one degree in either direction from its course,

  it made me think a seasoned sea captain

  could take lessons from this lowly animal.

  It was proceeding at maybe half a knot

  as a full moon spilled a splash of light

  and sparkled off its horns

  and I lagged behind with my motor idling

  at a speed suitable for trolling for salmon

  until I was at a point where the bovine head

  was about to disappear into the distance

  and I kept at that distance

  all through the night

  following that awesomely purposeful beast

  as it ploughed through the black and golden waves

  straighter than the deadliest arrow

  and as I putted along back a quarter of a mile

  I sipped coffee and for a while

  imagined I was the coach of Marilyn Bell.

  And by the time the rosy fingers of the sun

  took over from the slowly setting moon

  the task of illuminating this strange scene

  I began to feel a sense of senseless love

  toward the cow I was so senselessly following

  for I was not following it with the hope

  of somehow capturing it and slaughtering it

  and taking its carcass home for my freezer

  but rather I was following it

  out of the deepest curiosity

  and a kind of non-anthropomorphic devotion

  for I didn’t even know that cows could swim

  never mind swim the width of Lake Ontario.

  The dawn was quiet as the night had been.

  The sound of the softly turning motor of my boat

  and the watery whisper of the swimming beast

  had calmed my mind to a silence so profound

  I could hear the slow soft thumping of my heart.

  And slowly as we continued across the lake

  in a line so straight I thought my heart would break

  the dawn turned into brilliant day

  and beyond the black hypnotic head of this fearless beast

  a thin blue line rose above the horizon

  and I checked my map and compass once again

  and realized we were approaching

  the shore of Prince Edward County.

  We passed Wicked Point and the lighthouse of Point Petre

  and entered a lovely bay known as Soup Harbour

  which was named, so the story goes

  after a ship loaded with kegs of powdered soup

  was wrecked in a storm a hundred years ago,

  a ship so large and so filled with soup

  the wives of settlers in the area

  for weeks after carried pails of water

  home from the bay and boiled the water down

  and served delicious soup for supper.

  The sun was almost at its zenith

  and from my vantage point half a mile out

  I watched as the cow’s hooves struck shallow bottom

  and it raised its weary body and stumbled ashore

  and fell exhausted on the warm dry sand.

  But it didn’t rest long. It soon arose,

  staggered up across a narrow gravel bar,

  its udder blue and puckered, barely swinging,

  and slipped into a grove a maple trees.

  It seemed strange there was no one on the shore

  to greet us, no television cameras,

  no hordes of well-wishers, no local politicians,

  no corporate executives to shower my nameless friend

  with free cars and other expensive gifts

  for after all her feat was just as great

  as those of Marilyn Bell and other mighty swimmers

  who have conquered as they say the cold black waters

  of lovely Lake Ontario.

  But I didn’t dwell on what might have been.

  I pulled the boat up on the shore

  and ran toward the grove of trees

  anxious not to let the cow out of my sight

  for after following her quietly through the night

  I certainly deserved at the very least

  to discover the destination of this beast,

  to discover the reason behind her odyssey,

  and if I lost her now I’d spend my life

  torturing myself for having let her go.

  Once again, I reached the trees I stopped and listened

  and heard in the distance the crunching sound

  of heavy hooves on the forest floor

  and followed the sound until I came to a clearing

  and there I saw a sight so endearing

  I’ll remember it as long as I live

  and maybe even longer.

  Just beyond the clearing was a pasture

  enclosed by a well-built barbed-wire fence

  and in the pasture a good-sized herd of cows

  and as you might have guessed some bulls as well

  lazily grazed on green grass in the sun.

  And there was the cow I’d followed through the night –

  my cow as I’d come to think of her –

  standing outside the fence looking in.

  And as I watched a large black bull looked up,

  saw her, and broke into a run.

  And several cows and calves came also over

  as if welcoming my cow home after a holiday.

  And after sniffing each other’s noses for a while

  the bull, the cows and calves backed up a bit

  and my cow crouched down as if about to sit,

  then with one mighty leap leaped over the fence.

  The nearest town to there was Cherry Valley,

  about four miles away. I tried to thumb

  but no one would pick me up. I guess

  after such a night I looked a mess.

  So I walked to town and ate a meal

  then phoned home and arranged

  to have a car and trailer

  driven around the lake

  to pick up my borrowed motorboat.

  And then I made a few long-distance calls

  to various meat plants and slaughterhouses

  in the area around Hamilton and Burlington

  and after a few calls I talked to a guy

  who said they’d had a nice shipment the day before

  of cattle from a farm way up on the north shore

  and from that shipment one cow had jumped

  from the ramp leading to the abattoir

  and got away before they could recapture her

  but they were planning to start looking for her again

  in the woods around Cootes Paradise,

  a little bay that flows into Hamilton Harbour.

  You’ll never find her there, I said,

  and then hung up.

  And so, I went home and wrote this poem

  without even bothering to wash my hands

  or change my clothes. And now

  I’m coming to the end of it

  and as you can imagine I’m really tired,

  although not as tired as that cow must have been

  after its great escape from the camp of death.

  And I know whoever reads this won’t believe me

  they’ll think it’s just a lot of bull

  and not even very well written.

  All I can say is this:

  following that cow across that lake

  was the most poetic experience of my life

  and I just had to write a poem about it.

  And maybe that great escape and marathon swim

  gave the brave cow only a couple of days more life.

  Maybe she went back to the meat plant in the next shipment.

  And maybe this time she wasn’t able to escape.

  Beef cattle are on the same level of anonymity

  as earthworms, minnows and the untold thousands

  who built the pyramids of Egypt. The farmer

  never would have noticed her return.

  And her eventual fate I’ll probably never learn.

  But maybe, my friends, at some future date

  I’ll find her lying on my supper plate.

  THE STORY OF WEASEL TOSSING

  GAIL PRUSSKY

  People are always asking me to tell them about weasel tossing. Wherever I go, I’m surrounded by hordes of people hungry for information about the sport. I try to be polite.

  I don’t like talking about it too much. It brings back bittersweet memories…

  About a hundred years ago, in the village of Babushkin in the Republic of Buryatia, Yuri Kozlov’s pet weasels escaped from their shed and began breeding, at a time of revolutionary upheaval left, right and centre. The weasels, having gone wild, threatened the village’s economy – the steady sales of chicken-stuffed cabbage rolls and egg blintzes. Weasels were decimating the chickens of Babushkin.

  Yuri Kozlov, feeling horribly guilty, came up with an idea: “Weasel Tossing,” a competition that required the use of twenty or more live weasels. This encouraged the people of Babushkin to go into the woods and hunt for weasels. Everyone wanted the grand prize – a week in Minsk and a year’s supply of beet borscht with sour cream from the monasteries of Novgorod.

  The game required strength, a good eye and blood that would clot easily. (Weasels have razor-sharp teeth.)

  My great-great-grandmother, Ludmila Popov, lived in Babushkin. She had powerful arms, built up from pushing a single blade hand plow and carrying her crippled husband, Oleg, into town every day to pick up his vodka.

  Ludmila won the weasel tossing championship year after year. Decades later, when my grandparents fled to Canada to escape from NKVD persecution, they brought all of Ludmila’s trophies with them (mostly electroplated cabbages) as well as Babushkin News articles that featured Ludmila on the cover, grinning toothlessly.

  Weasel tossing in small Russian villages in Babushkin came to a halt when all known weasels disappeared. Overnight, there were no more weasels or weasel breeders. For a time, the village folk tried to carry on the sport by using wolverines. They were too large, too rank, too mean.

  Then, the village of Izerbash in the foothills of the Republic of Buryatia – seized by a fit of nostalgia – held a competition using farm-raised weasels. They shortened the length of the throwing field, because nobody pushed plows anymore and nobody had arms like Ludmila. And most of the men were drunk out of their minds on vodka and couldn’t focus on the far end of any given field.

  As a Diaspora descendant of Ludmila Popov, I was asked to be a judge for that year’s competition. Of course I accepted and spent a fabulous homecoming week in Izberbash. All the borscht I could eat and a night on the town with Agidel Gureyv, known as the handsomest man in Izberbash because he had the most gold teeth.

  Though I watched dozens of rodents fly through the air, the competition was not particularly exciting. Being farm-raised, the weasels lacked a certain ferociousness. Still, I have never felt so alive as in Izberbash. The scent of vodka with a pickle, the pungent odour of weasel glands, the crowds cheering in unfamiliar dialects not heard since the late 1800s, the free cabbage rolls with fresh sour cream for everyone.

  I may be a lesser Ludmila, but I have discovered that weasel tossing is in my blood. Plus, more importantly, Agidel Guryev is in my arms.

  THAT CHAMPIONSHIP SEASON

  MARSHA BOULTON

  While the farmers were taking off the second cut of hay and worrying about the rain, I was putting makeup on my dog and worrying about the rain. Go figure. I was going to a dog show.

  At sheep shows I have seen that it takes a fair amount of primping to make a sheep a champion. Fluff the wool a little here, trim it back a little there – use a black felt-tip marker to disguise a few white hairs where there should only be black. In dire straits, go for the Miss Clairol.

  Cattle breeders use vacuums and hair blowers on their prize beef. They have trunks full of clippers and hair-shiners, hair spray and hoof gloss. And, I hate to tell you this but there was a scandal in the dairy industry when certain competitors were accused of enhancing the utters of prize-winning cows with silicon injections.

  People will go to ungodly lengths to try and win a silly ribbon. That notion really struck home for me when I found myself wiping a cosmetic sponge covered with clown makeup over Wally the Wonder Dog’s gigantic nose.

  It started innocently. A few bull terrier owners complimented Wally’s good looks, and said he had “show potential.”

  That was some solace to me, since he had shown no sheep-herding potential. Lambs stamp their hooves at him and he runs away – at top speed, usually aiming for my knees. He tries to engage the horses by squatting in front of them and wagging his tail like a helicopter ready for take-off. They just snort in his general direction. He’s good at chasing chickens across of round bales of hay, disrupting the stacking of anything and jumping into puddles. “Show-potential’ sounded soothing.

  It took a year for me to figure out how to enter Wally in a dog show. When I told him dog-obedience instructor what I was planning, I was dispatched to a store that specializes in dog-show equipment where I could find fancy, thin, show leashes and a chain so fine it could be a silver necklace.

  There were isles chock-a-block with doggy things, everything from life-size plastic fire hydrants to bags full of those impossibly tiny little bows people use to hold the hair out of the eyes of furry little lap dogs. There was even a special counter for pet perfume and hygiene aids including whitening, brightening” toothpaste to go with curved canine tooth brushes.

  Dog foods ran the gamut from puppy to geriatric, with all manner of gummy bone, raw hide bone and fake salami. Then there was must be the ultimate in the waste-not-want-not category – dried pig’s ears.

  Real late-pig’s hearing devices dried to a crisp for Fido’s pleasure.

  Perhaps that explains the toothpaste.

  Before I could grab a shopping cart, Moose bagged the fine chain and leash and whisked me out of the store, muttering something about turning Wally into some kind of “girly dog.”

  On the day of the dog show I got out the garden hose and gave Wally a good bath. I brushed him until he shone and clipped toenails. That was it, I thought. Ready for the show. I had a fresh package of something called Beggin’ Bacon to make Wally stand prettily and my secret weapon – a lacrosse ball.

  I was totally unprepared for what greeted me at the arena that day. A thousand dogs of every variety imaginable stared out of metal cages, plastic dog houses and little pens. There were trailers and vans filled with dogs in the parking lot. In one corner of the arena, huge Old English Sheep Dogs stood on sturdy stands while their personal groomers worked the hair dryers. Scissors and shears trimmed Poodles into some sort of art form, while every silky strand of Lhasa Apso was carefully combed in place. Impossible tiny bows were everywhere.

  Moose thought taking Wally to a dog show was the biggest waste of time I had come with since trying to get chickadees to take seed from my hand in winter. We waded through a sea of dogs and dog owners just as the Bull Terrier class was called. I examined Wally. His paws were still white.

  Having watched a few dog shows on satellite television, I had some idea of the routine. My numbered arm band was adjusted and I swung into the ring with Wally. He was perfect. Trotted around looking joyful. Stopped dead like an alert statue when I pulled out the lacrosse ball. The judge padded his body, and, at the appropriate moment, Wally looked deeply into the judge’s eyes and wagged tail. What showmanship!

  Wally won a ribbon. It was unreal. We kept going back in the ring and winning some more. In the end, Wally got a trophy and a handful of Beggin’ Bacon. Moose was jumping up and down like a bee-stung goat. I shook the limp hands of losers and realized that these were professional dog handlers. Wally the Wonder Dog had emerged from nowhere and ruined their day. Alas, we never regained our early glory.

  The professionals always topped us in the final round. It was going to be a long limp toward winning the title of champion. Moose started developing conspiracy theories: drawing charts showing which judges favored which handler and gripping about American dogs stealing the thunder of Canadian dogs.

  Once, when Wally seemed sure to take the top prize, we were called into the judging ring at the precise moment that a neighbouring dog had what would be called a rather large “accident.”

  “Clean up,” shouted the professional handler without a hint of embarrassment. I looked a Wally. His almost-champion face was a twisted grimace that said: “Somebody’s in a lot of trouble.” It was the same look he gave the Bassett-faced judge. Then he tried to hide from sight by burying his head under her skirt.

  “Control your dog,” she commanded.

  Wally looked up.

  Moose added that judge to his list of conspirators.

  Our final show was an outdoor extravaganza that promised to bring out the crème de la crème of dogdom. Wally was ready in spirit, but not in form.

  By mid-summer, he had developed a fair-sized callus on his nose from heading off soccer balls. Then he chased a chipmunk into a woodpile, adding splinter wounds to go with whatever damaged a cornered ground hog can do.

  Bluntly put, Wally’s nose was a bloody mess of bumps, burises and scabs.

  I thought of forfeiting the entry fee. Then I remembered how things worked in sheep and cattle shows. I checked with a friend who is an old hand in the world of doggy showing and discovered that the remedy for Wally’s nose was clown-white makeup and a dusting of corn starch.

  Where in small town southwestern Ontario was I going to find clown makeup? Stedman’s, of course.

  Sure enough, on the toy rack facing the vegetable peelers and potato mashers I found clown-white Halloween makeup, non-toxic to children. Stedman’s never lets you down.

  Applying makeup to a teenaged Bull Terrier is not an easy matter. By the time I finished, my arms were streaked with clown-white, and a whole section of the kitchen floor was covered in a fine dusting of corn starch.

  Moose surveyed my handiwork.

  “He looks like a girl,” was the verdict.

  On the drive to the dog show, Wally rolled in the backseat. When we arrived that upholstery was clown-white.

  I registered, leaving Moose to exercise Wally. When I found them, they were in a crowd of children putting on a show of their own.