my hobby : It's All New to Me

I am a real dog lover. I don’t think there have been more than a few months of my entire life that haven’t been enhanced by a loyal canine companion. Over the years I have amassed a plethora of fond memories and humorous stories pertaining to my pawed pals. One of my favourites concerns a neighbour’s dog, not one of my own.
Almost a decade ago my husband and I first gave up the bustle of city life for country charm out of self preservation rather than preference. We had moved to Fort St. John from our family home in the suburbs of Edmonton. Housing was at a premium and we found ourselves in a tiny townhouse surrounded by a transient population of young oilfield workers with, to put it politely, more energetic and, I must say, louder lifestyles. One of my husband’s customers knew a woman renting a small log home on a large, mainly treed acreage half an hour out of the city and at that point a little peace and quiet seemed like just the thing. It was that or therapy.
It was love at first sight, almost a fantasy come true, and we lost no time in saying goodbye to our neighbours. We were ill-prepared for country living and after a week of unrelenting rain my lady-like little ankle boots with the fur trim, perfect for shoveled cement, lay mud-caked and ruined on the deck by the back door. On my way to town to procure a sturdy pair of gum boots the next morning, I headed out the door and tripped over ... one mud-caked, ruined lady boot. The second boot had disappeared in the night. I looked carefully around the yard and squinted into the black depths of the surrounding woods, but although the prickling sensation on my neck told me that I was being carefully watched, I could detect no visual confirmation that my thief was around.
I left the lone boot on the step, standing silent sentinel for its lost mate. It remained, steadfast and alone for over a week while I surreptitiously scanned the horizon for the thief. I knew he was there. Working in the garden I would feel that familiar prickle and turn quickly to find only a slight rustle in the grass. At night I would look from the window to see a dark shape slink across the lawn and melt into the underbrush. The lone boot stood on, a willing tethered kid to catch our tiger.
For awhile whenever I felt he was around, I would talk to him, quietly warning him that I was watching too. But then the game continued long enough that I dropped my guard. The trusty sentinel on the porch got pushed aside and even if I felt that old prickle, I came to shrug and write it off to whim or hot flashes.
Nothing else went missing from the deck, not gloves or garden tools and even a forgotten bowl of cheese puffs remained soggy but untouched.
Come next garbage day the widowed footwear would find itself shoved in the can with shredded bills and leftover lasagna, a discarded useless relic of a discarded lifestyle, replaced by heavy rubber.
Not quite. A lovely, sunny Saturday morning in late June. My husband was riding the tractor mower around the half acre of lawn while I puttered in the petunias. After a while I noticed that he kept turning his head to check quickly over his shoulder. He pulled the mower to a stop by the deck and jumped off. “I’ve got the eeriest feeling that I’m being watched!” he complained. “But I don’t see anyone.”
Together we scanned the yard and the trees beyond. Suddenly we caught a small movement in the tall grasses of the wild meadow that separates the back of the lawn from the forest. Just as bold as you please, out stepped a small black and white border collie with a boot in his mouth.
He sat and carefully placed the boot at his feet and looked right at us. He held us frozen for several minutes, gave us a small bark, picked up his boot and disappeared. I turned quickly to check the deck. Sure enough the second boot had vanished right under our noses!
Several weeks passed. The trees were beginning to turn and the weather had turned chilly and damp. On a dark, rainy evening we heard an unexpected knock at the door. There stood a soaked and bedraggled woman clutching a cardboard box of boots! Apologizing profusely, she identified herself as our nearest neighbour and wondered if any of the boots in the box were ours.
It seems that in cleaning out her dog’s house, she discovered that he had developed an interesting hobby...he collected boots.
After reuniting me with my useless town boots, she apologized her way out the door and was gone. She had cleaned and polished them and they certainly looked better than when I had last seen them. Game over! Win to the dog.
Oddly, when all was said and done, I realized that I had enjoyed the game as much as the dog had and I was sad that it was over. I never saw him again, but, I was always tempted to leave a boot on the porch, just in case. I still am.

Saron Hughes