Well, it's not dead yet: Adventures in Gardening

Anyone who knows anything about me knows I kill plants.  Dead.

Despite having two sets of Grandparents who were avid gardeners and kept beautiful gardens and flowers, I inherited my mother's ability to wither a plant with a look.  I blame my hatred of all things green and leafy on my family's summer garden in which I was forced to spend most of my youth toiling under the hot sun.

I also walked uphill both ways to school.

This year with our yard finally looking awesome, I decided it was high time to plant stuff.  I had one giant garden box that was left for us by the previous owners and three beautiful flower boxes The Guy created for me last year.  I decided to brave the growing world (pun!) and plant some stuff.

I decided to go small.  Two zucchini plants, two tomato plants, one squash.  One row of onions.  Two of lettuce and three of carrots.  Here it is in all it's glory.  The carrots are 3 millimetres high now.  The weeds are taller.

My garden.
If you look REALLY closely on the left, you can see carrots.

The Guy surprised me one day when I got home from a conference.  He had planted to flower boxes for me. You can see they are doing quite well! That would be because I'm not in charge.

Charles is.  Wow! 80s sitcom call back!

Flower box in front of the house

The Guy planted stuff that "looked pretty" and said they were appropriate for our yard temps.  The front ones get little to know sun and the front are BLAZING IN THE HOT SUN all day.  Well, you know... when it's not raining.

One of the flower boxes in the back.

Now, the only problem is that since they have been planted it has rained so much the flowers are moldy!!  I had to go all Queen of Hearts on them and cut off their heads.  I hope they make a full recovery.

If not, I will be planting silk flowers next year.  I hear they almost look real.

I bet even I could keep those alive.

The Inside Dog

The Guy and I spend a lot of time in our backyard.  After the horrifying introduction to our yard and The Guy's subsequent ***load of manual labour, our yard is a thing of beauty and a joy forever.  Or, for 2 months depending on Mother Nature's mood.

The Guy and I attempt to eat supper out on our deck at least one night a week when the weather holds.  Most afternoons, The Guy can be found putting around in the yard -- watering, mowing, wandering -- while I sit on the covered swing and read like the lady of lazy leisure that I am.

And where is the dog, you might ask?

Waiting to be let back into the house, of course.

I hear stories of people whose dogs go outside and play for hours.  By themselves!  They run and jump and dig and sleep and do all of this on grass and without cover of a roof.  I have told Monty these stories.  He does not believe me either.

It may come from being a small dog or a dog who spent his first year without a fence so had to be watched every moment in the outdoors for fear he would run after a rabbit and be eaten.  It may come from the fact he is a princess who does not like to get his feet wet, or muddy, or snowy.  It may come from the fact that he has no idea how to play with a person or dog let alone by himself.  Either way, Monty detests the outdoors.

If we let him, he would go to the bathroom inside.

One particular night, The Guy and I were enjoying some free time together out on the swing.  We sat, drank Iced Tea, and talked about our day and our plans for the next.  After pacing by the door to be let back inside, Monty finally acquiesced to come sit with us on the swing.  However, he did it with such reluctance that I could hear his eyes rolling back in his head and could see that, if he could talk, he would have said FINE! with the annoyance only a teen girl can muster.

We attempted to continue to enjoy our evening.  But every time I so much as moved an inch, Monty was leaping off the swing, bolting up the stairs and pawing at the backdoor.

Yes, I get it, Monty.  You're an inside dog.


o

Galoshes: boots of rubber and ugly

To celebrate the coming of Spring (and prevent the further soaking of my pants and winter boots) I decided to break down, embrace my childhood trauma, and buy a pair of rubber boots.

When I was young, rubber boots were big, black, ugly, thick, heavy boots that schmucked and schlooked when you wore them.  They were awkward and unbendy and their only purpose was to keep your socks dry except for when they got holes in them.  Which I remember being a lot, but I could be biased.

I wandered into Wally Mart and looked around.  In the men's section, the dreaded boots of evil sat waiting.  In the women's section, they had 4 different options of rubber boots -- all in Hawaiian flower patterns.

I hemmed.  I hawed.  I stood on my soggy pant leg and decided enough was enough.  I picked the least ugly of the group and got to business.  They fit, they were water proof, and they were $15.

I bought them.

I left them in the bag by the front door when I got home and went to bed.  In the afternoon when I got up, I told The Guy I'd bought rubber boots.  He tried to hide his grimace and pretended to like them.  I had to laugh and assure him I thought they were hideous too.

I wore them to walk Monty around the neighbourhood.  My feet were dry and my pants were too.

But I think even the dog was embarrassed.

Spring

I think it's actually here.  Today, I saw men everywhere out with their poking sticks making holes in the ice for the water to run through.

Monty and I can't wait to be out in the yard again.  Being cooped up in here has ceased to be fun.

Psycho-killer: Plant style

I have no green thumb.  I raise plants much like my mother did.  That is to say, I kill them.  Doesn't matter what plants they are, they quickly succumb to my evil and die out of self defence.

When we first moved into our home, people brought us houseplants as a gift.  They were lovely.  They had flowers and were in a pretty bucket thing and looked very nice.  Within weeks, they had lost their flowers and did nothing but look like green sticks coming from dirt.

I had plant-pro Janny come in and help me repot them and she assured me I could do this.  She was so positive, I convinced myself I could even get two more plants!  I believe she called them idiot proof.  I got a Wandering Jew and another hangy one (a philodendron) that even a monkey should be able to keep alive.

The monkeys (or Monkies) are mocking me, folks.

So far, the Wandering Jew is doing fine.  The Philodendron?  Not so much.  What started as a lush and colourful plant has withered into a straggly, pathetic shell of the plant it once was.  It has given up on life and just sits in the corner praying that God will take it home.

The succulents have met similar fates.  The small one upstairs is still hanging on, but the big one downstairs has died.  It is still sitting on the dresser where I left it in the sun and then promptly forgot to ever water it again.  It's sitting there like a symbol of my inability.  An homage to my murdering ways.  A knife to the failing thing that was my confidence.

I am tempted to send my philodendron to Janny for a visit.  Like an out of control teen, she can take it, fix it and then return it to me when it's ready to do what I ask of it.  Like: GROW YOU MISERABLE SOB.

When will it be over?

I looked out the back door the other day and saw my poor swing set covered in snow. The outdoor playsets of the adult world are abandoned due to weather.  The snow in the yard is level with the bench I love to lounge on.  The canopy is covered in 4 inches of snow causing it to sag a little under the weight.  It made me sad to see it out there all alone.  It made me even more impatient for spring.

You see, I love my garden swing.

It is the place where I go to hide.  I love to go there at noon with my book, my iced tea, and my iPod.  I climb  onto the bench (in the shady part, of course) and the dog follows me but sits in the sun at the other end.  I set the swing to rocking and I relax.

All I can hear is the birds, the buzz of the bees, the rock of the swing and the soft music of my iPod.  For a little while, I escape from work and union and responsibility.  For a moment, I am free.

I cannot wait for those days again.

***********
This post is part of a collaboration with CSNStores.com.  

That was fun! Right, Mom?

Par - tay #reverb10

December 9 Party. What social gathering rocked your socks off in 2010? Describe the people, music, food, drink, clothes, shenanigans. (Prompt by @shauna)

As the day ends on my littlest sister's 28th birthday, I am thinking of parties.

The problem is, for the most part, I hate "parties".  I love "get-togethers" and "having people over", but I hate parties.  They are loud, people are obnoxious, I cannot stand drunk people, and they are boring.  People standing around talking and drinking while music plays in the background -- somebody kill me please.

I love animated conversations on the deck in summer.  People crowded around food and drink with laughter and overlapping conversation.  I love the sounds of summer evening playing in the background: kids laughing and screaming, lawns being mowed or watered, people talking far in the distance, crickets chirping.  Even the buzz of mosquitoes hitting the electric zapper makes me happy.

Heck, especially that.

My favourite party this year was likely the "Open House Double Birthday" party we had in June before I left for Ukraine.  We had a reasonable number of people over (about 12 or so) lots of food, Coke in abundance, and the barbeque going full tilt.  We sat around the patio table and laughed as the dogs ran around and chased the ball that someone was foolish enough to throw.

The party ended early enough we had wished it kept going and late enough we were glad everyone left.  We had full bellies, faces that hurt from laughing, and leftovers.

Gang barked

Monty and I were out walking the other day, enjoying the reprieve from the brief winter that attacked us the week before and also, I might add, minding our own business.

On the corner of our adjacent bay, there is a house with an old poodle, a fish pond and, as of recent months, a young Boxer and Rotweiler.  Every day, Monty walks past them and loses his mind.  He hates that they exist and that they insist on barking at him and pretending they are going to take their gate down to come eat him for lunch.  We work on his behaviour each time we go by, but it doesn't always help.

Monty's a much more social dog than he used to be -- he's got a best friend named Casper and will let other dogs come near him without ripping his or her dog face off.  He's actually been a pretty good little dog.

Until this day, but I maintain it is not his fault.

As we rounded the bay, I noticed the garage door was open.  This often means the owner is working in his shop listening to 70s rock music (I assume from his college days) and likely avoiding his wife.  He usually has the old poodle with him and can keep an eye on him relatively well.  I prepared Monty for some harmless barking and continued on our way.

Then, like a shot, a very exuberant Boxer and his huge Rotti friend came running full tilt for us.  The poodle was not far behind.  The Rotti circled us, the poodle came in for a sniff and the Boxer went for Monty's throat.  Not in a mean way, mind you, he wasn't biting or anything -- he just wanted to be friendly.  Aggressively so.

Monty screamed blue murder.  If you have never heard a dog scream like you have stabbed him in the eyeball, you are missing an experience.  He screamed and barked and screamed and lunged.  The boxer and Monty grappled and snarled and barked.  I got them apart using Caesar's method of grabbing a chunk of their necks and pushing back.  I separated them, calmed Monty and then the boxer and poodle came in for a sniff.

Monty was paralyzed with fear, but allowed the dogs to check him out without any further blowups.  The owner came out (finally) and commended me on being able to calm things down.  I did not comment on how it would not have been necessary if his dogs (who are not well trained, with possible exception of the Rotti) were not running loose.  I carried on with Monty flinching every time I moved and desperately trying to jump into my arms.

After all the excitement, I realized I had managed to get a chunk bit out of my hand by a terrified Monty.  The skin was torn, but not broken.  I realized it would be swollen and bruised, but it was not bleeding which I took as a good sign.  We stopped to visit Casper, but Monty was too freaked even to enjoy that visit.  By the end of the walk, he had calmed somewhat but spent the rest of the day pretty jumpy.

I avoided walking the same path today.  Instead, Monty and I drove to the walking path near where my Dad and the dogs used to live.  Monty was well behaved and friendly the whole time.  So far, no PTSD.

Except for mine.

Honesty in a smurf

I heart Halloween.  It's a well known fact.  Here and here and here.  I enjoy it so much that my friends all know they can bring their kids to see me on the big day because I will fawn all over them and feed them candy.

When I lived in my old house, I reconnected with a friend from high school and her husband.  (Story here and here)  Then they had "Neighbour baby" and I fell in love.

Last year, she came by the new house in her outfit as Eyore.  So, when Used-To-Be Neighbour Lady called to say she was bringing her over this year, I couldn't wait.

She was a smurf.  White felt hat, blue sleeves, white dress, blue leggings and holding a little smurf toy.  So cute!  She came in, showed me her costume and promptly ignored me as she and Monty chased each other all over the house. 

After 15 minutes, Monty jumped onto the couch and passed out cold.  I teased her that she made him tired. 

In solemnness, she looked at me and said "Yes, I do wear people out."

Sucker for punishment: blogging and dog walking

I'm not sure what I'm thinking, but I decided to sign up for November blog month.  I started last year doing stories about my life and then... you know, got distracted.  So, I will try and finish up some of those stories and make myself interesting again.  It's been awhile.

So, let's see how it goes, shall we?  I have 2 conferences during that time and a bunch of other things, so I really hope I can do it.

*********************

Today, I took Monty out for a walk.  It's been 2 days since the snow-bomb that hit our city and it finally stopped being windy and disgusting.  I figured I needed to take him out since he's been as house bound as I have for the last week.

Last year, I bought a great pair of boots.  They are warm as can be, so I'm pumped.  However, I've found that unless you get the ugly 35 lb Sorrell boots, you cannot get both warmth AND grip.

We walked out to the road and went to start our walk.  I threw the ball a couple of times and then the obvious happened.  My legs shot out from under me and I landed on butt.  And my arm.  And my head.

Monty saw his moment and made a run for it.  I finally caught up with him 2 blocks later -- after he terrorized 2 neighbourhood dogs and a lady trying to get into her car.  He was thrilled at having been free for 6 whole minutes.  It was the walk of his life.

In other news: my butt hurts.

The universe was messing with us today

The Guy and I went out to a restaurant tonight with a gift card his parents had given us. To get to the restaurant, we had to take a 10 minute detour.  It led us to a traffic light that didn't change colour and a pile of sand on someone's driveway that had been shaped into three dolphins.

Finally we arrived at the restaurant, ordered our food, had our meal, and... waited.  The people behind us -- who arrived after us by about 20 minutes -- got their bill, carried on, and were replaced by another couple who were waited on.  Other people came and went too.

No one noticed we might want our bill.  Eventually, the waitress dropped off the bill with the typical "There's no hurry" line they like to give.  And there wasn't.  Any hurry.  At all.

For 15 minutes we sat there, with the gift card and some cash to cover the fact Peach Bellini's were on sale, while the waitress flitted too and fro.  The restaurant filled up to the brim, people waited for our table, but still we sat.  It was bizarre.  Finally, she came and took our money so we could leave what had become our well-decorated hell.

Then we went to the store next door to buy a cheap mouse pad.  At first we weren't noticed -- you know, the typical customer service these days where you ignore anyone walking into a building -- but then a nice young man came up and helped me when I practically yelled "I'm not paying $20 for a mouse pad!".  When he figured out the prices were marked wrong, I grabbed what I needed, and walked to the till.  There, I smiled at the dorky little clerk.  He choked on his own spit, mumbled something and ran away.

The Guy and I stood there for enough time to pick out two movies from the under $7 bin.  (What?  The Replacements was a good movie!!)  Then I noticed something else.  The original price tag said $6.98.  The sale price tag?  Said $7.99.  It was just too weird.  Eventually, the same young man from the first time came up to the till.  I explained the error on the DVD and he rang it through.  Yup, it came up at the "sale" price.  He fixed it and we ran to the car.

It was a whole lot of stupid all in one day.  We didn't want to see what else was waiting for us.

Seasonal Affect Disorder during the summer

This has been the summer of rain.  I feel like a member of the clan living on Venus in Bradbury's short story.  We haven't seen the sun in so long that, when it comes out, our eyes are temporarily blinded and we shrink back to hide in the shadows. 

If we don't start seeing the sun for an extended period, I'm going to go postal. 

The only reason people line in Saskatchewan is for the sun.  Saskatchewan is flat and cold and in the middle of nothing, but it gets sun.  All the time.  It's the only thing that makes it worth the -40 degree winters (both C and F) and the +40 degree summers (105 F) bearable. 

We have not had a great deal of good weather since... last September.  The day of our wedding was excruciatingly hot and since then... it's been blah and rainy and meh.  FOR A YEAR.

If I wanted to live on the West Coast, I would move there.  If I wanted to be trapped in the grey skies of depressing and ugh, I would be fine.  But I'm not.   I'm weather depressed.  Realistically, we all are.  Everyone I have talked to says the same thing:

Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun, please shine down on me.

Or I'm going to kill someone.

The story of our lawn

On Thursday, we arranged to get sod.  It was to be delivered by 11am, so I took the day off work to help.  Since The Guy did everything else in the yard, I thought the least I could do was help with sod.  Actually, the least I could do would be to watch him put sod in, but I think that's a hanging offence. 

At 11am, The Guy called our supplier for the grass.  Their driver didn't show.  He'd be to the yard by 12:30, so would deliver shortly after that.  I had a nap and read a book.  By 2:30, we were all a little antsy.  The Guy's dad had taken some time off to help, but he went back to work.  Two other guys we had lined up were only available for a limited time, so it was starting to look like it would be the two of us moving 4 pallets of sod by ourselves. 

Finally, at 3:30pm, we saw the truck drive by with our sod.  Yes, that's right, he drove by.  He got lost.  The Guy called his buddies and they came back over to help for the limited time they had.  Finally the sod guy arrived and unloaded the sod.   We started moving pieces of it before he had it set down on the ground. 

We were on a schedule here, people!

With five of us, all moving as fast as our little legs could carry us, we laid the sod.  It was green and lush and plentiful -- there was a little issue with trying to figure out the amount we'd need!  With the lawn area being mostly round, my job and the job of The Guy's dad was to cut the grass sections to fit the rounded edges.  Armed with two $1 steak knives, we went to town hacking and cutting. 

In less than two hours, it was all in place.  I was sweating in places I didn't know could sweat and aching in places I thought I'd lost.  But we had GRASS!!!!!

I wish I had taken a picture when it was first done.  It was green and pretty then.  Now it's having a time to settle and it's hot out and dry despite watering 2 times a day for 30 minutes a section.  Or more, if I forget to set an alarm.

Look!  It's GRASS!

So far, Monty hasn't defiled it.  I'm keeping my fingers crossed!

We're going to have grass!!

When we moved into our house just over a year ago, we were met with the most disgusting mass of weeds and thistles I've ever seen in my life.  The Guy was fuming and all I wanted to do when I saw them all was choke the ever living crap out of our home's previous owners.

That first summer, we cut and whacked and sprayed and chemically ruined the Earth and pulled and mowed and cried.  We barely kept them in line and our whole neighbourhood was affected.  They were patient and kind about it - one even cut them with his lawn mower while we were at work one day - but the weeds were infiltrating their backyards too, so they were hoping we could get them under control.  We couldn't.  Instead, we put up a fence.

Since the spring, The Guy has been chipping away at the yard.  I tried to help, but I'm: a) useless, b) weak, and c) injured by my own stupidity.  So, he's been hauling 23 yards of rock and 11 yards of soil all by himself with limited help by a few suckers friends. 

View from the north fence

He has worked so hard.  I feel horrendously guilty and so I clean the house every time he does a major assault on the yard.  He comes back into the house sweaty and exhausted and I'm sitting on the couch icing my shoulder because I scrubbed the bathtub.  I'm a delicate flower.  I keep telling people that, but then I threaten to punch them in the throat and I lose my cred.

View towards the front yard from somewhere in the south west corner.

Tomorrow is an exciting day.  Tomorrow we get sod.  Grass.  Real grass in our slightly dirt ridden and weed covered back yard.  I am off from work so I can help.  I'm going to cut the sod so it lays flat and molds to our curvy rock border.  I'm so excited, I could scream!  GRASS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Of course, I said that at work and someone thought I was talking about marijuana.  No.  I'm sure that would be exciting, but I'm getting a LAWN.

View from the deck of the north west corner

After tomorrow, we're going to be grown ups.  In our grown up house with our grown up furniture (except my blue couches which are staying!) and our grown up yard.  I can't wait.  Even though I know that Monty is going to lose an entire year's training in one day when he realizes there is GRASS! and we're still making him pee on rocks.

Random sock puppet

I figured you should get the same treatment Andrei did when I showed him these pictures.  Here's the sock puppet you asked for.

Casper's Corner

On the corner of one of the streets near our house, there lives Casper.  Casper is a white curly dog of some sort.  He sits on his step and watches the world go by.  Every kid in the neighbourhood knows him and visits daily.  He is rarely without a friend or two. 

We walk past Casper every day.  Casper would bark and spin, and bark and bow, hoping that Monty would be brave enough to come play.  Monty would bark and cower, and bark and lunge, so I figured it would be useless.  However, I decided they needed to at least be cordial so I decided to introduce them. 

One day, while we were walking by, I walked purposefully up onto their lawn.  I spun Monty around and put his butt to Casper's head and head to Casper's butt so they could get to know each other.  (This is not some perverted thing, it's dog science.)  Monty immediately tried to put his tail down and cowered to Casper.  Casper liked Monty just fine and just let Monty be however he needed to be. 

For a week, we followed this same pattern.  We would walk up, they would sniff each other, Monty would act a little scared, Casper would act nonchalant and we would carry on. 

Then one day, Monty was off his leash.  He ran up to Casper, stood patiently for Casper to sniff him and then they just happily sat looking at each other.  They didn't play (Monty doesn't know how) but it was clear that Monty has a bit of a man crush on Casper.  Now, every day, Monty goes looking for Casper when we round that corner.  Casper is always pleased to see him.

Tonight, Monty ran up to Casper as usual.  They walked around each other a few times as I chatted with Casper's owner.  Then I looked over.  To see Casper lift his leg and pee right on Monty.

I guess that means Casper has a crush on him too?

Fields of Gold: Why I love dandelions and you should too.

Yesterday, I took Monty for a long walk along a local bike trail.  It is one of our favourite spots -- near where he grew up as a puppy and the path he used to walk every day.  He never fails to be enthralled by it, as though it has changed dramatically since the last time we were there.

We start out playing ball.  I throw the ball, he runs as hard as he can towards it and runs right past it.  Circling back, he picks it out of the tall grass and comes back to me at a dead run.  He usually drops the ball long before coming to me, but he figures as long as he comes to me it is close enough.  Soon, he tires of playing ball and instead -- with his nose to the ground -- searches both sides of the path for objects or animals unknown.

While he is exploring the previously conquered, I wander the path and take a look around.  It is a peaceful time as I usually try and go when no one else will be around.  It makes it so we can walk with Monty off leash and not worry about him chasing people on Rollerblades or skateboards.  He sure hates those skateboards.

This time, I notice how beautiful the park looks.  The grass is long and waves in the wind.  The trees are budding and plants are starting to push through the earth that has been holding them hostage by the terrible winter.  And the entire expanse of the land is covered in golden flowers of dandelions.

Cheerful and maintenance free.

I know that every gardener and lawn enthusiast hates dandelions.  They grow with abandon, are rarely tamed, spread like wildfire with the merest whisper of wind, and grow roots the size of a small Volkswagen.  However, I think these are the reasons we should love them.  They make the yards beautiful -- colourful and cheerful.  They grow despite the number of times we hack at them, poison them, pull them.  They grow and grow and grow.  They are strong and soft and lovely.

I look at our manicured lawns and I am disheartened.  We try and keep things so tidy, so clipped, so smothered.  We take grass which is not native to our province and force it where it does not belong.  In a desperate attempt to control our environment, we fight with nature.  We consider ourselves above what the earth has in mind. 

And yet, the dandelions keep growing.  They come where they are not wanted and make the world a brighter place.  I, for one, love them for that.  The Guy, for another, is glad he's in charge of the yard.

I killed a ladybug today. I think that's a cardinal sin.

We are still working on the backyard.  Correction.  The Guy is still working on the backyard.  I'm trying to help whenever I can find something to do that won't put my back out for three weeks.  I'm such an old lady.

He has been busting his butt for weeks now.  We have the hugest backyard in the history of backyards.  And, since the people who owned our backyard before us SUCKED, it's been the most evil backyard in the world.

Last summer, it was the summer of 5 foot thistles.  This summer, it's the  summer of dead weeds, new weeds, and acres of space needing to be filled.  The Guy has been busy edging the yard from hell.  Bit by bit, he lays down the material along the edges which will keep the weeds to a minimum, stakes it in place, and then shovels load after load of rocks into the wheelbarrow.

It's starting to look like a real yard.  Sure, it's still miles of dirt with a nice rock ring, but it's getting there.  The fence is finished this week and there will be grass some day. 

Thank God for The Guy.  Or I would have to pay someone to do all this crap!

Monsieur Montel, Princess Poofy Pants

It's been raining non-stop for days.

The second it starts raining, Monty turns into a princess.  He doesn't want to go outside at all.  He looks at you with a face that says "How could you do this to me?" when you drag him out the door for a walk.

Making him go to the bathroom is worse.

We laid rock along the side of the house where Monty has "his spot".  This way there is no more damaged grass and no more mud.  He is thrilled to go to his spot almost any other time.  But once it's wet out?  He'd rather hold it, thank you very much.

Rather than racing around the corner to the gate ahead of you, he slowly trots beside you hoping you will change your mind and not make him stand on the wet, disgusting rocks.

He delicately places one paw on the rock and holds the other in the air.  He sniffs about, procrastinating from the inevitable.  One more paw down, the other back in the air.  He reminds me of a kid trying to get to their beds without touching the floor.

Finally, I lose my patience with him.  "GO already!"  He glares at me.  Finally he stalks off to a corner, does his thing and stomps back to the gate, ready to go in.

He's such a drama queen.

HALP! The moose are taking over our province!!

As most of you know, I have spent much of the month of April "running back to Saskatoon."*   I have been between Regina and Saskatoon (or North Battleford via Saskatoon) so many times, I don't even have to watch the road any more.  I just set cruise control and the car gets me there itself. 

One of the things I did notice, was a change in the signs along the highway.  Normally, one would see a Deer Crossing sign placed strategically along the road.  By strategically, of course, I mean the first sign says "Deer Crossing next 10km" and then 10 km down the road, another sign saying "Deer Crossing next 8km".  Rinse, repeat all the way to the North Pole.

This time however, there were no deer crossing signs.  There were MOOSE crossing signs.  Every place where I had once been on the look out for errant deer to jump out in front of me, I now needed to be aware of moose instead.

I've got to say.  In all my years, I have seen many, many deer on the side of the road -- alive and dead.  I have never, ever, never seen a moose.

Now I know moose do exist in our fair province because I have friends who go hunting them.  You know where they go to hunt them?  The woods.  None of them go to the side of the road and wait to capture a moose. 

So, maybe the government knows something that we don't know, and the moose are planning to take over?

If that's the case, I'm totally siding with the moose.  Those things are huge!


*How much do I love The Guess Who?