The Addiction Grows

From the tee on our local 15th hole, looking out towards the incredible fall colors of the trees and Norman!

It has been one year.

One year since we goofed around on a golf course with Lynn and Miki and broke 2 golf clubs and tore something in Alistair’s arm and we laughed and drank some bevvies and won the Most Honest Team award at the local pond hockey golf tournament.

The day our obsession with golf began.

Alistair, having just made par

In that year we’ve practiced, we’ve learned, we’ve watched professionals and we’ve actually improved!

I’ve played in 3 golf tournaments and didn’t completely embarrass myself in any of them.

My team-mates have been wonderfully supportive and encouraging (addicts always hang around enablers, remember) and in the Missoula tournament I subbed in at the last minute we even used my drive much of the time in a ‘best-ball’ format.

Little girl with her Glacier Ice Rink golf challenge team-mates and the bar-car drivers. Cheers!

Thanks Mitch, Tom and Brett for a fun day and thanks, Mike for not being able to attend.

And thanks, Tom, again for asking me to join in this year’s pond hockey golf tournament a week ago.

I played with Tom, his dad and his father-in-law… 2 guys in their 70s getting out, hitting balls, laughing and enjoying a great day together. We had some spectacular shots on the Marshmallow Drive hole and my drive at the mandatory Happy Gilmore Drive Hole made the local newspaper.

Tom, nailing that marshmallow!

Seeley Swan Pathfinder… glad they captioned this

We have created back-yard practice ranges in both Bismarck and Seeley Lake.

Alistair has large round hay bales stacked up with a tarp covering them. He drives into them or works on pitching over top of them.

Fyfe’s Driving & Pitching Range

We both work on chipping into round black grain buckets and I can work on pitching across the back yard here in Montana.

Its been such a kick seeing little improvements as we play.

Like, not having to take a second drive once in 18 holes.

BOOM!

Or not swinging-and-missing… I honestly haven’t done that in a couple of weeks now!

And we continue to laugh with each other and talk about the game and listen to Spirit of UB point out Subarus on the highway or hear Spirit of Loki say, in her gravelly voice, “Lets DO this thing!”

Ball finding is a highlight, even if we’re mavericks about it.

What sign?

We’ve learned that the ultimate in ball-finding is after a tournament. I mean, its a no-brainer when you think about it but this is our first season and our faces light up as we discover these things, whipping the ball grabber out of my bag, almost skipping to the creeks. Even if we play crappy golf its still a win if we end up ahead on the ball count.

We’ve met a lot of new people and wave at each other when we recognize golf carts or golf styles. Or my outfits.

I love my golf wardrobe.

Even more so now that Victoria’s Secret makes a cute golf skort!

My VS skort… need to get it in black as well…

We’ve enjoyed following the PGA, learning different styles of play and watching players hit their stride, like Rory McIlroy and Billy Horshel. Its so exciting right now with the Ryder Cup being one week away! Its in Scotland this year and the European team is strong.

They have the young Victor Dubuisson from France, who our ferret, Phillipa is in love with. Phillipa and Calypso are French and they constantly debate the play of Dubuisson and the Italian Molinari brothers with Luigi… our Italian ferret.

Calypso and Luigi… talking Dubuisson vs Molinari

Phillipa loves Dubuisson’s red pants, his goatee and his accent. Personally, I think he’s an excellent player who would do well on the PGA alongside other Euro greats like McIlroy, Rose, Garcia and GMac.

I love loving this game.

Loving the game, ready to tee off!

I’ve learned it is the perfect outlet for me when my head is full of a million other things. When Alistair is in Bismarck I prefer to play alone rather than with everyone who invites me along. It is, perhaps, the physical version of writing in my journal… a release.

It is coming in quite handy right now as I worry about our little Loki.

Snoring in my lap as I write this blog

Loki woke up with what we call an Acute Eye a couple of mornings ago.

It wasn’t a typical red-eye or soreness. This was a hugely swollen globe with thickened, red eyelids, some drainage and, for the first time, pain.

She swiped and pawed at it as much as she could if I wasn’t holding her. Thankfully I had some meds for inflammation and eye ointment but I’m not 100% certain we are going to save this eye.

Not that she needs it, being mostly blind, but I do think she perceives light. I’d also just like to avoid surgery altogether in this slightly high-risk senior girl.

Sleep-chewing on her friend, Porter’s toy this summer

The specialists are on board and I got stronger eye meds yesterday in Missoula. The swelling is gone, as is the discomfort. She and I will hit the road once more this year to Great Falls bright and early tomorrow morning to see about keeping the eye.

Which is why I will go outside soon to our gorgeous local golf course and I will hit balls.

Managed a par on the par 4 10th hole even!

And maybe I’ll make par and maybe I’ll make birdie or maybe I’ll even swing-and-miss.

I don’t care. I want to clear my mind and make it open for tomorrow so I can be a stronger, better Step-Gammy for Loki.

Alistair is in Bismarck so I’ll play alone and hopefully nobody will invite me to play today.

Hopefully I will swing well.

Hopefully the Ryder Cup is as exciting as the ferrets and we are hoping.

Hopefully Loki will keep her eye.

And hopefully golf will continue to be a fun passion for Alistair and I. A torn medial meniscus couldn’t stop him swinging golf clubs this summer so I foresee a lot of golf in our futures.

24 hours post-op for medial meniscus repair…

And a lot of practicing.

And learning.

And colorful skorts and gloves.

And laughing.

Branching out, playing at the Ranch Club in Missoula

Clearing our minds out at the Ranch Club

So I’ve Written This Book…

My first novel!!!

I’ve been busy this past winter and spring.

I wrote and published a book.

I focused. I researched. I researched some more.

And more.

I drank coffee and tea and corrected and edited and shared with only a handful of people but I sat down and wrote a book.

The dogs during a snowy driveway walk last winter

It helped that the snow never stopped coming down for weeks.

The walls of snow lining the driveway were taller than all of the dogs.

I would plow and shovel in the mornings and write in the afternoons.

It wasn’t like I could play golf.

Or do much of anything outside, really.

Then it got super cold and the big tractor gelled up and the batteries died in the trucks and Loki wouldn’t go outside to piddle and my eyes hurt in the wind and it was painful to breathe and I wasn’t loving the snow as much for a few days but it eventually passed.

Hey, Winter, you’re number one!

I actually loved having the time to write.

To create characters and their families and places in time.

To allow these individuals to learn and react and create a world reacting along with them.

I have always loved writing.

I have kept a journal since I was 8 years old.

I don’t write in it every day and there are gaps over the years where maybe I didn’t have a blank journal to write in or I forgot to bring one along on a trip but for the most part, the last 34 years of my life are pretty well recorded.

The Collection

Complete with the odd plane ticket or concert ticket stub or something special to remember.

My journal has been my best friend many times over the years.

I tell it anything. And everything.

It doesn’t judge me and it doesn’t ask questions.

It doesn’t offer any advice or tell me my thoughts are inappropriate or wrong.

It also doesn’t tell me I’m correct about things or that I’m doing something the right way.

my current journal…love the aloha theme

It just offers me space to share what is going on in my head and in my mind whenever I need to.

Alistair has instructions to burn or publish the collection if I die before him.

What is left of my Dana, Paula and May series

I started writing books when I was 8 years old, as well.

My “Dana, Paula and May” series followed 3 young women around as they solved crimes and wore fancy dresses.

I illustrated these books and my third grade teacher allowed me to put them alongside the real books in the library area of our classroom.

I was lucky to have a teacher who nurtured me and my creativity like that.

The same teacher encouraged me to get the whole class involved in a play I wrote. Something about a prince being granted three wishes.

I cast the play and we practiced it and then we performed it on stage for the rest of the school.

My mom even came in and taught us all how to do The Hustle for the dance-party section of the play.

Man, I wish we had digital cameras back then.

I kept writing.

Not just the journal but some poems and monologues.

My high school drama teacher was also our librarian and she would suggest literature for me to read and we would discuss stories together.

She let me put a monologue on stage for people to watch.

I was lucky to have another teacher believe in me and my zany ideas and fantasies and dreams.

I know my imagination and creation of characters has driven some people nuts.

Like the whole Rhonda thing…

Rhonda Alyssa Koftinoff Fyfe… in my purse

(Rest assured, I will tell Rhonda’s story here but that’s for another time…)

And the singing ferrets and dancing cats and know-it-all Spaniels and the mixed breed, UB who has to comment about every Subaru on the road.

My imagination knows no bounds but I do know when to reign it in.

Or, I mostly have that figured out.

Its just that there is so much going on in my mind that I have to write it down or create it or video it.

This is probably why I don’t sleep much.

I always slept walked and talked as a kid but the insomnia didn’t start until I was 8 years old.

That was a huge year for me.

Our family moved from Vancouver where I was in love with school and ballet.

I was ready for toe shoes and the fast track to being a professional dancer. I still miss it.

For some reason when we moved to the small town of Grand Forks my brain tweaked and I stopped sleeping and my parents worried and my creativity took off.

I embrace it now and know how to sort of manage the sleep thing. Sort of. When I started sleep walking again last year and woke up outside of our cabin in the middle of a campground I realized stress from the clinic was taking over and my creative side was MIA.

So I closed the clinic.

And I wrote a book.

The first one…

I’m so freaking excited its not even funny.

Lost and Found in Missing Lake is a teen/young adult fictional story about a 15 year-old and his dad and stepmom and their small town in Montana.

Luke and his dad want to get serious about running their sled dogs.

Jackie, the stepmom, is a disillusioned veterinarian (a bit on the nose, I’ll admit); Luke helps her out a lot and together they meet some amazing individuals. This is where a bit of fun fantasy kicks in but I won’t spoil it for you.

Luke deals with a new school, having to make new friends, acne, driving and all of the emotional issues of adolescence and he shares it with the reader.

I miss him and his friends and I honestly can’t wait to write more about them. And Tabitha.

I self published because I got bored waiting for agents to respond to my queries.

Every book on writing suggests you should submit to no less than 50 and more likely 250 agents before one will accept your work.

I submitted to 10.

I waited week after week to hear back and finally spent some serious time researching and editing and re-editing and editing some more and getting my friends and hubby to edit and found a great website to help me publish my book.

I’m pumped!

I’m setting up book signings.

I’m getting copies to good friends and people who I want to read my story.

Its a bit scary at times because this is from my imagination… its very personal.

And now its very real and in print and available through all Amazon outlets.

So now its all about the marketing, which is also why I’m writing about it here.

If you read it and you like it, please say so.

Or, get on Amazon and comment on it there. That’s how the book will get more promotion and more people will get to read about Luke and his cool dogs and his hippie English teacher and their sharing sessions and learn a bit of veterinary medicine and discover some amazing creatures as well.

Alistair, Dona, Gary, Whitney, Julie, Joshua, Lindsay and Andrea were my test audiences and sources of encouragement and laughter. Thanks, Gang.

And thanks, Mr.Tournemille and Ms.Cooke for letting me be me… as crazy as ‘me’ is.

Harry-a-woo-woo

Harry goofing around

Harry is our Alaskan Husky. We think.

I mean, its quite obvious he is mostly a husky but there could be something else in there.

Something that makes him wary of people and shy around boisterous children.

Something that causes him to be stand-offish or run back into the dog kennel when there are loud noises or strange situations.

Something that makes him bend his head and move in the most unusual of canine ways.

Something that allows him to harmonize with the wolves who used to freely run the forest behind our house.

Like, maybe he’s got a bit of wolf in him?

maybe just a little bit of wolf?

Whatever he is, he is part of our family thanks to a telephone call from one of the technicians at vet school at the very end of third year. I had the truck packed, the cats in their crates and was just about to embark on the 8 hour journey back to Bismarck when I answered the phone.

“Tanya…. its Robyn. Harry is scheduled to be euthanized at 11 o’clock this morning…”

I paused for a second.

“Can you change that to a neuter?”

“YES, YES, I’ll do everything I can. Give us until about 1 o’clock and you can come get him!”

All of the technicians and third year students knew Harry and 3 other dogs because they were our Medical Exercise dogs.

Which means we practiced on them.

Harry and Mummy hiking the mountains of Montana

Not surgeries or painful things but generally every joint site was shaved and they all had circles on bare skin patches where allergy testing was done.

You can certainly have your opinions on live-animal labs and I’m not saying it was ideal. These Med Ex dogs had it a lot better than some of the animals used for study purposes. We could choose to be conscientious observers and not handle particular animals for particular learning purposes. Lets just say the only hands-on lab I skipped was the chicken one where things didn’t end well for the chickens.

The Med Ex dogs did serve us all well, though. It is one thing to read about hitting a pulsating vein on a moving, fuzzy, warm target versus a plastic model.

I wouldn’t want to say to my first few clients, “yeah, I should be able to do this… I read about it a few times.”

Our beautiful boy

How on Earth could I justify leaving Harry to be put to sleep after he gave us a year of his veins, his joints, his skin, his retinae, his ears, and pretty much every other body part you can imagine?

These Med Ex dogs were generally culled sled dogs… meaning their sled dog breeders didn’t want them. The school was somehow connected with some northern Canadian sled dog peeps and at the beginning of 3rd year, every year, a few students would head to the Greyhound station (how ironic) and wait for whatever and whoever to be unloaded in kennels.

Harry was one of ours that year.

The idea was that, out of 72 students, 4 would fall in love with the dogs and they would all be adopted out and live with their student owners, even by Christmas.

Lightning was lucky. So was Thelma. But Harry?

Not so much.

Harry in his favorite environment- the Montana winterscape

It certainly wasn’t his looks. Harry is a gorgeous Husky with perky ears, kind eyes and a stunning, full coat.

It was more his… quirks.

His unwillingness to be house-trained.

His incessant “woo woo’s” that can be deafening when he really wants to get your attention.

And his spinning.

Harry most likely was tethered at his sled dog kennel, which isn’t a bad thing. The dogs can get in and out of the dog boxes, on top of the boxes, and can run in full circles in their pen area.

Some huskies, like Harry, can be a bit neurotic about it and they will only spin in one direction.

In Harry’s case, its to the left.

Always.

Taking a break from circling

It doesn’t matter if he is walking on a leash or squatting to take a poop, the boy has to circle to his left while doing it.

He even runs around the house to the left.

Once. Once he spun one circle to the right when he first moved to Montana. I figured he was trying to unwind but as soon as he did it he stopped and looked so terribly confused that I was relieved when he went back to pulling Louies.

He may not be a very good house dog but he’s an excellent hiking and snow-shoeing companion.

Snow shoeing with the dogs- Harry loves wintertime!

He will follow little UB off on trails when UB needs some extra protection and he often will hike immediately behind me.

I always feel safe when he’s there. I don’t know if he’s doing it to watch me or herd me or if he just needs to know where I am.

If Casey isn’t around then he’s up for some individual loving.

Harry getting some 1 on 1 loving from Dad

He will slowly walk up to us and close his eyes at half-mast as he leans in for some scritches and kisses.

These times with our old friend are pretty magical.

In the winter his warm coat is so nice to lean into and he looks at us with such loving, dewey eyes that our hearts just melt.

Private cuddles with Mummy

Its a special feeling knowing that this maybe-part-wolf has allowed himself to be cuddly and sweet with us.

Its a strange feeling when he is howling with his brethren in the backcountry.

We don’t hear them much anymore but for the first several years I would hear Harry harmonizing with an incredible howl as he faced the forest.

Casey sits there and says ‘woof’ once or twice.

Cleo barks every now and then and then looks at Casey, as if to say, “What the heck are they saying to each other?”

More cuddles in the mountains with Harry

Adding to the fact he is ‘different’, Harry is the only one who got caught in a leg-hold trap that was set illegally too close to our home a couple of winters ago.

It belonged to a neighbor who seemed to feel pretty bad about it.

I didn’t make a big deal about it because I got my big boy home. Casey, Cleo and UB all told me something was up, barking at me and then running to the trees… then racing back to bark at me some more and running to the trees again…and again… I was splitting wood when I finally realized they were trying to tell me something. And Harry wasn’t there.

Hiking in snow past my knees I called to Harry and he called back. He called me to him.

I found him lying still (thank goodness) with his forelimb caught in a trap.

My stomach fell.

We’re lovers, not fighters and I don’t know the first thing about traps. I don’t, personally think much of trapping and I think hunting would be more fair if you gave the deer a gun but its Montana and I don’t make waves unless I have to.

Harry, Cleo and Mummy… hiking again

The only neighbors who were home rapidly came to Harry’s rescue (thank-you Sharon and Randy!) and our good boy didn’t struggle or resist at any time. He didn’t break anything and he has no lasting wounds. Luckily the other dogs alerted me and luckily we found him. Or, he told me where to find him.

Harry is getting older like the rest of us on the Fyfe Farm.

His knees aren’t so great but then neither are his Dad’s. Alistair has to have his torn medial meniscus taken care of next week.

I think we are privileged that this wolf-dog with strange mannerisms and a loud, non-stop WOO WOO that begins the minute he sees us and his circles to the left and his shedding and his inability to live indoors and his affection for Casey even though Casey mows him over half the time chooses to stay with us. Even with relatives so close by.

I worry hunters will think he’s a wolf. That’s difficult stuff to talk about in these parts. So Harry wears bright collars and thankfully doesn’t stray.

It was lucky for Harry when Robyn called me that morning before I left Saskatoon.

I think we are even luckier to be able to share his world…. and his Woo Woo’s.

Harry having a bit of a chuckle with Dad in the sunshine

A Neighborly View

Making hay

I had the opportunity to revisit what being neighborly is all about again on my most recent trip back to Bismarck.

I’ve had to go back twice within the space of 4 weeks to have 2 crowns created and then placed. One trip was by car. The other was by plane.

the Bismarck herd

My seat-mate on the United flight out of Missoula was an interesting guy. Initially, I didn’t talk with him, preferring to stick my nose in my Sudoku book and read all about Jane Goodall in the in-flight magazine. Also, his travelling companion had THAT child on her lap.

You know the one.

The 2 year old who screams in the gate area. Then screams as they board the plane. Don’t forget the wailing during takeoff and then the incessant screaming during most of the flight.

It seemed best to let ‘Keith’ help his sister with all of that.

But then the screaming turned into mild burbling and the plane began its initial descent.

I started laughing, which Keith noticed.

“I’m laughing because the last time I was on a United flight headed for Denver we hit some massive turbulence and the drunk lady next to me woke up screaming and grabbing at me,” I said.

And so began a very neighborly discussion.

Keith, it turned out, is an intelligent guy. He studies corn and ways to make stronger crops grow in different climates and soils. He lives in Iowa (go figure) and travels all over to study and share what he learns about corn.

Then we talked corn sex.

Which was interesting. Weird, but interesting.

I blushed when I saw our corn rows in Bismarck… knowing about male parts and all…

ND garden corn… the male parts aren’t showing

Part of my timing on that trip back was also to help Alistair with the hay.

We generally purchase large round bales to feed the horses but we also have a small 5 acre field that we put up ourselves.

some of the gang

Haymaking is both science and art.

I knew nothing of this having grown up in an ice rink, living in cities most of my life but I have come to respect the knowledge, patience, timing and work that goes into making good hay.

good hay on the ground, nice and dry

You watch the weather report for days, knowing you need 4 or 5 days in a row without rain.

You check moisture in the mornings and humidity in the afternoon because you only want dry hay heating up in your hay barn and you don’t want mold.

You cut the hay, letting it lay in parallel long rows of pale green with the occasional fleck of purple alfalfa peeking through.

You check for stems, you twist to see when it breaks and you curse at the rodent mounds that bung up your swather.

When the stars align, its time to bale.

Alistair. Baling.

Our new neighbor was eager to get on the baling bandwagon this year. They have just moved in this summer and he fully admits he knows nothing about farming but he’s super keen to learn. We told him how the neighbors on his other side all share the equipment and the labor with us- its what we have all done since 1998 and many hands make for light work.

And laughter.

And shared sweat and a common purpose to get the hay from our lands into our barns to feed our horses.

the ND herd going for a run

New Neighbor’s wife was away but he said he’d be there at 1:30 to help. He said he’s like a machine once he gets going on a task and that he wouldn’t eat or drink until the job was done.

So, 1:30 the next day we got our jeans and sunblock on and Alistair started turning the parallel rows into neat rectangular bundles of dried nutrition. It hadn’t seen a speck of rain. It is good hay.

One of many loads

I started loading up the trailer by myself because, as it turned out, New Neighbor locked himself out of his house and had to drive all the way back into town for his spare keys.

By the time he got back, the other neighbor had spotted us and joined the team.

Howard is a lifetime farmer who has helped us with our hay just about every year. Alistair helps him, too and we share equipment and labor and that’s just how it is done.

There is nothing like seeing a truck and trailer pull into your field when you are baling. Even if only one man jumps out, it creates within you the happiest of feelings, knowing one more set of hands is there.

being neighborly

We got into the peaceful routine of lifting, stacking, driving and unloading only to stack again in our hot, dusty barns.

New Neighbor was sort of getting the hang of it.

Sort of.

He whined a bit that Alistair had the easy job of driving the tractor, pulling the baler.

I didn’t tell him that Alistair would have a kink in his neck for 2 days from watching behind him and that he would cough up dust for about a week afterwards.

I didn’t tell him how much our Ford tractor cost, or how fiddly the baler is when he whined some more seeing Howard take a turn.

Random bale by the road

New Neighbor was no machine.

“I don’t know how old you guys are, but I’m really feeling being 30 years old,” he announced during one of his many sit-down-on-the-bales-and-guzzle-water-that-I-brought-catching-his-breath-breaks.

“I’m 55 and I’m feeling it,” Alistair said.

“I’m 41 and I’m doing okay,” I offered.

waiting to be picked up

I mean, you are and you aren’t okay.

There are moments when you wonder what a heart attack really feels like.

Moments when you think you kind of might want to die, actually.

But you keep going and you hop out of the truck and you lift another bale while Howard takes a moment to organize and stack what is already on the trailer.

Howard didn’t bother telling New Neighbor that he was in his mid-60s.

Granted, the guys usually let me drive the air conditioned trucks because I am a bit of a little girl but I still got out and hauled bales and stacked and sometimes I just had the windows open because I felt bad the guys didn’t have AC.

Pretty girl…

Farming is tough work and its usually done on hot, dry days. But you just suck it up and do it.

Because its your land and they’re your horses and its free feed that you don’t have to buy and it hasn’t been rained on and, damnit, it needs to get done.

Pretty mouths to feed.

We did New Neighbor’s field first and then we started on our field.

Howard’s wife joined the team when she got home from work. She brought lemonade because she’s done this with all of us since 1998 and she is a good woman.

We reminisced about when their daughters and my stepkids and the original neighbors in New Neighbor’s house would all show up with water jugs and bale hooks and goggles and same-old-farm-shirts and gloves and work ethic and we would work each other’s fields for hours and days.

We talked about how the kids are all doing now and how Kathy is looking forward to retirement.

Happy to smile, even when we’re working our butts off

We stacked. Sweat beaded on our bodies. We unloaded.

We didn’t finish our own field that evening but got going on it in the cool of the morning the next day.

Early morning before it gets too hot.

New Neighbor had to go to Fargo so it was just Alistair and I.

Howard desperately wanted to help but it was his one day of the week he watches his 18-month old grand-daughter.

He still came over so we could meet the adorable little girl who looks so much like her mother it made my heart break.

Howard’s daughter died a few weeks after she gave birth to the little one, which was the one thing nobody talked about.

It didn’t seem neighborly.

watching our neighbor

Tears mixed with sweat as I watched this tough farmer and his grand-daughter walk back to his farm in the warm morning sunshine.

There were a lot of unspoken memories shared as we heaved hay bales onto trailers and stacked them high into the barns.

Because that’s how it is on the farm and every year its the same thing.

Even if everything is different.

And we are lucky to have good neighbors, even the keener who struggled to keep up.

the view down Friendship Trail

Our driveway is honestly called Friendship Trail.

We didn’t name it that.

We were the first New Neighbors on the block way back when.

And so, after two long hot days our barn is once again full of sweet smelling hay and we’ve reconnected with our neighbors and Alistair’s arms were dragging on the ground and we feel good but tired after such hard work.

My view of my husband for 2 days

Meaningful work.

To quote the Rankin Family, ‘the hay… the hay is finally in.’

a good exhaustion

Cleopatra Cassiopeia Carrie Bradshaw Houdini Diamond Fyfe

The Princess

We weren’t in the market for a new dog. It was 2005, I had finished vet school and was working full-time at a clinic in Bismarck.

And, Casey and Harry were really enough of a canine handful back in their youth.

But we usually aren’t looking for a new pet when another addition arrives.

Cleo trying to look like Mummy, with their similar dark curly locks and a cute hat

The clinic I worked at had the unfortunate contract with Animal Control to put down the dogs deemed unadoptable.

Aggressive, ferocious dogs.

Dogs with injuries so severe it was inhumane to keep them alive without an owner claiming them.

And sometimes, dogs who had just overstayed their welcome.

I was there that morning when the Animal Control officers came in the back door with this bouncing, tail-wagging, eager, fluffy black and white female spaniel.

Cleo, this winter in Montana

“She’s aggressive. They’ll never find her a home. She might have Springer Rage,” was all he said.

But I caught the eye of the female officer hanging back and there were tears there.

“How long has she been there,” asked my boss, with the spaniel standing up on her back legs, reaching to him with her front paws.

“3 days,” said Animal Control. “But this morning when I approached her cage she growled at me and you know, we’re full right now.”

The spaniel continued to run around the treatment area greeting the other veterinarians and technicians who had gathered. Another vet and I started to do a basic exam.

She was in good shape with clean teeth and ears and toe nails that weren’t too long. She was super friendly and started whipping out her tricks, like flopping over on her side, standing up and walking a little on her back legs towards us and sitting when asked to. No collar. No microchip.

My boss signed the intake form but as soon as the door shut behind the officers he put his face down to the spaniel’s and said, “we can’t put her down, she’s lovely.”

Winter Cleo

Surprise and relief washed over me because this is the same boss who once told me I had to toughen-up when it came to euthanasias.

I had to start to do the drop-off ones where I didn’t even know if the person dropping the animal off was its owner.

Pets I had never met before.

Pets whose histories I was supposed to ignore as I watched the light leave their eyes.

The same boss who once told me I couldn’t save every animal.

I had responded with, “I can try.”

So the friendly black and white love bug got to live in our isolation ward at the clinic for a week, making sure she didn’t break out in full Cujo mode. She never once growled at any of us and she was handled by the entire staff.

I started visiting her a bit more and told Alistair about her.

He came to visit and left with a dog. He named her Cleopatra.

Cleopatra and Daddy in 2006 in Bismarck

She went home with him and immediately leapt up into the cab of the tractor, never leaving his side.

There’s that one rule: donate your reproductive organs at the door and get along. And she did and she does.

She never chased the cats and she was perfectly house trained.

Cleo immediately bonded with her Daddy.

Riding Steve, the Ranger, with Daddy, one of Cleo’s favorite activities

But she slowly bonded with me as well and I will admit, it was fun having a dog inside the house again. Maybe not the hairs, but she fit into our household just perfectly.

With a bit of time Cleo started to develop her looks and affectations.

You know when she is rolling her eyes at you. She usually sighs when she is doing it.

The Look… by Cleopatra Fyfe

Her voice is a southern drawl… think Blanche Dubois, with a slight lisp.

When we moved to Montana all 3 of the dogs thrived. There is something about having a forest for your backyard.

The boys chased deer but Cleo was never into that.

She must have been trained by someone because she suddenly stood on perfect point one time my husband had a sports channel on and they were doing bird calls with their kazoo thingies. She pointed beautifully at the TV and remained there like a statue, almost in a trance. Her hunting skills are wasted on us- we’re lovers not fighters.

Cleopatra’s hunting skills are much more advanced than ours

Her middle names have come from her quirky behaviors.

And her freckles.

Her adorable face is speckled with black dots. Her entire body is when she’s shaved but generally you only see the nose.

I have a bunch of freckles on my arms and we joke that one looks like the constellation Cassiopeia.

Cleo liked that name so its now one of hers.

Well-groomed Cleo with Mummy… what you can’t see is the ribbon she tore out of the other side of her head

The Carrie Bradshaw thing… if she’s in bed with you, shoes or slippers will somehow be there when you wake up. Or if you’re visiting in the living room, shoes will be brought forth. How can you not love a girl with that kind of passion for shoes?!

As for Houdini, I came home from work one winter night to have Cleo greet me on the driveway. The boys were still inside the locked kennel.

It didn’t take long to figure it out once I saw the snow load and the bare roof.

“Mummy, are you up for some shoveling?”

Diamond… well, she picked that one herself because diamonds are beautiful, rare and special. Just like Cleo.

Two clever and classy gals, my Nan and Cleopatra at the Dog Days of Summer (photo by Gary Kyrouac)

And she is clever.

One of the times when Alistair was trying to get UB to stop barking at a grizzly bear a few feet away the other dogs all came charging in.

Its the only time we’ve seen ferocity out of Casey, with his hackles up, foaming at the mouth.

Harry was somewhere, spinning circles in the distance, making his woo-woo sounds even though Alistair doesn’t remember actually seeing him.

Cleo was probably back at the house thinking, “I’m not getting involved in that. That’s stupid. I’m going to call Mummy at her clinic. Now, where is that telephone?”

Cleo loved being the shop dog over the past few years when I brought her to work.

Lynnie and Cleo… bath time again!

Sometimes she got the spa treatment from her best friend, Lynnie.

Sometimes she would have special visitors come to chat and they’d end up petting her the entire time.

Fireman Frank has an unworldly love of dogs and Cleo had him wrapped around her furry paws.

Cleo and one of her BFFs, Fireman Frank

Other times she would just play with Mummy and Lynnie.

I love you, Lynnie! Shhhh… don’t tell Mummy about the treat with the Easy Cheese on it!

She was wonderful with other dogs and was fine when we had to crate her when it was time for surgeries or appointments with dogs or cats who maybe didn’t want to see her. She adored a box full of Schipperke puppies who were just a week old. Mind you, she claims that her uterus was “ripped untimely” from her body so maybe there was some maternal instinct there.

Cleo wanted to have a special cap just like Mummy at the clinic

On extra special days at the clinic, though, she would see Matt, the UPS driver.

It wasn’t the biscuits because she doesn’t go ape with our farm delivery UPS guy.

Matt was different. Cleo even leapt up into the cab and the back of his truck on several occasions.

“I love you, Matt!”

So there’s our aggressive, needs-to-be-euthanized dog. Doing her thing standing up on her legs, which is one of the tricks that saved her life. We don’t know how old she is but she hasn’t started to slow down at all. She likes to sleep and snuggle with me when Alistair is gone as part of the Usual Suspects (Loki, UB, Cleo, Mulder and Sport).

Cleo likes to help finish my scrambled eggs if I accidentally make too much.

She likes to watch me clean and feed the guinea pigs in the mornings, her ears perking when they whistle and tweet.

But she also likes sleeping outside with Casey and Harry and I think the 3 of them are a fun unit, even if she only occasionally plays with them outside. She’s usually off looking for a good spot to dig a hole, or a creek to romp in, or horse poop to eat, or someone to stand up against.

Cleo and her boys with something extra special to sniff

Aggression isn’t always aggression. Dogs growl for all sorts of reasons and I’m pretty sure Cleo was scared and lonely. She was obviously well-trained in many ways and I’m certain she was loved.

It saddens me only to think that a little girl or a cute older couple were her original owners but I would hope they believe she went to loving arms with loving hearts with a huge back yard and buddies of all species.

And lots of shoes.

Snowshoeing with Daddy in Montana

Standing up against the snow walls with Mummy after the heavy snow this past winter

The only Fyfe who has brought home a trout in Montana. Granted, it was frozen but you have to give her credit!

Blirl-wind

There is no other way to describe the past 4 weeks for me.

A whirlwind. A blur.

A blirlwind.

Enjoying a real Canadian Caesar

In 4 weeks I have spent close to 50 hours on my ass driving or passengering. I’ve gone to British Columbia and back. I’ve gone to Bismarck and back. I’ve done several drives to Missoula and back.

UB and Loki did the big trips with me, charming every soul they met along the way.

Well, maybe not the new neighbor dogs in Bismarck just yet but they seem like nice dogs themselves.

I spent days in 3 time zones, attended 2 days of the Montana veterinary medical conference, played in a fun golf tournament as a last-minute sub and didn’t totally embarrass myself, made a Canada Day video with 2 of our ferrets that is worth friending me on facebook just to see and I even made my first birdie playing with Alistair here in Seeley Lake.

Little girl last-minute subbing with the boys at a ridiculously fun golf tournament

We hosted friends from Australia on their own blirlwind vacation and did all-things-Montana in one day.

This includes:

Tanya’s Big Breakfast

Horseback Riding

Ben, Cal on Jake, Alistair, Bax on Spyder and me

Shooting Pool

Exploring the back forest in Steve, our Ranger.

Susan and Bax in Steve!!

Canoeing on and swimming in Salmon Lake.

Lewis & Clark and friend?

More pool. More wine. More vodka.

Steak supper at the coolest steakhouse around.

Tabitha and I at Lindey’s Prime Steakhouse!

Maybe a bit more wine.

And a great bonfire with toasted marshmallows to cap off the busiest of days.

wrapping up the day Montana-style

The very next day was the trek to Bismarck with UB and Loki. As we crossed the state line the smoke from fires up in Canada’s Northwest Territory filled the skies.

The fires in Canada are pretty bad this year, owing to some drought-like conditions in the northern regions.

We are faring a bit better in Montana thanks to the late heavy rains we had in the spring.

Nobody in Montana complains much about late snow and rain.

Or, they might, but they don’t mean it.

We lived through the nation’s worst fire the first summer we moved here.

Where highways had tanks and National Guardsmen letting people in to check their homes and then get back out of the evacuation zone.

Where the smell of smoke permeated our homes, our clothes, our pets, our cars.

Where everything important was packed in bags and cat and dog crates lined every hallway in case we had to leave in an instant… we take fire season and its rules pretty seriously.

Our Bismarck garden

Back in Bismarck I got to help tend our lovely little garden that my husband diligently plans each year.

The soil is amazing. Its rich and moist and almost black. It is life in a tangible form.

Something to be said about 10-year-old topsoil thanks to our beautiful herd there.

Shilo, Fumie, their mom, Raven and Katie in Bismarck

We dined at some of our favorite restaurants and once again marveled at the growth and vibrancy of the capital city of one of the busiest states in the nation.

A new supermarket and impressive-looking high school are going up close to our farm in addition to a Bed, Bath & Beyond and rumors of a Costco.

Loki was exhausted after a couple of days of remembering things with her nose and ears. She ran around with a confidence ill-suited to a blind dog but UB, Gampy and I made sure to keep her in check.

Loki snooze

The first step in my need for dental crowns occurred.

I haven’t had dental work done since I was a kid so it was a bit strange but it went well. My rubber tongue and slippery cheeks went away in time for us to hit the East 40 steakhouse that night.

Its odd to think that I’m at an age now where I might have things in my body that are fake.

Like these 2 temporary crowns.

They are the only fake things about me.

The only things that my DNA didn’t code for- things I didn’t begin my journey with.

Granted, I’m missing my tonsils but its not like they put fake ones in their place.

When did the warranty on my body start running out?

I didn’t have much time to ponder this as we were busy attending a beautiful outdoor wedding on the 12th of July.

Lovely wedding party with the groom, Ben, waiting for his bride, Rebecca

It was a pretty hip, relaxed ceremony. The pastor told the congregation we all sounded like a “bunch of white people”. He was right so we chimed in with musical quotes he threw at us and all cheered as if we were at a hockey game.

Rebecca was radiant.

Our good friend, Brad and his daughter Rebecca

I’ve known her since she was a little girl.

Her parents were part of the team that introduced Alistair and I back in 1994.

I coached young Rebecca and she was my Tinkerbell one season and we’ve watched her grow up into an outstanding young woman. She seems to have found an equally cool partner in Ben.

Rebecca and Ben taking a moment to pose with me

It all came full-circle because the 12th of July is the day that Alistair and I eloped 18 years ago in Watford City.

Eighteen. Years.

18 years ago… Gareth, Alistair and I

He was on call but they let him turn the pager off for 2 hours.

We got a couple of bouquets made for Whitney and I, arranged for our friend, Gretchen to take the kids for a couple of hours afterwards, called a friend in from the rodeo where her husband was the emcee and her daughter was barrel racing and we eloped.

Whitney, Alistair and I when we eloped 18 years ago

18 years is something.

I can’t quite believe its been that long. Its been a crazy, fun, amazing, hilarious, love-filled journey.

I wasn’t a veterinarian then.

We didn’t play golf back then.

We had 2 cats, 1 dog and 1 ferret, as well as about 10 horses, not to mention 2 young kids.

It was wonderful to share our special, private day with Rebecca and Ben and their families.

Our old friends, Star and Maggie

Rebecca’s parents now have Star and Maggie and we quickly visited them, too. Star was Alistair’s Arabian stallion when I first met him. Maggie is Star’s Pinto grand-daughter.

Full circle, once again.

I’m not a nostalgic person by nature but having this time right now and the most amazing of house/pet sitters in Lynn and Jessi and Carson, I was able to reconnect with special people.

Connecting in ways that facebook doesn’t allow… like a real hug from a real friend.

Merielle, Anna, Susan, Uncle Pete, Aunty Wendy, Brad, Janet, Rebecca, Dallas, Anne, Luba, Mom, Dad and Nan…. special people who shared their parents, partners and pets with me…. Edna, Mike, Angel, Chelsea, Chelsea’s mom, Porter, Peaches, Michael, Donna, Calypso, Ben, Cal, Bax and Tabitha.

Susan and I… we spent one week together as teenagers at the Terry Fox Youth Center with Encounters with Canada and have been lifelong friends ever since.

A blirlwind.

But I’m back home and back on the golf course and I’ve watched Alistair leave once more for Bismarck.

By plane this time.

Which is as unnerving as watching him drive down the driveway.

For 7 years I’ve watched him leave, knowing I’ll see him again in 2 weeks.

But you never really know, right?

Alistair, doing what we do

A passenger plane is shot down over the Ukraine and nobody is talking about it.

You never know.

The fact we appreciate the fleetingness of time, particularly as medical doctors, is maybe why we put so much attention on living in the Now.

We go to Hawaii, we get golf memberships, we buy Steve and Norman to make our adventures that much more fun.

Making the most of each day. Double Arrow Golf Course

We enjoy big breakfasts and wonderful suppers and wine and scotch in the hot tub in the evening. We play with the animals and laugh and sing and make videos with them.

We get outside to ride, canoe, bonfire, hike or play golf as much as we can because you never really know.

Maybe that’s part of why we’re still able to laugh and love after 20 years together.

My marriage. My adventures. My life. My blirlwind.

Going Home

I often wonder what to say when asked where I am from.

The temptation to say “outer space” passes and I drift to the many places I have called Home.

I have lived in 2 prefectures, 2 states and 2 provinces within 3 countries. If you’ve known me awhile, you know you should always write my address in pencil.

Beautiful Grand Forks, BC

Last week I had the opportunity to travel to the peaceful Canadian town most people would consider my Hometown-Grand Forks, BC.

Its a charming town with clean streets, tidy yards and clotheslines in backyards.

There’s not a lot to the half-Kootenay, half-Okanagan town and what is there hasn’t changed much in the 15 years since I’ve spent any real time there.

My old high school is right where I left it.

Grand Forks Secondary School

I never took notice of the gradually swooping hillsides that formed the backdrop to GFSS when I went to school there. Even when we had PE outside or we were sitting on the grass beneath the big trees out front I just didn’t pay attention.

I was too busy being a teenager.

Too busy talking about what mixed tapes we had made, what we were wearing to the next dance, who was seeing who and how impossibly good looking George Michael was.

The corner store by our old house is still there, too.

West End was a quick bike ride away, where Mom would send us to get lemon lime pop, Big Turk chocolate bars and salt & vinegar chips. They had a freezer full of Freezies which were cherished during the hot, dry summers.

You could drop your bike on the ground or prop it up on its kickstand and not worry about it being stolen.

The ice rink where I spent countless hours learning to spin, trace, check, jump, fall and get back up again with a smile is still on the Trans-Canada that cuts through town.

The Grand Forks ice arena, home of the Border Bruins junior hockey team!

As I buzzed by I saw it was renamed after someone I didn’t recognize. That normally happens if someone from town makes the NHL but Dad said this guy was a former mayor. Who knew?

I probably spent more time in that building than in my own house. I knew that place inside-out. I could flip the breakers so we could skate in the dark (it sounds crazy but it was pretty cool), I knew where the arena guys kept the keys to get into the precariously suspended music box and I knew how to rig the Pac Man video game so you could play for free.

The house my folks built is still there on the corner but it has a different family living in it now.

So many memories of porch swings and snow forts and milkshakes and “meet you at the tracks” came back to me. They didn’t overwhelm me in a flood of emotions and tears. They were just there and the corners of my mouth turned upwards as I sighed to my traveling companions, telling them Mummy grew up here.

Loki and UB came along on our little adventure to Canada and were excellent travel buddies.

It is a fascinating thing, traveling with dogs. I never before experienced the kind of camaraderie you get at rest stops when you have friends attached to you by a leash.

Everyone wants to talk and visit and share stories about their dogs. Everyone wants to pet them and ask questions about silver eyes and what possible breed he could be and gosh, he’s a happy fella and point out their 5 Pomeranians on the dash board of their RV.

Loki and UB soaked it up.

They also soaked up the attention from my Nan, who was one of the main people I came to see.

Nan and Loki

It occurred to me that Nan and Loki have some things in common- they are both adorable, stylish little old ladies who still have a fair bit of spunk in them despite bodies that might not work quite the way they want them to.

They are both a bit on the stubborn side, which is part of their charm.

And they are both reliant on the people they live with.

UB and Nan

Nan lives with my parents now and Loki lives with us. Neither of them can stay on their own for very long, which is probably frustrating for Nan.

Yet she keeps her chin up, plays solitaire (or, patience, as she calls it), likes to dress up and wear her hats and go out and tell stories in her lovely British accent.

Mom, Nan and I outside the Borscht Bowl, downtown Grand Forks

I didn’t spend much time downtown but we did get some good Russian food.

Grand Forks and several towns in the Kootenays were partly settled by the Doukhobors who are a peace-loving, communally-minded, garden-growing group that got booted out of Russia for refusing to bear arms.

My dad’s family were Doukhobors. You can imagine how thrilled the aunties were when my brother chose the Canadian military for his career… “It says Koftinoff on a military uniform. Oh, hospity, hospity…”

Nobody thought anything of roll call with names like Perehudoff, Kazakoff, Podovinikoff, Horkoff, Pereverezoff, Dovedoff, Chursinoff, Semenoff, Strukoff, Popoff, Kalmakov,and Malloff. Throw in a few Lloyds, Wiebes and Gustafsons and there you have GFSS back in the day.

Dad and I enjoying some borscht and voreniki at the Borscht Bowl

Some of my closest friends are back in Grand Forks. I had wonderful visits with 2 of them and was thrilled to see them doing so well and being so happy with their lives, their homes and their partners.

Tan and Anna

Merielle and Tan

They embraced and loved UB and Loki. Porter, the pug shared her toys with them. The 3 dogs became instant BFFs and settled into fun little routines with each other.

UB, Porter and Loki and the ever-popular squeaky squirrel

Friendships are meaning more and more to me as I hurtle through middle age. Even if 40 is the new 30, its important to cultivate and nourish these friendships and relationships that are special and fun. As we have all changed and grown, our friendships have remained.

Driving through town another part of my past came to the forefront of my mind as we passed teachers out on picket lines.

My dad honked his horn in support of their cause.

You don’t see this kind of thing in the US.

I’m not completely familiar with all of the details surrounding the current strike but I know the students are going to be the ones who lose out if the teachers don’t get some backing.

I saw 2 of my former high school teachers (who eventually became parents of talented skaters I coached) on the picket lines and sat with them, catching up on our lives. Even though this wasn’t my battle, I didn’t mind sitting there, watching cars and trucks go by, people waving and honking their support.

Canada is a land of the socially and environmentally aware. You aren’t persecuted for your beliefs or your differences, which is why the Doukhobors came here decades ago.

I’m not saying its perfect or that everyone is as accepted as they’d like but people and politicians seem more willing to have discussions that aren’t all about blaming each other or living in the past; not every argument boils down to the constitution, bibles and guns.

In Canada, when you lock your keys in the truck and you call BCAA via AAA, the guy comes and unlocks your door and then you all sit down and share a beer and you make a new friend.

With my OCD on vacation I locked my keys in the truck. No worries, a new friend to the rescue!

You talk about hockey and golf and recycling and you learn that Quebec is still trying to separate. Who knew?

But you can be Far Too Canadian, as the band, Spirit of the West sings.

Which is why I keep returning Home. To this home, in Montana, which just happens to be my Home du jour.

John Denver’s lovely voice rang through my head as I thought about it- Going home to a place (s)he’d never been before. All of the homes I have lived in will feel like that to me if and when I return to them.

Its because with each year and each new address I become a slightly different person with changing realities and new perspectives.

The 16 year-old who moved to Chilliwack for college is different from the brave 19 year-old who flew to Tokyo to teach English. She’s a heck of a lot different from the 21 year-old who moved to then-sleepy Watford City with her boyfriend of just a few months.

Alistair, Mitch and I, 1994

And the 28 year-old who moved to Saskatchewan for vet school is different from the one who tries to keep her farm in Montana going when Alistair isn’t there despite never-ending snowstorms, hot-water tank woes, and being in the middle of nowhere.

Seeley Lake sunset

Even if Grand Forks stays the same, I see it differently each time I return.

I still don’t know what to say when asked where my Home is. Maybe its where I happen to cuddle up to Loki, UB, Sport, Mulder and Cooper and where my husband comes back to every 2 weeks.

Maybe its just where I am.

The Truth About Small Town Veterinarians… at least, this one

I had some pretty high hopes when I opened Seeley Swan Veterinary in our tiny little town several years ago.

I figured it would be something akin to the lives of James, Siegfried and Tristan, without the cows. I was game.

There are things, though, that weren’t quite the same about the community I lived in and the foggy, rainy one where All Creatures took place.

After our first 2 years here, for example, I was the only doctor of any kind. My husband had tried working here but there wasn’t enough volume to keep him busy.

You would think that would have been a clue but I kept going. Remember, I was game!

I knew I was in for something whenever a client would glance left and right then ask me in a serious voice if I was just like a real doctor… “like, I can ask or tell you anything”….

Had I wanted to listen to human problems I would have applied to med school. I wanted to play with cats and dogs and ponies and ferrets.

And yet…

“I have this lump. Down there,” said a client as he started to unbutton his jeans. Apparently the lump didn’t affect his “performance” (his words).

Uh…

I had a few people show me their rotten teeth, asking whether or not I thought they should see a dentist.

I think, in general, if you’re asking your veterinarian about your lumps and smelly teeth then, yes, you should see someone who deals with those things regularly.

There are some amazing perks to being the only vet in a close-knit community. Like my buddy, Rocky, who I would see walking on the streets with his folks as well as in my clinic.

And Spike, the happiest pittie in the world, who would bound into the clinic and sit looking up at me like this every single time he came in.

I miss our Dog Days of Summer celebrations that incorporated a walkathon fundraiser for the local shelters, agility trials and dog shows.

Knowing just about everyone allows for some fun events, like puppy parties, holiday open houses, summer celebrations and school or Brownies tours.

I miss those things.

The smiles on kindergarten faces as they rode my hydraulic tilt surgery table.

The looks of astonishment on first or second graders as I showed them roundworms preserved in a little jar of clear fluid.

The wide-eyed Brownies viewing radiographs of a little dog’s bladder that was full of obvious stones.

The joy, relief and love on the faces of grown-ups as they picked up their healthy seniors after another anesthetic procedure went very well.

I miss going to my cute little clinic in Big Red, my ’96 Dodge Ram with the vet box and humungous snow blade on the front, waving at every one, knowing everyone’s story.

I would tell Alistair something about just about every car on the road as he would take me to lunch.

“That’s so-and-so, who has one of the Great Danes.”

“Oh, that’s the couple whose older lab we just had to say goodbye to.”

“Whoop, don’t get too close to that one, he’ll be coming home from his noon bender. He has that nice lab I like so much.”

I miss the cuddles, the kisses, the Easy Cheese fan club and the satisfaction at being able to provide care in a cozy, safe environment when needed.

I even miss the beautiful goodbyes we were able to provide, often on a lovely rug with an angel on it.

Many tears were shed and many wonderful stories were shared during those quiet, tender visits.

For Hunter, Chessie, Snooksie, Tilly, Chase, Kodiak, Cybil, Scooter, Thelma, Koopie and Andi.

And so many more.

I am glad I was there when I was there.

But I’m glad I made the choice to close my little vet clinic last fall. The decision took me 2 years to make because I was proud of what we had built. I wasn’t ready to accept defeat.

Despite the no-pays and no-shows.

But they started to really add up.

Which is one of the things I don’t miss.

“I don’t have any money.”

5 words that I heard way too often, especially after we had gone over the amount individuals would owe after a planned spay or neuter with vaccinations.

I hand over your animal in excellent condition, having had a safe, warm surgery done where you won’t even see the sutures after, where they were taken care of as if they were my own pet, and you say you can’t pay?

And its a very small town where I have to see these people regularly.

“That’s the guy who stiffed me for 2 cat spays and won’t return our phone calls.”

“We can’t eat there- 2 of the servers are in Collections.”

“One of the waitresses there owes me a hundred bucks and has disconnected her phones.”

I had a lot of good folks make payments and I always appreciated their efforts. I know that accidents happen and you aren’t always prepared.

Many people are eager to tell me I was too nice.

Or a soft touch.

Or a sucker.

But then how would you handle it, knowing you were perfectly capable of saving an innocent animal’s life even if the owners were out of work?

Or they were rip-roaring drunk, slurring about their beloved dog they just drove over? (That one was a classic- as I stabilized the big lovable pooch and took radiographs of his beaten-up chest, the ‘dad’ fell down on my waiting room floor as he was making a phone call to get a ride.) The dog survived after a week in the big city. Never saw dollar one from them, myself.

I would hear about almost everything animal-related in our tiny town and it started to tear me apart.

Like the lovely lab puppy who I dropped everything for when the owner brought him in for a ‘dangling leg’. X-rays showed a clean femur fracture. Easy fix, especially on a young, vibrant, healthy pup.

Only I didn’t do orthopedic work here so we sent him off to the big city.

Apparently they could never come to terms on payment plans ahead of time so the guy brought his dog back home and shot it.

I would have taken that dog myself.

Clients who sat here while we fit that emergency in would have taken that dog.

“That’s the guy who shot his puppy.”

“That’s the dad who told me a bullet was a heck of a lot cheaper than a cat spay.”

“That’s the wealthy family who turfed their pup to the shelter because they didn’t want to deal with him anymore and they didn’t even leave a donation.”

I didn’t like where my conversations went and it was eating me up inside.

And I still had to see and mingle with these people in town.

The only answer, for my mental and financial health, was to close.

And yet, I miss bringing Cleo and UB to work as “shop dogs”.

I miss seeing my good friend, Lynn almost every day and sharing our lives and views with each other.

I miss seeing Fireman Frank and sharing our days and war-stories about drop-off kitties and neglected animals who will get their own blog someday.

I miss the great clients and friends who are out there and the summer people who always brought their pets back to me.

Sedona, Kula, Bruiser, Lucy, Ruby, Crosby, Duncan, Malcolm, Mackenzie, Cooper and many more.

But now I get to see these clients on the golf course and when we talk about dogs and cats and horses it is nostalgic and still happy.

I feel healthy in my mind and body and I’m not allowing myself to carry everyone’s burdens.

I’m a better person, wife and friend now and nobody asks me to check their lumps.

Or feel their lymph nodes.

Or look at their fungal infections to see if I think they are healing.

And that is the truth about this small-town veterinarian.

Losing Boom

“Hon, where’s Boomer?”

For 18 and a half years, that has been a common phrase on the Fyfe Farm.

Even when she was a teensy, tiny, adorable kitten out on our farm in windy Watford City she would get lost.

In hay bales.

In the tack room.

Up in the rafters.

I would panic when we wouldn’t be able to find her. She was the runt of the litter and one of her siblings was particularly mean to the rest of them. I worried she would run little Boomer off the farm or not let her back in under cover.

I didn’t have to worry for long, though.

Alistair went out one day when the gale-force winds were whipping horizontal snow and ice crystals around in a frigid, deadly blizzard.

The horses were fine.

4 of the kitties were fine. Boomer was right there next to her brother, Oscar. She wasn’t missing for once.

The hairy, big, mean kitten, however, was on the Ritchie water fountain, out in the blizzard.

Apparently she got her paws wet while drinking and ended up stuck, frozen to death, mid-leap off the fountain.

The other 4 kitties thrived after that.

Boomer and Oscar made the long move back to Canada and soon became Inside Cats.

With Outdoor privileges of course.

And Boomer continued to get lost.

Inside closets.

Inside bedrooms.

Behind the wood pile.

She learned her name quickly, probably because I was always calling her. She also had the only “oooh” sound in her name back then which distinguished her from Oscar, Marshal, Shep, Chorney and Alistair.

She actually has a little grey soul patch beneath her adorable puckered-up mouth.

It looks like she is saying “oooooh”.

Boomer and Oscar helped me get through my guilt and grief over the whole antifreeze-doesn’t-mix-well-with-cats thing.

I needed their comfort that year because so many things were happening that I couldn’t control.

Alistair moved back to ND soon after he started working as a Canadian physician so I was often by myself on a large farm with pregnant mares.

I had zero support and even faced some misplaced animosity as a figure skating coach in the little town I lived in.

It was the same town Alistair and his first wife lived in for many years and some of their old friends weren’t necessarily opening their arms to the new, young wife with her spandex and sequins and love of makeup.

Some friends, like Sue, Glenn, Patti, Shirley, Janie, Bill and Julie were wonderful, though.

And the cats were wonderful, too.

Warm, loving, purring, fuzzy bodies to cuddle up with on never-ending lonely nights when my job wasn’t any fun anymore.

But I was able to join Alistair in the states again so we all moved to Hazen. Then to Bismarck. And now to Montana.

Through all of these moves and all of these years, Boomer continued to get lost.

In the little closet the ferrets like to hide in.

In the basement.

In the garage.

As the feline Fyfes have aged they have recently begun to spend most of their days in the kitchen/sun room. Its one of my favorite rooms, too.

Even in the winter the sun shines brightly.

There are 4 cat beds in there and I can generally find a cat, or a combination of cats, or UB or Loki in any of them at any given time.

Boom has been spending more and more time in those beds lately.

It began last fall when I realized she had lost some weight. She is a cat who has always been slim but in September she looked a bit gaunt.

Her thyroid was on overdrive so we started twice-daily pills.

In the mornings I risk life and limb by scruffing her and tossing the tiny white pill down the hatch.

Usually it works. I still have all of my fingers.

At night its canned soft food for everyone, with a pill mashed up in Boomer’s dish.

She’s not our first cat with hyperthyroidism and she won’t be our last.

When we said our tearful goodbyes to Oscar back in January Boomer went into a bit of a slump.

A cat who used to lay in those beds with 1, 2, or 3 others now lays in them alone.

Her companion since the time in their mama’s womb is forever gone and it made an impact on every single Fyfe in this house.

As much as this hurts to admit, I’m losing Boom.

It isn’t the amount of time she sleeps during the day- Hell, I’ll be doing much the same when I’m 90 or 100 years old.

Its the weight loss.

Her decreased grooming.

The way she almost shouts her meows at me when she wants her soft food.

Its seeing her petite, feminine, grey and white self just sitting at the water dish, staring at it.

And the tenderness on her right side.

Where I thought I felt a lump, or maybe it was her liver, or maybe it was both.

Her thyroid is whacked, her kidneys are failing and maybe there’s a lump.

Like the one in my throat right now.

But she eats and drinks without hesitation and keeps everything down.

She doesn’t limp, she isn’t jaundiced and she isn’t dehydrated.

Its tough right now because I’ve also noticed that Casey has a bad limp in the rear leg that still has hardware in it.

Loki seems to be losing her hearing, not realizing I’ve come home despite my boisterous “hey, Gangs” to them all sometimes.

And yet Loki seems quite content, if not a bit more clingy lately. I don’t mind the extra attention and snuggles. Maybe that’s one of the perks for her and I. And for her and UB, too.

And Casey still leaps and jumps and runs and wiggles and plays and licks and bumps into me and knocks things over. All with his floppy larynx that remains one-sided.

And Boomer still enjoys being held, gently, while I dance with her like I have done for 18 years.

And she continues to enjoy her sleep-in-morning special brunch dates with Mulder, Loki, Mummy and Daddy where everyone gets bacon.

I advise clients to think about what is important for them as individuals and families when the question, “When is it Time?” comes up.

Its different for everyone.

For me, I want to be able to recognize and share love with friends and family.

I would like to be free from pain.

I’d like to be able to put my makeup on. Its vain but true.

I’d also like to be able to lift a glass of red wine to my lips and enjoy its taste.

I want these same types of things for my animal companions, albeit without the mascara.

The time may come soon when Boomer won’t let me groom the matts from her delicate hair. Or she won’t prance into the room with the guinea pigs and chat with me. Or she won’t head butt me, or Facetime-Bomb every single person I chat with. Or she won’t want her soft food or some of my chicken.

It would be akin to Casey not wanting to goof around and jump and play.

And Loki not wanting to be with me.

I will find strength from somewhere because I have to and because I love them and because I owe it to them.

They have all given me so much.

And I will give them beautiful, dignified deaths.

Not today. Not tomorrow.

Not next week.

But soon I will lose my Boom.

She won’t be lost, though. She will be in many different places like she has been all of her life.

In her photos.

In my memory.

In my heart.

My Latest Addiction

I’ve been bitten by the golf bug.

Hard.

Its nothing like a simple mosquito bite, either. One of those irritating, inflamed bumps that annoy you for a few days and then disappears until your next one.

No, this bug bite is entirely different.

Its addicting.

Its all-consuming.

I’ve even had dreams about it and I’ve only been playing since the very end of September last year.

I blame Tom, Mike, Lynn, Miki, and the beautiful local golf course. These 4 individuals encouraged us to put together a team for a fun fund-raiser for the local pond hockey tournament.

Alistair and I didn’t play golf.

Well….

There was this one time, back in 1995.

“It will be fun,” they said. “Its just to raise money,” they added. “It’ll be a great send-off for the vet girls,” I heard. “We’ll wear our Dog Days shirts,” was suggested.

So, the Diamonds in the Ruff team was formed and golf (or, something like it) was played.

Alistair broke 2 golf clubs, I did a cartwheel at the “Happy Gilmore” hole and some bevvies were consumed. Lynn and I did so poorly on one hole that we gave up and just drove. The carts, that is.

We won an award for the “most honest” team.

The sad truth is that I fudged a couple of numbers and we still got last.

The strangest thing happened, though- we had a blast.

I blame Alistair, Lynn, Miki and Tim for reinforcing our newfound passion last fall. I, like any addict, sought out their encouragement, knowing they would continue to enable me. Often by joining me.

Without the clinic keeping me busy I would head out on the nearly empty, picturesque, tree-lined course and bang balls around.

Some even went into their holes in less than 10 shots.

Then 9. Then 8.

When people used to ask us if we played golf I would jokingly say that I was going to take it up when I was too old to do anything else.

I secretly rolled my eyes, wondering how anyone could play the game, let alone watch it on TV. (This from a woman who watches curling but I’m Canadian and nobody questions that up there).

We started making par occasionally but then the snow came down and we actually got booted off the course in November… apparently they had anti-fungal treatments on the ground. Who knew?

So we did the unthinkable and watched golf on TV.

We bought videos.

We practiced putting with a golf game my sister-in-law found for us. Christmas was a great haul at the Fyfe house.

I confess that I might have taken this up earlier had I known there was so much shopping involved!

Cute shoes, pink balls, socks with rhinestones, golf clubs with lots of purple, fancy skorts, matching shirts, a spiffy towel, funky gloves…. and a golf cart.

A blinged-out masterpiece with fenders and headlights.

His name is Norman.

The golf pro tells us, “you 3 have fun out there.”

It makes sense that a couple of Fyfes are playing golf. Alistair’s own parents were raised in Scotland, even going to St.Andrew’s. Not that either of them played and we just never bothered.

A lot of hockey players golf but I’m not sure if many figure skaters do. Yet, there are some similarities.

You are often alone inside your head when practicing golf and skating. This leads to discussions with oneself.

On the ice it was ‘I didn’t trace that bracket very well’; ‘Liz has the cutest outfit today’; ‘Point the toe, point the toe, point the toe’; ‘I wonder what’s for supper’; ‘How many calories did I eat at lunch; and, ‘Left arm checked going into the double lutz.’

With golf you can run an entire conversation with yourself much the same way.

‘Thumbs aligned’; ‘I totally love this skort!’; ‘Rotate shoulders and ribcage together’; ‘I wonder if Alistair wants to eat at Lindey’s tonight’ and ‘Eye on the ball, Tanya. Eye on the ball.’

Both sports can get terribly expensive.

Both sports require patience.

You can’t do either sport well wearing a lot of bulky clothing.

I enjoy the similarities and the work ethic involved with both sports. I love that I can improve every single day for every year for the rest of my life. I love being outside in the fresh air with Alistair as we both strive for continual improvement.

I love Norman, Loudmouth skorts, my wine glass covered glove, Michelle Wie, Adam Scott, Bubba Watson’s unorthodox style, Jordan Spieth, Zach Johnson (who looks more like Juaquin Phoenix than Juaquin Phoenix) and the fact I can share this game with friends and family when they come to visit.

I love that our trips to Hawaii have a whole new dimension now with the enjoyment of the outstanding, ocean-view golf courses that are usually located at our resorts.

I have even started taking lessons.

I don’t include the group lesson I took on Kauai, where I basically had a shit-eating grin on my face the whole time. I was just so thrilled to have some guidance and drive a cart around a lush, fancy-shmancy, tropical island golf course.

My first real lesson was yesterday.

I’ll admit it. I kind of suck right now.

And yet I still love it! Amazing.

I went and drove balls this afternoon but there were no tee times available with the long weekend. It was wonderful to see so many other people enjoying the course.

Alistair has 4 large round hay bales stacked in Bismarck. He drives golf balls right into them or he works on pitching them overtop. You have to admire his tenacity.

I love that golf is a game for one person or a bunch of people. Skating isn’t like that unless you’re into synchro. In fact, we used to get in trouble if we were standing around talking at the boards.

I also love that golf is a warm-weather game. I spent more than 25 years in a refrigeration system. It got cold.

Don’t get me wrong- I love skating. And skiing. And snow-shoeing. And snowmobiling.

Its just that, given the choice, I’d rather be warm.

An extra bonus is the fact that I get to wear all of the polo shirts I bought for my clinic over the years as well as the fancy slacks I used to wear at the larger clinic I worked at in Bismarck. Who knew my sense of style leaned towards “golf” back then?

I’d like to see more women on the golf course. I know its easier for me to enjoy the game with my partner because we are both at a similar level. We’re also both competitive and athletically driven, which makes us well-matched.

We also can laugh at ourselves and crack jokes as we’re out there.

And Spirit of UB will make a comment or Spirit of Cleo almost always has something to say in her southern drawl, like, “Nice shot, Daddy.”

Its how we roll.

With fenders.

In Norman.

So if you’re driving along the highway & you see us whacking at balls or digging in the tall grasses to find one, go ahead and honk.

Better yet, get out and enjoy the game.

You’re never too old to start something new. Hell, you might even become addicted. As long as you have friends eager to enable you, you’ll do just fine.

We’ve come a long way, Baby!

	tanyafyfe on Its Been A Minute
	Kathy Graham on Its Been A Minute
	tanyafyfe on Its Been A Minute
	Mary Balzart on Its Been A Minute
	Mary Balzart on Its Been A Minute

tanyafyfe

A figure skater-turned-veterinarian's adventures with her crazy animals, red wine, and too much time alone in the middle of nowhere

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