.  I had a dog that I couldn’t train.  For the first time in all my dog-owning years, the words, ‘obedience school’, started to slip into the conversation.

Next:  A Visit to the George Derby Centre