Novel November and Fighting Dogs

Earlier, this November wasn't able to decide whether it was still October or even late September. Instead of being an overture to winter's grip, it was a sonata of solid sunshine with real heat. And it felt eerie to me, being without a jacket surrounded by a sepia-washed, barren landscape.

Apart from the green-gold leaves clinging to a few bushes and trees, everything was looking dead, feeling dead: the hardwoods exposed like soldiers, their bare branches weapons piercing the empty sky, the marshes and meadows all tangled and brown-crisp, the goldenrod crowned with dirty fluff. At the park, the racing dogs stirred up a storm of dust on the arid path. They went home gritty. If it had been cold and drizzly, as it usually is, we'd have been despondent. But it wasn't. It was gloriously, uncharacteristically warm.

So there was a feeling of being bestowed upon, as if the embracing, (rather than bracing) temperatures were a gift. (And there is the puritanical guilt that for pleasure we must pay.)

November is a month of complicit duality, like January. They both bookend the festivities of December when the weather loses its significance or else enhances the season by being postcard beautiful. November (normally) abruptly ends autumn and pushes us into winter. You can see your breath. The ground freezes. The first snow comes. January ruthlessly finalizes all the distracting celebration and takes us, surely, into four months of confronting cold.

But for some reason, this year November stalled for a bit. Maybe it was global warming. Interestingly, it felt tantamount to a heat wave in late April before there is any real hint of green. Then the landscape has the same bleakness, making the sun more powerful for the lack of any cover. Both aberrations offer unobstructed heat. In April, it feels like a blast. In November, it radiates like the hot waves from those lamps on outdoor terraces to prolong alfresco dining.

I hate winter. A decade in the Yukon ruined me for it. But I have always loved November, not as winter's precursor, but as a respite before it hits, an example of the kind of winter I'd love. The kind they have in England, in Paris, in North Carolina. Pewter dull, damp, the surroundings briefly bared. Maybe there's an early morning frost, a dusting of snow but it melts quickly. It's a reticent, bland, bleary time, devoid of spring's bright promise, summer's lushness, autumn's garishness, winter's ferocity. But it is pacific. It stands alone, dreary and austere, without promise. It is inconsequential, really.

This November has had consequence.

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It's definitely distressing when a dog you're fond of misbehaves. Yesterday, Claire instigated four fights. In one, she split Sam's ear in two places. Dog altercations terrify me, so when a dog I like erupts, I'm upended.

Claire is an endearing Bull Terrier. It's difficult to see how a Bull Terrier can be endearing, I know. They are a fighting breed after all and like Pit Bulls, can look menacing. They have powerful, squat, muscular bodies like mini-tanks, heads like missiles and small, beady eyes. They're not the least bit cuddly, the way even obnoxious Jack Russells can sometimes be.

But I've never met one that didn't seem to have a sense of humour. Reggie, the big white male at the park, does. And so does Claire. She just seems full of laughter, as if life overjoys her. She is boisterous, gregarious and affectionate and up until yesterday, (except for a couple of exceptional skirmishes), has been a fair, albeit rough player.

Claire is an attractive charcoal grey with a wide white collar and some white on her toes.

One of her favourite pals has been Sam. Sam is an affable, handsome mongrel, like a caramel-coloured Labrador with white paws. But he's finer that a Labrador. In fact, one woman was sure he was a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever because of the distinctive white star on his forehead.


Sam and Claire play hard. Sam's owner keeps him from getting too riled up. But the two dogs, often in collusion with Annabelle, the lovely blonde Shepherd/Collie/Whatever with the black mask wrestle vigorously. Sometimes our Great Dane Maggie joins in. Then the scrum has to be broken up, but not because of ferocity. There's never been any aggression between the dogs. Not for the days, weeks, months they've been playing together. It's more because the level of interaction escalates into harsh growls and fur and limb-grabbing. Remember when you were rough-housing as a kid, your mother used to yell, "Someone is going to get hurt!"

But yesterday, Claire and Sam fought for real, maybe over a tug-rope they'd been happily playing with minutes before. There's no mistaking dogs at each other's throats. The scary scuffle was broken up in short order, but Claire's potential viciousness, (and Sam's ability to defend himself), showed in Sam's split ear.

So did it show in two of the other fights I witnessed. I don't remember which dogs now, only the terrible wrangle of bodies and the savage snarling. The fourth fight I only heard as I was at the other end of the park, but apparently, it was with Niko, a German Shepherd Claire usually plays easily with.

Claire's owner was understandably distressed and apologetic. He's vigilant with Claire and keeps close watch on her. Before Claire, he had another Bull Terrier, a fierce dog who was "unbringable" to the park. That's why he deals with the fights so quickly. And he disciplines his offending dog with grim purpose.


"Maybe it's the medication," he offered. Claire has severe allergies; is losing a lot of hair. I don't know this, but I'm assuming she's on steroids. Sometimes steroids can cause aggression in humans. Witness "'Roid Rage". Perhaps that's what got into Claire. So her sudden change in personality, from being sweet to unpredictably violent, has a chemical cause and is only temporary. It would seem so, since she's always been a trustworthy dog. And I really hope so, because both Claire and her owner are enjoyable dog park co-horts and I would miss them if Claire couldn't shape up.