Gail MacMillan
DWAA MAXWELL AWARD WINNING TITLE
Ceilidh’s Quest
Gail MacMillan
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Double Edge Press - Smashwords Edition ebook
Ebook edition ISBN 978-1-4524-9545-3
Ceilidh’s Quest
Copyright © 2007 Gail MacMillan
Non-Fiction
Cover Artwork: Front cover photograph supplied by Art Forester. Back cover author photograph supplied by Ron MacMillan.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Double Edge Press, 72 Ellview Road, Scenery Hill, PA 15360
Ceilidh’s Quest
Foreword I
What makes an animal story a classic? The question brings to mind stories like Lassie Come Home, Black Beauty, A Biography of a Horse, and Bambi to name just a few. In each of these stories, the author’s approach is different from anything written before. In each of these timeless stories the authors portray their animal characters as thinking beings rather than the old idea that animals are a lesser species than humans. The world has too long interpreted the term “dumb animal” to mean “stupid” rather than “mute.”
Like the authors of these much-loved classics, Gail MacMillan writes about her three Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retrievers and her adopted stray puppy with an incredible respect for them as individuals with feelings and thinking abilities not usually attributed to animals.
Ceilidh’s Quest is such an intimate sharing of the author’s experiences with her beloved animals that this reader often felt a twinge of guilt as though he was reading her personal diary. Before the end of the manuscript my feelings of remorse were replaced with a profound sense of gratitude for being allowed to enter the lives of the writer and her always supportive husband, Ron.
Gail’s perceptive writing skills are highlighted with her comparison of Princess Diana, Erna Nickerson, and Harbourlights Highland Chance CD as three beautiful spirits who have left this earth.
Gail weaves the quest of her little red dog so subtly throughout each chapter that when the subject of her mission is finally resolved, the reader is suddenly aware that each of us, human or otherwise, spend our lives in pursuit of something and it is that search for whatever will make us whole that keeps us keeping on until the end. It is this quest, this longing for the missing part in each of our lives, that the author of the classics knew was the element that made a story timeless.
With the writing of this story, Gail MacMillan has joined the ranks of the writers of the classics.
~ Douglas Wayne Coldwell, author, educator, and breeder of champion Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retrievers for over thirty years.
Ceilidh’s Quest
Foreword II
Among Gail MacMillan’s many published words is a book on Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retrievers entitled A Breed Apart.
Gail is an incurable dog person. So am I. We are “a breed apart” from the rest of humanity and share that happy circumstance with like-minded souls for whom no house can become a home without at least one dog in residence.
I wrote and published an article in Eastern Woods and Waters magazine many moons ago about Little River Duck Dogs (a.k.a. Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retrievers). I happened to own one at the time. Gail has told me reading that article sparked her inspiration toward this unique breed.
But if I wrote the article, Gail has written the book on these dogs and become one of the foremost authorities in Canada on the subject of these fascinatingly intelligent little red retrievers.
This is her third volume on the breed. It is a very personal treatise on the unique and reciprocal interspecies relationship that manifest between people and dogs…understood completely by incurable dog people everywhere.
~ Jim Gourlay, publisher, Eastern Woods and Waters and Saltscapes magazines.
Ceilidh’s Quest
by
Gail MacMillan
This book is dedicated to the memory of a dear friend and remarkable lady, Erna Nickerson of Yarmouth County, Nova Scotia, whose contribution to the development of the Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever breed has, for too long, gone unheralded.
Ceilidh’s Quest
By: Gail MacMillan
I wanted her to love me. But, more importantly, I wanted her to know how very much I loved her. Her heart belonged to someone else, however, and for all of the nine years I was privileged to share with her, she remained fiercely loyal to her first love. Although I called her my Ceilidh, she was never really mine. This is the story of her unfaltering quest for the man and his family who would always be the most important people in her world.
Table of Contents
Chapter One – The Gift
Chapter Two – Welcome Home
Chapter Three – Getting to Know You
Chapter Four – The Gulping Gourmet
Chapter Five – Bubble, Bubble, Toil, and Trouble
Chapter Six – The Present of a Squirrel
Chapter Seven – The Queen Complex
Chapter Eight – The Littlest Shortstop
Chapter Nine – Tollers Ahoy
Chapter Ten – Off the Deep End
Chapter Eleven – A Clothes Fetish
Chapter Twelve – Quills in the Country
Chapter Thirteen – One Good Roll
Chapter Fourteen – A Carrot for the Digging
Chapter Fifteen – The Natural
Chapter Sixteen – The Infamous First Day
Chapter Seventeen – A Decoy Rescue
Chapter Eighteen – The Answer
Chapter Nineteen – Fated
Chapter Twenty – Chance Takes the Plunge
Chapter Twenty-one – Toller Tussle
Chapter Twenty-two – Into Print
Chapter Twenty-three – A Springtime Surprise
Chapter Twenty-four – Recovery
Chapter Twenty-five – Memories Are Made of This
Chapter Twenty-six – Field Trials and Errors
Chapter Twenty-seven – The Case of the Vanishing Chocolate Bar
Chapter Twenty-eight – A Disastrous Decision
Chapter Twenty-nine – Under the Barbecue
Chapter Thirty – Death of a Promise
Chapter Thirty-one – Barbie-Q Joins the Family
Chapter Thirty-two – Changes in Chance
Chapter Thirty-three – Heartbreak
Chapter Thirty-four – The Road Back
Chapter Thirty-five – Mother and Daughter
Chapter Thirty-six – Molly
Chapter Thirty-seven – A Last Kiss
Chapter Thirty-eight – Finding Her Family
Chapter Thirty-nine – Art’s Story
Chapter Forty – Ceilidh’s Legacy
Chapter One – The Gift
“The gift I am sending you is called a dog and is, in fact, the most precious and most valuable possession of mankind.” ~ Theodorus Gaza
Ceilidh came into my life as a gift, the result of the loss of a beloved family member, Jet of Acamac the Third. The wonderful Black Lab that had shared our lives for so many years had passed away at age sixteen. Our two-year-old Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever Harbourlights Highland Chance suddenly became an ‘only’ dog in our household. We recognized her loneliness and decided she needed a new friend ASAP.
I called Erna Nickerson at Chance’s birth kennel Harbourlights in Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, and asked her about another dog. (We’d already decided it had to be another Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever.)
Erna was a remarkable woman, fiercely loyal to the conscientious breeding of her beloved Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retrievers. She and her husband Avery had been pioneers in having the breed re-established with the CKC after registrations following the Club’s 1945 initial recognition of the dogs lapsed.
Since my husband Ron and I had gotten Chance from the Nickersons, we’d continued our relationship with the couple. Frequently in need of advice and guidance in dealing with this unique breed of dog we’d often called the knowledgeable pair for help. Avery was inclined to be gruff and outspoken whereas Erna was quiet and reserved. Both, however, had been generous with information and assistance.
Then Avery died.
Left alone with a large kennel that included seventeen adult Tollers, Erna didn’t hesitate. She immediately took over its full management as if it was only what was expected of her.
I admired her courage as much as I admired her extensive and intimate knowledge of duck tolling retrievers. Then in her late sixties, Erna worked long hours to keep Harbourlights Kennel afloat and viable and only downsized when she realized it was impossible to carry on alone at its original size. I can still remember, with acute sadness, the night she called to inform me she’d had to sell off part of her breeding stock.
“They’ve gone to a good home,” she said, a slight shakiness in her voice betraying her sense of loss. “It was the best I could do for them.”
So it was to Erna that we turned when we wanted a companion dog for our beloved Chance. This time we were more interested in a mature dog than a puppy but didn’t expect to be able to get one with the prestigious Harbourlights bloodlines.
“I have a three-year-old female that might interest you,” Erna surprised and delighted me by replying to my query. “Her name is Harbourlights Scotia Ceilidh. She’s been returned to our kennel because her family can no longer keep her. She’s housebroken and even obedience trained. Her father is Gator, her mother, Meg-a-Duck. If you think she’s what you’re looking for, I can send her up to you at the end of the week.”
“She sounds perfect.” I was thrilled. Her breeding couldn’t have been better. Not only was Meg-a-Duck also the mother of our wonderful Chance, Ceilidh’s dad, Ali Gator was probably the most famous living Toller stud in Canada. “Can you put her on a flight to Bathurst this Saturday?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Now, I must tell you: as you realize, Ceilidh is Chance’s half-sister. Sometimes dogs in this situation have what I call a Queen complex. There may be some squabbling for supremacy.”
“I can deal with that,” I said confidently. After all, I had twenty-five years of dog handling to my credit. How much havoc could two little forty pound bitches cause? “How much will I send you to pay for her?”
“Just pick up the cost of the plane fare at your end,” she surprised me by replying. “I only want to be sure Ceilidh goes to a good home. I could have placed her several times . . . she’s been with me for about three months . . . but I was waiting for just the right people. And now they’ve come along. Consider her my gift to you.”
Chapter Two – Welcome Home
March 11, 1992, was a snowy, overcast day. Afraid the inclement weather might delay flights, my daughter Joan and I kept calling the airports in Halifax and Bathurst to chart Ceilidh’s progress. When we knew she’d successfully made the final transfer and was on the last leg of her journey to Bathurst, we cheered. Harbourlights Scotia Ceilidh was coming home!
Joan and I were at the Bathurst airport when Flight 421 from Halifax touched down. Breathless with excitement, we waited by the baggage shunt for her crate to slide out. Getting a new canine member for our family was always a momentous event.
Even at that, our first glimpse of Ceilidh was a never-to-be-forgotten experience. Peering out at us from her travel kennel was the sweetest, most angelic little dog-face we’d ever seen. Harbourlights Scotia Ceilidh was beautiful! Eagerly Joan knelt, snapped open the door, and let her out.
“What a gorgeous Golden Retriever puppy!” one of the people in the small crowd that had gathered to see the new arrival commented.
“She’s not a Golden,” Joan replied a bit indignantly as she attached a leash to the little red collar on Ceilidh’s neck. “She’s a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever.” The last sentence was filled with pride. We Macmillan's love our Tollers.
I could barely tear myself away from the gorgeous little creature to pay for her flight. I wanted to hug her, to kiss her, to welcome her with all the joy and love in my heart. As I stood waiting for my receipt at the reception desk, I watched smiling with pure delight as Joan led our new family member proudly around the waiting room. How fortunate we’d been that Erna had seen fit to entrust us with this lovely creature.
Ceilidh, however, didn’t seem to have any interest in becoming acquainted with the young woman at the end of her lead. Instead, she was straining at the leash, sniffing, searching each person, nook, and cranny for something, something she appeared in desperate need to find.
Finally the paper work was complete and we loaded Ceilidh into the car for the short drive home. Inside the vehicle, she once more began her frantic sniffing and searching. She leaped from seat to floor and even tried to scramble up into the rear window area, her nose and gaze roaming over every inch of the car.
“She’ll settle down,” I reassured Joan who was driving. “Everything is just so new to her.”
I was slightly apprehensive, however, as we arrived home and opened the door to greet Chance. Erna’s words about Queen Complexes echoed in my mind as I kept a firm hand on Ceilidh’s leash.
I needn’t have been concerned. Ceilidh, when I cautiously freed her from her lead, simply rushed into the house and resumed her search. Chance dashed about behind her in an effort to get a decent sniff at the newcomer, apparently no more understanding Ceilidh’s behavior than I did.
When Ron arrived home a couple of hours later and I tried to introduce him to Ceilidh, my efforts failed. Ceilidh was still completely involved in her investigations and had no time to make new acquaintances.
On a positive note, Chance had lain down on the couch, content to watch her half-sister’s antics from a distance. So far so good, I thought . . . no fur flying, no snarling, not a single bit of evidence of the Queen Complex about which Erna had warned me.
Ceilidh’s first night in our home, however, proved a chore. I don’t think she slept a single minute. Instead, she raced up and down stairs and through all the rooms like Don Quixote in her puzzling quest with Chance, in the role of Sancho Panza, at her heels.
“How long is this going to go on?” Ron muttered as the luminous numbers on the bedside clock indicated it was 2:31 a.m. “Is that dog never going to go to sleep?”
I knew my spouse was reaching the exasperation point. Over the years, he’s shown an amazing tolerance for me and my dogs . . . not all that difficult when I believe he loves all of us . . . but this new dog seemed a veritable ball of never-ending nervous energy.
“Not much longer,” I assured him without the faintest idea if I was telling the truth.
But it did last . . . until the dawn’s early light. Then exhaustion from the flight and all that frantic searching must have overcome her. In the earliest rays of her first full day as our girl, Harbourlights Scotia Ceilidh fell asleep by the front door.
As I looked at her sweet little face finally peaceful in sleep, I wondered what I’d gotten into. Already I loved her, already I knew she was home to stay, but how could I convince her of those facts? And how in the world would I be able to find out what it was she was so desperately seeking?
Chapter Three – Getting to Know You
As Ceilidh slept, the morning brightened into all the diamond sparkled beauty of a perfect March morning in northern New Brunswick. A light overnight snowfall had covered everything with a brand new blanket of purest white. As I drank my tea and polished off my toast, I was eagerly looking forward to taking our dogs on a run in the woods.
“I wonder if we should let Ceilidh run free just yet.” I asked Ron as we were bundling up to leave the house. “After all, she’s new and might get confused and. . . .”
“We’ve got to start to trust her,” he replied handing me my snowshoes. “Otherwise she won’t trust us. Furthermore, if we keep her on a leash while Chance runs free, it could start up a serious resentment that will lead to that Queen Complex thing Erna mentioned.”
Ron has always been much more willing to take chances with the dogs than I am. Yet, almost without exception, he’s been right. Once we were sufficiently deep in the woods to be a safe distance from roads and traffic, I snapped the lead from Ceilidh’s collar and let her go.
Off she streaked across the big meadow we were entering and into the trees at the far side. My heart plummeted. We’d lost that beautiful, little dog. What would I tell Erna? More importantly, how would I ever forgive myself?
“She’ll be back,” Ron said confidently setting off with Chance trotting at his side.
I had no choice but to go along with them. I knew catching up with Ceilidh on snowshoes wasn’t an option.
But, a few minutes later, as we started along a trail that led into the woods, Ceilidh appeared out of the trees to our left.
“See?” Ron said, pointing. “She was just stretching her legs after the flight.”
For the rest of our walk, Ceilidh (generally) stayed a part of our group. She did, however, make numerous short side-trips to sniff and again, search and search.
But our adventures with our new family member weren’t yet over for that day we discovered. When we turned and headed for home Ceilidh suddenly went lame. As she was galloping along beside Chance, her right hind leg seemed to seize then stuck out directly behind her.
“Look!” I cried to Ron.
“Just a cramp . . . something left over from a rough flight,” he said calmly, but I saw concern in his face.
Strangely, it didn’t appear to inconvenience her as she kept pace with her half-sister on her three remaining legs. It did, however, look excruciatingly painful.
We’d never know. This was only the first indication of a facet of Ceilidh’s character that we would become familiar with over the years. She was a stoic.
Then, as we reached the end of the trail, Ceilidh’s disability vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Her leg returned to normal position and, once more on her lead, she trotted back to the house on all fours as if nothing untoward had happened. Maybe it had been, just as Ron had suggested, a cramp left over from her flight.
Although she seemed completely undeterred by the incident, I couldn’t get the painful-looking image out of my mind. Once inside, I placed her on the couch and settled her into the pillows. Then I headed for the kitchen to get her a dog cookie.
I’d only gotten about half way when I heard an unmistakable thump. Ceilidh apparently wasn’t about to stay in that wimpy place. By the time I’d turned to look at her, she was stretching out on the hardwood floor beneath the bay window.
“No, no, no, Ceilidh!” I told her as I gently but firmly replaced her in the cozy corner of the couch. “You have to rest. Be comfortable. I’ll be right back with your snack.”
I started back toward the kitchen. Once again the distinctive thump. I glanced back to see her once more stretching out on the floor.
Then, suddenly I thought I understood. In her former home Ceilidh hadn’t been allowed on the furniture. She remembered and just didn’t feel comfortable in formerly forbidden places.
Well, I thought as I took cookies from the dogs’ special can in the cupboard. If I couldn’t convince her that at the MacMillan household dogs were allowed to sleep on beds, chairs, and couches, I’d make sure she slept in another place just as comfortable. That afternoon I went to the local fabric store and bought mattress foam and material with pictures of retrievers all over it.
The next day Harbourlights Scotia Ceilidh had two new foam-filled floor mattresses . . . one for the living room and one for our bedroom where she would spend her nights beside our bed. In the summer, I’d make two more for the cottage. I would see to it that Harbourlights Scotia Ceilidh was as physically comfortable as possible in her new home.
As for her leg problem, I decided to try a remedy that had proven effective for Joan when she’d injured her leg in a skiing accident. I began to treat Ceilidh with a combination of vitamins and herbs. I’ll never know for certain if my potions worked but within six weeks Ceilidh no longer went lame and for the rest of her years with us, her leg appeared to be perfectly normal.
Another of Ceilidh’s problems soon bothered me much more. She’d only lived with us a couple of days when I became aware of it.
Her tail never wagged.
Oh, she was obedient, came when she was called (except outdoors when her constant searching during the early part of our walks would draw her irretrievably away from us for a bit), sat instantly on command and heeled like a trooper. On the other hand, she expressed absolutely no joy in the profuse praise and heartfelt hugs she received for her flawless performances. It was as if she was living inside some sort of hard psychological shell that was impervious to our love and approval.
Determined to break through this barrier, I’d sit beside her on the floor, my arm about her sturdy little shoulders and hold her against me, hugging her and rubbing her back and telling her how very much she was loved and wanted in her new home. It was all to no avail. Ceilidh had firmly closed the door to her heart and wasn’t about let us in. not yet, at least, I thought.
Shortly, however, we learned Ceilidh had yet another problem so acute we were at a loss of how to cope with it. Harbourlights Scotia Ceilidh suffered from severe separation anxiety.
Each time we tried to leave the house without her, she’d get between us and the door and bark sharply, even aggressively at times. We soon learned the only way we could peacefully exit our home was to bribe her with a cookie.
Those panic-stricken responses to our leaving gave me the first real clue into my beautiful little dog’s trouble thoughts. Someone she must have loved very much had left her once upon a time; perhaps back at her birth kennel, perhaps even previous to that incident. They had never returned. She wasn’t about to let it happen again.
Getting to know Harbourlights Scotia Ceilidh wouldn’t be easy, we realized, but we were determined to do it. After all, she was our girl and we loved her.
Chapter Four – The Gulping Gourmet
One of the first things we learned for certain about our new girl became blatantly obvious on her first day in our home. She loved to eat. In spite of any homesickness or queasiness from her flight, on the first night in our home, Ceilidh devoured her supper with gusto and continued to do so unfailingly every day afterwards. In fact, food seemed the only thing in which she took any real pleasure.
And when, on her second day in our home, she discovered Ron baking home-made dog biscuits, we saw the first sparkle in her beautiful brown eyes. She seated herself beside him in the kitchen and proceeded to watch intently as he mixed whole-wheat flour, eggs, oxo, margarine, and milk into the tasty concoction all our dogs have loved. She steadfastly refused to leave the kitchen while they were baking.
Once they were cool, and she was offered her first sample, the best vacuum cleaner in North America couldn’t have sucked it up faster or more efficiently.
The temptation to overindulge her with food became difficult to avoid when it seemed it was the only thing that could bring a gleam to those gorgeous Teddy Bear eyes. I often had to turn away to avoid giving her “just one more treat.”
I must admit I enjoyed feeding Ceilidh. Always beside me at the cupboard at the first signs of doggie supper preparation, she made each meal a much-anticipated experience. When I’d turn to put her bowl on the floor, she’d whirl in joyful circles of anticipation that would have made a carousel operator dizzy.
Once the dish was on the floor in her corner of the kitchen, she’d shove her snout into it and snuffle and burrow like a starving piglet. As I watched her, Jed Clampett’s words of bucolic wisdom frequently echoed through my mind. “Don’t get t’wix that critter and the trough!”
Ceilidh’s love of food was to get her into several scrapes over the course of our years together. The first involved a half-empty bag of flour.
On the morning after she’d first watched Ron making those delectable dog biscuits, she disappeared into the basement. I didn’t pay much attention to her being missing. I knew she was somewhere inside the house and assumed she was simply off on her continuing quest for whatever it was she was seeking.
About twenty minutes later she entered the small office where I was busy writing. I glanced up from my computer, ready to greet her with a hug and kiss, then gasped. Her sweet little face had turned pure white! Good Lord, I thought kneeling to gather her into my arms. What terrible thing had happened to make my gorgeous little dog go gray within minutes?
Then I realized the ‘gray’ was coming off on my hands and arms. What was the stuff? We had no crack fill in the basement. Then it dawned on me. Flour! Ron had placed a bag beside the dryer in the laundry room instead of on the shelf yesterday when he’d finished baking the dog biscuits. How much had she eaten? What would be the effect?
Panicked, I picked up the phone and called our vet.
“You’d better bring her in,” his receptionist advised. “This is the first time I’ve heard of this type of accident.”
“I’ve never encountered a dog that’s eaten a large quantity of just plain flour,” Dr. Larsen said after we’d explained the situation.
“Seems to me that combined with the moisture inside her mouth and body, it could make paste. I think we’d better give her a laxative to make sure she can pass the mixture.”
So home Ceilidh came to spend the next few hours mostly at the backdoor, asking to go out. By the next day, she appeared to be in excellent health. In fact, her appetite and other bodily functions had returned to normal with surprising speed. We did, however, keep the flour on a top shelf from that time.
Chapter Five – Bubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble
That incident, however, was not to be Ceil’s only visit to the vet that first spring. A few weeks later, after we’d taken her for a walk in the woods and she’d gone off on one of her now customary exploratory jaunts, she’d returned home with an appalling bout of diarrhea. After spending most of the following night letting her out, sometimes in time, sometime not, I once again headed for Dr. Larsen. I traveled alone. Ron hadn’t volunteered to accompany us.
Living in horror of hearing that abrupt bubbling sound that meant Ceilidh had had another attack, I kept my fingers crossed during the drive. Fortunately we made it and proceeded into the vet’s crowded reception area. I told the receptionist our problem and she instructed me to take a seat and wait.
I led Ceilidh to a far corner and sat down. She looked up at me, beautiful brown eyes sad and appealing. Poor darling, she wasn’t feeling at all well. My heart went out to her as I stroked her soft amber head.
“Don’t worry, Ceil,” I whispered. “Dr. Larsen will help you. And,” I bent down to whisper in her ear, “remember I love you.”
I can’t believe it was another declaration of my love that did it. It doesn’t really matter. The fact is that at that moment, a distinct bubbling sound erupted and my darling dog was suddenly sitting in a large, brown pool.
The resultant stench would make the strongest stomach swirl. Within seconds, the other clients in Dr. Larsen’s waiting room had fled into the fresh air outside the clinic and the receptionist was rushing toward us with a bucket of water laced with disinfectant. As I got Ceilidh to her feet, the poor woman began mopping up that vile smelling puddle.
At that moment Dr. Larsen emerged from his consulting room and looked around in surprise at his nearly empty waiting room. Then he saw us, sniffed, and strode over to our corner. With a quick, efficient move he picked Ceilidh up under her front legs and started into his surgery with her dangling from his hands.
“Nothing like a good, old fashioned bout of projectile diarrhea to clear a room,” he said matter-of-factly.
I had to agree.
Dr. Larsen concluded Ceilidh had eaten something foul during one of her unauthorized forays in the woods. It was early spring, the time when dead and disgusting things previously buried in the snow surface. Ceilidh with her indiscriminate tastes must have indulged herself in some of it. It only took a bit of medication and a day’s rest, however, and she was once more ready to face the world with an unquenchable appetite and desire to explore.
Chapter Six – The Present of a Squirrel
We hadn’t had Ceilidh very long before we realized she had a passionate hatred for squirrels. Their taunting chatter drove her crazy. Since our fenced backyard had several large trees frequented by the furry creatures, Ceil was constantly at their mercy. Darting up and down the trunks and out across the lawn, they boldly defied the little red newcomer. She was much more fun, they must have decided, than Chance who’d completely ignored their antics since she’d arrived as a six-week-old pup.
Ceilidh, on the other hand, never ceased to give them sport, sprinting in pursuit at a speed amazing in a little dog with relatively short legs. But this didn’t last for long.
One morning in late April after most of the snow had melted from our backyard, I glanced out the dining room window to see Ceilidh sitting on the patio. She was watching several saucy squirrels leap from hedge to apple tree, from apple tree to sugar maple, chattering boldly. Normally she’d be racing about after them, barking her annoyance in no uncertain terms. Then I guessed what she was doing. My darling Ceilidh was thinking, planning a better method of ridding her world of these audacious nuisances.
Now some people will tell you animals don’t plot, can’t reason, even that they’re incapable of thought. Their concepts never cease to exasperate me. Anyone who has ever lived in close contact with an animal has seen multiple examples to the contrary. All our dogs, from the Einstein-type thinkers to the simply how-do-I-steal-the-toilet-paper ones have had the power to figure out solutions to at least some of their problems.
For a while I watched, curious to see what Ceilidh would come up with. But as she continued to simply watch, then finally stretch out full length on the deck in the warm spring sunshine, I decided she was simply settling for a nap and turned back to my housecleaning.
About a half-hour later, I returned to the window. Ceilidh was still lying just as I’d left her while Chance nosed about in a far corner of the yard. One squirrel, apparently emboldened by Ceilidh’s immobility, had actually jumped up onto the edge of the deck and was now only inches from the little dog’s nose. Sitting up on its haunches, it stared boldly at the supposedly sleeping dog for a moment, then burst into a saucy monologue.
It lasted only a spit second. The next instant, the rude rodent had been seized in the jaws of that deceptively drowsy dog.
“Ceil!” I cried as I dashed out of the house in an attempt to rescue the little creature.
I was too late. The squirrel, already dead, dangled from Ceilidh’s jaws. Like a conquering hero, she strode over to me and proudly placed her booty at my feet.
“Ceil!” I breathed. “No!”
Then as she looked up at me I saw it in her eyes. It was the hurt expression of a child whose lovingly crafted, handmade gift had been rejected. Before I could find any words to soften my thoughtless faux pas, Ceilidh had turned and shambled away.
Stung by my insensitivity, I knew I’d just missed a wonderful opportunity of getting close to Ceilidh or of maybe breaking down just a little of the barrier between her heart and mine. I vowed it wouldn’t happen again.
After that, we had to watch Ceilidh more closely in the backyard. Whenever we saw her going into her ‘possum’ act we’d bring her inside. She did, however, manage to catch a couple more of the rodents before most of the squirrels got wise to her strategy. They weren’t dumb, either.
Chapter Seven – The Queen Complex
Ceilidh had lived with us for a little over a month when the problem Erna had warned us about reared its head. By that time, Ceilidh had, at least sort-of, accepted our house as her home, at least for now. She even began rushing to the door in true gregarious Toller fashion to greet us and all visitors on arrival. One day she and Chance hit the ceramic tiles at the front door simultaneously to greet a newcomer.
Suddenly it was as if Wild Kingdom had arrived in our living room. The two half-sisters erupted into a violent battle, teeth bared, snarling wickedly. It was the first time there’d been even the slightest hint of animosity between them.
Fortunately both were wearing buckle collars. I managed to get a good, firm grip on each, pry them apart, and then hold them at arms’ length until the snarling had subsided. When I finally felt it was safe to release them, they immediately went back to their former benign relationship. It was as if nothing had happened. A freak incident I told myself as I tried to reassure my startled guest that he wasn’t about to be eaten by two little red wolves. How very wrong I was!
This was only the first in a lifelong series of what we came to call Queen Bee attacks. These lusty altercations would continue to erupt any time one of them felt the other was garnishing too much attention. Although I have never been sure who started these pitched battles (they erupted so suddenly and with such violence I could never be certain) a week after that first fight I did learn more about Ceilidh’s combative strategies. It happened at our vet’s office.
I’d taken Ceilidh for a routine visit. Once she’d been checked over, Joan, who’d accompanied us, took her out into the waiting room while I remained chatting with Dr. Larsen. Once I glanced out and saw a big, black, mixed breed glaring menacingly at Ceilidh across the room but its owner was an able looking lady with a seemingly good grip on the leash. All appeared under control.
Ceilidh, I also noticed, had gotten to her feet and was staring straight at the larger animal, paws planted firmly, head lowered and neck extended like a marauding gander whose flock had just been threatened. Still I didn’t see any cause for alarm. Joan had a tight hold on her lead. I turned my attention back to our conversation.
Then it happened. The lady with the other dog (Joan later explained) had loosened her grip on her pet for a split second. That was all it took.
Canine snarls and roars made me whirl back toward the waiting room. There a ball of red and black fur was rolling violently about with the acoustic accompaniments of a major battle at the zoo.
Later, after hostilities had been squelched and Dr. Larsen had decreed neither of the combatants was in need of his services, I led Ceilidh back out into the waiting room where the black dog and her mistress sat waiting their scheduled appointment. As we were about to pass the pair, I was abruptly halted as Ceilidh came to a full and definite stop at the end of her lead.
Glancing back, I saw she’d resumed her gander stance as she faced her former opponent head on. The black dog, nearly twice her size, whined and backed submissively against her mistress.
I’d learn, as time went by, this threatening pose would keep all future challengers at bay. All except Chance, that is. The queen bee attacks would be a livelong occurrence in our home.
Chapter Eight – The Littlest Shortstop
Ceilidh in her constant, nebulous quest was ever watchful for any opportunity to temporarily escape our custody and have a little time to search on her own. Therefore we were careful to keep the gate to our fenced back yard securely latched.
But no one or nothing is perfect and one day Ceilidh did mange to escape. It happened one spring evening when Ron was painting the fence. We would be moving to our cottage the following week and we wanted all necessary summer repairs at the house finished before we left. When making a quick trip to the shed to get a new paintbrush, he accidentally left the gate open.
Not one to miss an opportunity, Ceilidh must have dashed to freedom.
Now, all that spring, through the fence, she’d been watching ball games in the park that bordered our property. The words of the old Clear Water Revival song came to mind each time I watched her waiting crouched and ready for any foul ball that might fly into our yard.
“Put me in, coach, I’m ready to play today. Look at me, I could be center field.”
The sight of spheres flying through the air that she was being prevented by chain link from retrieving must have irritated her immensely. At any rate, the moment she gained her freedom, she must have headed for the park.
At first we didn’t miss her. The back door was open and Ceilidh often sauntered back inside to snooze or search for food. Ron returned to his painting, unaware of our missing girl.
Only when yelling erupted from the park that was definitely not cheering for a home run and a bunch of baseball players burst out of the enclosure in pursuit of a small, red dog did we realize she’d once again gone AWOL. Softball clamped firmly in her teeth, Harbourlights Scotia Ceilidh was heading for home with her coveted prize. Like a speeding amber bullet she burst past Ron, flew across the yard, and disappeared into the house.
“That dog stole our ball!” one irate player yelled at Ron as they arrived at the fence.
“Yeah, and it would have been a home run if he hadn’t jumped a good three feet into the air to catch it!” another yelled.
“Sorry.” Ron an avid baseball fan said with sincerity. “I’ll get your ball for you. It won’t happen again.”
But Ron was already too late. Ceilidh, perhaps in an attempt to avenge herself on that formerly illusive, much coveted softball had already torn it to shreds.
Ron returned to the baseball players at the gate, wallet in hand.
Ceilidh never again got to play shortstop.
Chapter Nine – Tollers Ahoy!
In July of that first year after Ceilidh had joined our family we took both dogs to Mount Carleton Provincial Park, a pristine wilderness area about 75 miles distant from our home. It would be our first time canoeing with both Tollers and we were anxious to see how they behaved on the water.
We off-loaded the canoe into the first of the big, beautiful lakes that form a major part of this lovely area, packed it with our supplies, then shoved it out into the shallows.
Thinking Chance would be the most relaxed in the situation, I picked her up and placed her in the boat. To my surprise, she immediately began to prance about, nearly tipping our small craft. A firm command to “sit” from Ron ended her little dance, however, and she settled herself a bit uneasily amidships. Then I returned to shore for Ceilidh.
“Come on, girl,” I said picking her up and starting out into the water. “It’s all right. I’ll be with you.”
She felt as rigid as cement. As I placed her gingerly into the canoe near the stern, I was expecting an explosion of panic. I gripped her collar firmly but to my surprise, she immediately sat down in the exact centre of the canoe with a contented sigh.
“Look at that,” I called to Ron. “All she needs is a little sailor’s hat to make her perfect.”
“Let’s go.” Unimpressed by my fanciful impressions, Ron indicated that I was to climb aboard. A moment later all four of us were gliding out across the water.
Chance occasionally moved and only stern commands from Ron in the rear of the boat brought her back to a sit. Ceilidh, on the other hand, remained perfectly centered in our craft, alertly scanning the shores, searching, always searching. . . .
Then, as we rounded a small island, a flock of Mergansers suddenly appeared out of the tall grass on its shore. I held my breath. What would these two duck dogs do?
Almost immediately both began to sniff, Ceilidh from her stationery position amidships, Chance getting up and moving dangerously close to the left gunwale nearest those tempting ducks.
“Sit!” Ron ordered, touching her with his paddle to urge her back into the proper position. “Sit!”
With a disgruntled gurgle echoing in her throat, she reluctantly obeyed. But both dogs continued to sniff as hard as they could until the mother duck and her flock were far behind us. I really think my Filter Queen has less sucking power then those two Toller noses trying to breathe in ‘duck’.
As that incident had paled into memory, Chance relaxed into once more enjoying the ride. Ceilidh, however, went on scanning the shores, searching, always searching. . . .
Chapter Ten – Off the Deep End
Although Ceilidh had continued her forays away from us for about twenty minutes of each time we released her near our house, she always came back at the end of that time and we were now confident she would return. We just had to hope and pray she wouldn’t eat any more noxious material on one of these jaunts. We knew we could have kept her on her leash and avoided all such worries but then what kind of a life would have been for her.
I especially hoped the old adage was true . . . if you love something, set it free and if it’s meant to be, it will come back to you.
In Mount Carleton Provincial Park, however, Ceilidh behaved very differently. Instead of rushing off on her constant quest, she remained close to us. It was almost as if she realized that if she wandered off into the wilderness, there would be a lot less chance of her finding us again. Or perhaps she smelled the bears and coyotes that inhabited this beautiful area and was clever enough to know not to risk a scuffle with any of them. Certainly throughout her years with us Ceilidh would exhibit a certain survival savvy that Chance entirely lacked.
As we were returning to where we’d parked our truck beside one of the large, scenic mountain lakes, Ceilidh, who had a much heavier coat than Chance, suddenly paused and looked at a small dock jutting out into the water. Glancing at her, I could almost see a cartoon-type light bulb go on in a bubble over her head. She was hot, she was tired, and there was the solution to her discomfort. Suddenly she was off like an amber streak, across the meadow and out along that little wharf. Chance, apparently thinking this was some new kind of game, raced close behind her. Then, exhibiting perfect canine diving form, Ceilidh made a flying leap out into the cool lake water.
Now Chance was a wonderful dog . . . clever, obedient, loving, all we could possibly wish for. She had only one flaw. She wouldn’t swim. Since puppy-hood she’d race into the water only to stop dead in her tracks when the water reached her belly. On this occasion, however, she apparently hadn’t notice Ceilidh’s ultimate destination she’d been so close on her heels and so absorbed in their play.
As Ceilidh dove, Chance came to the end of the wharf at such speed she had no choice but to follow. Her diving form, to be as kind as possible, was definitely not that of her half-sister’s. It more closely resembled the worst of belly flops and had to hurt. After she’d hit the water and had managed to turn herself once more for land, her eyes reflected her absolute shock and desperation.
Recognizing her panic, I ran to the end of the dock and knelt, ready to grab her collar and help her back to dry boards. I didn’t have to urge her. Chance was headed toward me as frantically as a Titanic survivor. When she came within reach, I grabbed her collar and pulled her out of the water.
Eyes still round from shock, she didn’t even shake for a moment, just stood staring at me as if to ask, “What happened?!”
Wet as she was, I gave her a reassuring hug, then looked out across the lake for Ceilidh. Swimming leisurely around some distance from the dock, our newest companion seemed to be in her element, relaxed and thoroughly enjoying herself.
Then Chance shook, long and hard, as if to free herself of the despicable stuff, gave me a quick lick of thanks and dashed up the bank to join Ron beside the truck. I turned my attention back to Ceilidh. Such pure delight in such a simple pleasure. I sat down on the end of the wharf, feet dangling over its end, to watch and share in her enjoyment. This was her first swim in how long? We’d probably never know.
But like a lot of the things Ceilidh felt passionate about, her love of the water ended up giving her more discomfort that pleasure later that same summer. It happened when we took a trip to Fundy National Park in southern New Brunswick. We were hiking along a boardwalk over a marsh when we came upon a beaver pond. It was a hot day in mid-July and both dogs were panting.
When water-loving Ceilidh saw that still, black, stagnant pool she didn’t hesitate. With a resounding splash, she leaped into it and stretched out full length in water just deep enough to cover her belly. She heaved a deep, contented sigh as she looked up at us. Relief at last, she seemed to say.
That evening, however, Ceilidh’s enjoyment of her exploit paled. She began to scratch furiously at her belly and for the remainder of our holiday never ceased to take every opportunity to claw and bite at that section of her anatomy.
Fearing she’d caught something serious or contagious we took her to Dr. Larsen as soon as we got home. His diagnosis was quick and simple. Ceilidh had attracted some sort of pond lice common to beaver ponds. A bit of medication and she’d be fine once again.
We breathed a sigh of relief for two reasons. First, that the problem had proved so easily cured and second (if uncharitably) that the parasites had seen fit to stay confined to a single host in our family.
Chapter Eleven – A Clothes Fetish
Ceilidh had a number of strange little quirks that surfaced as time went by. Among them was a partiality for toilet paper and dirty clothing. If anyone left unwashed underwear or socks lying about, Ceilidh the Chambermaid was immediately on hand to carry them away.
At first it had its amusing moments. For instance, there was the day the Avon lady came to my door and while I was gently informing her I didn’t use the products because of allergies, I noticed her looking beyond me into the house, obviously more interested in something over my shoulder than my explanation. Turning I saw Ceilidh a few feet away, a strapless bra clamped in her teeth, a stiffly wired cup protruding from either side of her mouth.
When we had guests, Ceilidh never failed to turn up in the living room to present them with a roll of toilet paper confiscated from the bathroom. If they weren’t in a receptive mood, she’d find a quiet spot and rip it to smithereens. Perhaps she remembered the rejected squirrel incident and was venting her feelings about all such ungrateful people.
For a while we tolerated her eccentricities but as she began to refuse to relinquish clothing and dashed away to chew giant holes in the garments, we decided we couldn’t tolerate that kind of behavior any longer. What if she seized a mitten or glove from someone other than a family member and then angrily refused to return it! So one rainy evening after we’d moved to the cottage for the summer, I decided to put an end to this unacceptable behavior once and for all.
Ceilidh had found one of Ron’s socks laying amid the stream of clothing he’d left strewn along the floor on his way to the shower. She’d even growled at me when I tried to take it from her.
“That’s enough, Ceil!” I told her firmly.
I took her by the collar and forced her out onto the doorstep. Now while Ceilidh loved to swim, she hated rain. Therefore, I thought putting her out into it until she willingly gave me the sock might be the answer. As I shut the door on her, however, my heart ached. I loved her so much. The punishment seemed terribly harsh. I had to keep telling myself it was for Ceilidh’s own good.
I waited five minutes (they seemed the longest five minutes of my life), then I snapped on the porch light. There, standing in the pouring rain, wet sock still hanging from her mouth, stood my bedraggled darling. My hand went to the doorknob. I desperately wanted to bring her inside, dry her off and cuddle her.
“Leave her,” Ron said. “She has to learn.”
“But she looks so forlorn. . . .”
“You don’t want her to get into serious trouble because of some foolish little fetish, do you?”
“No. . . .”
“Then leave her. She has to learn.”
Another agonizing five minutes passed. Again I rushed to look out. Ceilidh, sock and all, had disappeared into the pitch darkness that is so intense in the country.
“She’s gone!” I cried. “Ceilidh’s gone! She could be on the road; she might get hit by a car! I’m going to look for her!”
“Wait,” Ron advised. “She won’t go far in this rain. Just give her a few more minutes.”
This time I could only restrain myself four minutes before looking out again.
What I saw astounded me. Like some sad, bedraggled offering, the single black sock lay on the doormat. Drenched and dirty, it wouldn’t have been very appealing to most people but to me it was more beautiful than gold. Stepping out into the rain, I picked it up.
“Ceil!” I called. “Thank you, honey. You can come in now.”
For a moment the only reply was the relentless drumming of the rain and the blackness of the stormy night. Then, suddenly, she hopped up on the step beside me, soaked and dripping but just as lovable as ever. Dropping to my knees, I bundled her into my arms.
“Thank you, Ceil. I love you, Ceilidh.”
Her only response was a little grunt. I was squeezing her too tightly.
Then, both of us now thoroughly drenched, we went inside where Ceilidh and Chance each got a homemade dog cookie and the former a good toweling.
That didn’t completely end Ceil’s predilection for running off with clothes, but it did lessen its severity and seriousness. After that, she no longer took clothing from strangers and we could count on getting our own garments back without a pitched battle. That was a big improvement Ron and I both agreed.
Chapter Twelve – Quills in the Country
As I’ve mentioned, we’d moved to our cottage for the summer. There, near river and marsh, Ceilidh came as close as we were ever to see her come to happiness. Racing across the wide fields behind our cottage with Chance and then plunging (alone) into the river beyond, she seemed to be in her element. We admired her as she swam leisurely around and around in the water, the long, strong, slow strokes that were her trademark making her seem tireless.
The only problem we experienced with her at that time was her continuing habit of being away for twenty-minute periods each morning, sniffing and searching. We’ve never let any of our dogs run about country or town on their own and this worried us. Aside from keeping her constantly tied (we had no fence around our several acres in the country as we had around our small city lot), however, there was no choice but to accept her rambles whenever she managed to escape our watchful eyes.
We knew she was searching for something. Tollers are generally non-roamers . . . that was one of their attractions for us, and Chance was an excellent example. From earliest puppy- hood, she’d never strayed more than a few yards from us, no matter what items of interest arose elsewhere. And when Ceilidh would return, seemingly satisfied that at least at that particular moment, she wasn’t about to be successful in her quest, she’d settle down for the rest of the day in the yard.
Although it troubled me no end. . . I was haunted by fears of her wandering onto a country road and being hit by a car or getting lost in the woods and attacked by bears or coyotes. . . I decided I had to trust in the street wiseness she so frequently exhibited to keep her safe and in which our pampered Chance was totally lacking.
There was, however, one habit of Ceilidh’s we never managed to break and that her ‘street wiseness’ hadn’t taught her to eschew. Ceilidh didn’t and never would respect those prickly creatures of the north woods known as porcupines. Or perhaps she’d already had a run-in with them and developed a lifelong hatred that neither pain nor time could erase. One old time woodsman and dog fancier told us that once some dogs are injured by porcupines they’ll attack every one they encounter in the future in an impossible act of revenge.
“The only way to end the problem is to let the dog kill one,” he said.
It wasn’t a solution we’d ever employ.
Ceilidh’s first encounter (under our guardianship, at least) occurred on August 12, 1994. The horror of it will be forever etched in my brain.
We’d had company all day at the cottage. After they’d left, Ron and I decided to take the dogs for a well-deserved run on a deserted farm a couple of miles up the road.
It was a beautiful summer’s evening, with the sun slanting toward the tops of birch, spruce, and maple trees. We stopped our truck at the top of a meadow that sloped downward toward the river and let the dogs out.
Off they raced, lovely flashes of amber crossing the freshly mown hayfield until they disappeared into a small thicket near the riverbank. Following at a leisurely pace, we assumed that the worst they could do was get into the black mud along the shore.
Then, suddenly, outraged barking and snarling and the sounds of a major scuffle erupted from the alders. Seconds later, Chance emerged and headed toward us at top speed. As the sounds of feral violence continued from the trees, she reached us and paused, panting, by our side. As she looked up at us, wide-eyed with alarm, we saw the quills sticking out of her chin.
“Oh, my God!” Ron exclaimed, breaking into a run toward the sounds of the altercation.
Horrified, I knelt and grasped Chance in my arms. My breath clogging in my throat, I watched Ron disappear into the cluster of trees. The yaps and screams intensified.
Finally, after what seemed like hours (but was probably no more than a minute or two) the roars and screams stopped. I got to my feet in time to see Ron emerge from the thicket, dragging Ceilidh by her beautiful tail. I didn’t think I would have the courage to look at her, to view the results of that terrible battle but when they finally reached me, I had no choice.
It was horrible. Ceilidh’s face and the front half of her body resembled one giant, overused pincushion. Quills sprouted from every inch of those parts of her. I felt my stomach churn. My poor, poor darling! She had to be in terrible pain.
Still leading her by her tail (there was no other place on her body to get a safe grip) Ron took the unresisting little dog to our truck and put her in the back. We’d never left a dog unrestrained there before but now we had no choice. We couldn’t get a collar or leash over those quills and we couldn’t put her in the front with us in her condition.
During the two-mile drive back to the cottage, we didn’t speak. We were both too horrified, too shocked, too much dreading what we knew we must do.
Once we had both dogs safely back inside the kitchen, Ron went to the shed for his pliers while I desperately tried to comfort Ceilidh without touching her. Strangely she wasn’t whimpering or showing any signs of discomfort. She simply stood stock still in the middle of the room, her eyes wide and quiet.
When Ron returned, he immediately set to work on the few quills in Chance’s face.
“But Ceilidh has so many. . .” I protested, looking with an aching heart at the stoic little dog standing by the door.
“That’s exactly right,” he replied. “It’ll take me hours with her. I can do the job on Chance in a few minutes and then at least one dog can rest easy.”
He was right. Chance, however, proved unready for the operation. She squealed and leaped and screamed. It took both of us to restrain her.
When we’d finally gotten all the quills we could find out of Chance, Ron turned to a still quiet Ceilidh and carefully lifted her onto the table. I wanted so desperately to hug and kiss her, to comfort her, to make her know it was going to be all right, but all I could do for her at the moment was steady her as best I could while Ron cut and plucked the hundreds of quills from her body.