Happy Hallowe'en from Howard

Since most of these Linguist-in-chief Anne-Michelle Tessier intros are me asserting some sort of claim about our storied history of friendship and adventure, I should mention that although AMT grew up to be a Dog Person and I became a Cat Person, we have known each other since the olden times when AMT had a cat named Emily and I had a dog named Jessie. Emily was a certified excellent cat, though I think she was mainly watchful and stolid when I was around. I don’t know if AMT ever met Jessie, as she (Jessie) wasn’t allowed around company very much, being as she was excitable and sometimes knocked people down with her excitement. I’m sure Anne-Michelle would never allow a dog do that on her watch..

This post is about Howard, a sequel to his fears post. Howard is an excellent dog and I’m sure he never ran away to steal a little boy’s sandwich and had to be removed from obedience school in shame.

It’s Saturday morning, Canadian Thanksgiving weekend. The sun is squinty bright and the air is clear with crispy bits and crunchy edges. (I have brussel sprouts with bacon on the brain).

Across the street, however: it’s all bloodletting, ghostcurdling and spiderwebbing. Hallowe’en in our neighbourhood is serious business, and no turkey-and-gratitude theme is going to derail my neighbours’ plans to haunt the pumpkins off of all the local kids. If the sun’s out, there are eight-foot plywood werewolves to be painted and multistory animatronic cackling ghouls to be wired up. One of the biggest displays goes up outside a corner house with I believe four (?) young children, who shoot out the front door as soon as their mom says ‘fine, we can decora…” and immediately assemble into this little yard army, all very seriously focused on their father’s tactical questions. I hear: “who remembers how to secure the ghouls with caution tape?”

**

Later that Saturday afternoon, I take Bagel and then Howard each in turn for a walk/sprint/jog around the neighbourhood.  A precision oven-roasting schedule is in place, so each dog gets their time to explore their preferred sniffspots, with the understanding that we can’t be late coming home or vegetables might burn. (… Of course what I mean is I have that understanding. Bagel is a girl of pure joy, so she only understands that the flowers are enticing, that there is another dog around the corner who might share her hopes and dreams, that maybe there’s some exciting trash under that next bush? And so on.)

Once I get her wrangled home, sheet pans rotated, and Howard harnessed up, he already knows there’s trouble brewing. We head out with 19 minutes before my next kitchen timer sounds, and I convince him to sprint with me to the corner, but his ears reflect high-alert status and he keeps scanning the street for danger. The strange thing is what’s not worrying him at all. The towering witches? They’re fine. The gurgling death skeletons? He gives them a quick nod hello. The wispy webs, the flickering flames, the bloody gorey masks of doom? Nope, cool, tra la. Howard is apparently unmoved by all manifestations of the dreadful occult.

On the other hand: he has noticed a man with a hat and beard in our neighbour’s yard. And THAT, clearly, portends evil. I convince Howard to run up and down a different side street, but he’s increasingly sure that hat/beard guy signals our doom, and I’m semi-dragged home well before my bacon finishes sizzling.

**

Thankgiving Monday comes, and the weather has shifted. Two days of glorious sun are now replaced with rain gusts and dreary grey. The mood is leftovers and gloomy leafpiles. The neighbour’s party is all but a memory (… did they really smoke 30 lbs of brisket on their backporch? Did they really serve Malibu and pineapple juice cocktails from an eight-liter pressure washer? Yes, I can confirm they did; possibly Howard was quite right to be afraid.)

Today I put the dogs and all our of rain jackets in the car, and drive to a ravine where tree cover might provide shelter. Bagel bounds out into the leaves, splashcrunch, happy happy. Howard just stares at me like I’ve taken leave of my senses. He gets low and refuses to budge—who would go out in this?—so I let him curl up in the backseat while Bagel and I go out to meet the elements. Bagel’s only main fear is FOMO, and she does not rest until every puddle’s fun has been thoroughly investigated. Her white fur is both a beautiful contrast to the red and yellow leaves underfoot, and also an immediate magnet for every muddy ditch and grimy patch she throws herself into. When we return to the car, Howard looks us up and down critically and removes himself to the further edge of the passenger seat, while she and I peel off layers and towel down with middling success.

Outside my window now as I type, a bedraggled ghost and plastic bat are both swinging in the drizzle. Both dogs are snoring gently, and I’m full from a squash and stuffing lunch. The time of decay is upon us. The dark times are rising. … At least the neighbour’s yard will be clear of strangers until Christmas. Stay safe out there.