Happy Yesteryear!
New Year resolutions? Bah! I'd rather rack up the bad habits and live in the past.
Retro beats reality in my books, as in:
Back in my day --
We trekked seven miles to school and back through snow, sleet and molten lava flows.
And we loved it.
We navigated by the stars, except for Dad of course; he got around using dogs as landmarks.
Take a right at the brown-brick house with the beagle on the balcony.
Go down the street to the grey-brick bungalow with the snoozing schnauzer.
Cross the street, take 10 paces north to the white-brick cottage with the scratched-up door and crazy collie. That's us.
Dad didn't need a GPS app to get to his destination. He knew every dog-mark within a 5-mile radius and then some.
Those were the days my friend --
When dogs pooped with impunity.
Picking up? We called it lawn fertilizer.
And if a dog bit you — you bit back. Sank your choppers in deep.
After all, what was the worst that could happen?
Rabies? So you foamed at the mouth and dropped dead...face-first in a bed of petunias. So what?
You gotta go someday.
Why not petunias?
Those were the days my friend, simpler times.
We didn't dress up our dogs in matching coats and booties. Folks would've laughed you out of town if you did.
And dog parks? Dream on. That land was for the nuclear power plant that lit up our homes, (and as we later learned, also gave us radioactive nipples).
The days of yore still glow in my heart and unfortunately also in my nipples.
Fortunately, I'm transported back in time with every neighbourhood dog-walk: past the brown-brick bungalow with the howling husky, past the corner house with the yappy yorkie, past and the red-brick cottage with the barking boxer -- always thinking of Dad and it's a sweet place to be.
A sweet place to be.
