YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE OLD TO DIE

I know I’m stating the obvious when I say you don’t have to be old to die but today, the message was driven in, harsh and cold.  I received a couple of e-mails, informing me of the death of a vibrant and caring young woman, Eileen Mabee.  She was just about the same age as my daughter, in her middle 30s.

Eileen was the founder and primary organizer of a Meetup group I belong to, Muttley Crew.  We met a couple or three years ago, when I got Sofie Snowflake (puppy mill survivor) and wanted to socialize her in a relaxed setting, where she could be off-leash, among other dogs and learn from them, hopefully, how to be a dog.

Eileen had organized the second trek we went on and I met her and her German Sheppard, Keeper, at that time.  We met at the Scotsdale Farm, near Georgetown and that day, I found two gems, Eileen and Scotsdale Farm.  It was an interesting day and I quickly realized that Eileen was a special person.  The other person there was a woman named Alexia, who brought her dog, Daisy, who was absolutely in love/lust with Sofie.  Love/lust knows no gender boundaries, especially in the dog world.

The day was glorious, late winter, February, if I remember correctly and a rare sunny day.  I got a little discombobulated trying to get to Scotsdale Farm, even with my GPS.  I called Eileen from the car.  She seemed to know exactly where I was and how I got off track.  She was able to give me excellent directions and I made it to the meeting spot in no time.    

Eileen pulled into the parking lot, about 15 minutes after me and I remember her buck-toothed grin as she walked over and introduced herself to me and greet Alexia.  She was dressed well for the day and you could tell that she dressed for herself and wasn’t out to make a fashion statement. Her heavy jacket was well-worn and eminently suitable for the occasion and the terrain.  She almost always had on a hat of some kind but the one I remember most was the soft and battered ‘camp’ hat, tie strings dangling, which I rarely saw her without.

Eileen had brought her German Sheppard, Keeper, who was a very anxious dog and could be aggressive.  Eileen explained what happened and took full responsibility for the problem (due to circumstances, she hadn’t socialized him when he was a puppy).  I got a sense from her that she would spend the rest of her life and Keeper’s trying to right that wrong.  Perhaps that‘s how Muttley Crew came into being.

Eileen spent hours and hours with Keeper, trying to teach him how to cope with his anxiety and had achieved some measure of success.  At the beginning of each walk, she would keep him muzzled, but as the walk progressed, she would get him focused on his Frisbee, and then he was fine.  He sure loved his Frisbee.  I remember playing with him now and again, as he dropped the Frisbee at my feet and dared me to try and get it before he could.  It was seldom I succeeded.  I swear he laughed at me every time I tried.  Sadly, Keeper died last year and Eileen was inconsolable.  The turn-out for Keeper’s Memorial Walk in September 2011 was phenomenal, with about 40 people and roughly 70 dogs, and coincidentally, at Scotsdale Farm, the place I first met Eileen and Keeper.  It brought back good memories.

As time passed and we shared quite a number of tramps through the woods, Eileen and I had a chance to get to know each other better and found that besides our love for dogs, we also had a passion for writing.  I shared some of my pieces with her and she shared her insight with me. 

I remember how devastated she was when she was let go from the doggie daycare she worked at, after a new owner took over.  She wasn’t so much angry that she was out of work but was more concerned for the dogs she saw every day and thought, perhaps they weren’t being given the care, love and attention she had lavished on them daily.

Eventually, Eileen was able to get passed the situation and took on dog sitting on a regular basis, although with Eileen, sitting had very little to do with her days.  She spent hours hiking the woods with her charges and seemed to be happy and content.

She was always looking to improve Muttley Crew meetups and invited various experts, in various fields to come along and teach us their skills.  She came up with some creative ways to make sure all the members had a chance to go on the walks.  She always seemed to have a trunk full of dog treats and shared with all.

It was also my pleasure to have met her mom, Diane, on a number of our hikes and remember one in particular at Walker’s Woods, in Durham.  It was a hard slog that day.  Lots of snow still on the ground, which had been molded into icy, rutted furrows by horse back riders who frequented the trails.  We both were concerned about staying on our feet and keeping our ankles intact.  Being pretty well the two oldest on the walk, we brought up the rear of the pack for most of the hike. Towards the end of the walk, Diane had to pee.  Ground cover was sparse at that time of the year and I stood guard while she tinkled.  It formed a bond between us that endured.

I remember my former next-door neighbour here in Sandycove Acres telling me that she didn’t make friends with too many people anymore because they kept dying on her.  I guess after a while it gets monotonous, as well as depressing.  To me, death is much a part of life as living and when it’s your turn to go, you will.  I’m glad I could count Eileen among my friends.  My life, as so many others, is truly enriched for having known her.

Eileen was out tramping the woods with her mom and her four-legged charges when an accident occurred.  They managed to get Eileen to the hospital but she died shortly after arrival.

I’m not sure why, but Eileen had a soft spot in her heart for me and Sofie and I will always remember her generosity, especially as she had invited me (and Sofie) to share this Christmas with her and her family.  I will surely miss her.   

                                                        Eileen, Center, with the 'Hat'

                                                           Keeper & His Frisbee

                                                              Keeper's Memorial Hike

                                                              

                                         

GARBAGE 101

While I was still living in ‘The City’ (really just a town), ‘It’ brought in The Green Bin program.  Great.  More shit to remember. 

When I moved into my first house (The Town Above) after apartment living for eleven years, I was required to sort my garbage, using ‘The Blue Box Rules’.  Paper in one box and pretty well everything else in the other.  Oh, and remember to rinse the containers!  Hmm, my time and hot water – what in the heck am I paying taxes for? 

Then I moved one town north and found that the Blue Box stuff didn’t have to be sorted at all.  Oh goody, I thought, but continued to do it anyway, since I was already so well trained.  ‘Sides, the paper stuff in one box made sense, since it was mostly flat.  Almost everything else went into the ‘other’ Blue Box – styrofoam, rigid plastic packaging, egg cartons, even empty paint cans and motor oil containers.  

Then ‘They’ brought in The Green Bin.  I was not impressed and thought, “Poop on them.  I’ll just put everything in the garbage.”  It’ll be collected every week, anyway.  Wrong.  From now on, regular garbage would only be collected every TWO weeks.  Poop on me.  I could just imagine how nice my kitchen garbage would smell, after amassing it for two weeks, especially in hot summer weather.  I also knew that the assorted neighbourhood wildlife would find it especially tasty and bowed to the inevitable. Sooooo, more sorting.  Soon, I think, this’ll be a full-time job.  When will I have time to go to my ‘real’ job, you know, the one that actually pays me to work? 

I found it easier to determine what went in The Green Bin, once I figured out that organic means pretty well anything that comes out/off of you, the diaper-clad baby, leftovers (usually green anyway), and which have been taking up ‘fridge space, bacon grease (now that was tricky), and even the hair off my head and the dog’s.  The days settled into garbage regularity.

Then I moved to SCA.  What a garbage culture shock.  Back to two Blue Boxes, one for paper (fibre) and the other for what can’t go into the first.  It’s a good thing I’m not employed outside the home at the moment.  I have to go back to garbage sorting school to get things into the right Blue Box, because, according to a very sticky sticker I got in my unemptied Blue Box, which I now have to schlep back to its resting place at the rear of the house, I’m not doing ‘it’ right.  Big SIGH.  Apparently, I’ve flunked the Garbage 101 final.

I set The Blue Box down outside the patio door and peel the sticky sticker off my wrist, which is where it got stuck, as I was schlepping.   Reading the sticker, it states “We left some items behind today, as they are NON-RECYCLABLE:  and it goes on to list 12 different items.  I peer into the blue box, trying to determine where I went wrong.  Hmmm, I think, there’s a small piece of styrofoam.  Could that be it?  How could it be?  A few weeks ago, I had a HUGE amount of styrofoam taken.  Now, I’m really confused.  So, I called The Town and spoke to a very proper woman, with a great British accent.  We commiserate on the lack of Green Binning in SCA and how different I find it - that my used tissues, paper towels, nail clippings, phlegm, kitchen scraps and hair balls horked up by the cats, are no longer able to go to a natural death via a compostable landfill and may forever have to live in a dump. 

Back to the patio door I go and the British lady and I go over each item in the box and pinpoint the probable perpetrators – an egg carton, which should have gone into the paper fibre Blue Box and the small piece of styrofoam, which should have gone into regular garbage.  I mention that a rather large quantity of styrofoam had been taken previously and was informed that it had probably been a new employee who didn’t know any better.  From what she said, it sounds like he mighta got his toches kicked when he got to the dump with a banned substance.

Then I pointed out that the sticker states that ‘some items were left behind’ and mention that ALL the items in that box had been left behind.  The British woman advises me that ‘they’ don’t sort through the box - they leave everything.  “Why, then, does the sticker say ‘some’?”  There was no answer for that one.

After reviewing the remainder of the items in The Blue Box, the helpful woman lets me know that it sounds like I’ve got it the rest of it right and passes me with flying colours.  I get a gold star on the Simcoe Waste Management 2012 Calendar.  Whew!  I know I’ll sleep better tonight.