Going on international holiday. Traveling abroad. Coloring outside the U.S. lines. I'd never done it. My bare country feet had never stepped outside the border of these here continental United States. The closest I'd ever come to being in foreign country was a foray into New York City. Until last week ...
Some friends put their house up for sale in preparation to move to Northwest Arkansas in the very near future. Friends who happen to live in a majestic Currier and Ives setting with huge blue spruces and winding driveways leading to a horse barn nestled between Calgary and Banff in Alberta, Canada. They have sights set on Winslow ... because the Boston Mountains are so reminiscent of the Canadian Rockies.
The proposal was simple -- if I want to come visit, it's now or never. I jumped at the chance, especially when the Copes offered to keep my beloved pup, Baxter. Now, to fully appreciate what happened next, you need to know the Copes. I attended grades kindergarten through 12th grade with their youngest son, Mark, on whom I promptly planted my first kiss when we were 6 years old. The Copes are wonderful people, and they keep an immaculate house. Whatever you're thinking, add three doses of Downton Abbey and multiply it by two Martha Stewarts. I've never been to their home when vacuum marks weren't freshly made in plush carpet, regardless of the time of day. Their home isn't a museum or uncomfortable. But, if cleanliness is next to godliness, then Moses is shacked up in their guest bedroom.
Enter the fair Baxter, who sensed something was rotten in the state of Denmark. Suitcases were packed, his mama was wistful and a rambunctious 6-year-old female dog was frantically trying to kiss him.
Bax was horrified. He dodged. He ducked. He darted. Then he casually walked into the Cope's pristine kitchen and deposited the entire contents of his lower intestines.
"Oh, no!" I exclaimed, grabbing nearby paper towels and holding a bundle of steaming excrement. "It's OK. He'll be fine," Don assured. "You can flush that in the toilet."
"Um ... it's paper towels. Are you sure?"
"Yes, I think so."
I tossed the bundle into their perfect potty and flushed.
My first international trip was memorable. I hiked across a frozen Lake Louise, soaked in the hot sulphur springs at Banff and snowshoed through alpine forests. I felled myself backward into the powdery white canvas and created snow angels. I played with magnificent horses and fat barn cats, and lounged fireside with friends. And I learned valuable lessons.
An "oooot-whooose" is an outhouse. Loonies and toonies are Canadian dollar and two-dollar coins. "Tickety" means doing well. "Tickety-boo" means doing very well. Saying "Tickety-boo-boo" means you're a dumb American. Getting through customs is easier than getting through the Cope's oooot-whooose. Paper towels do not flush. Six-year-old girls are harlots.
And Bax is not abooot to let me use my passport again anytime soon. I guess he just can't cope, eh?
NAN Our Town on 03/22/2018