Service Dogs and Public Access in BC

Ok folks, sit down, buckle up and grab a coffee. There have been some posts recently that are so full of misinformation that one has to shake their head, so lets try and clarify a few things. There is a growing misunderstanding in Canada – and especially in British Columbia – about the difference between emotional support dogs, therapy dogs, and legitimate certified service dogs.
For many people, a dog is simply a beloved pet. But for someone who depends on a true service dog, that animal is not a luxury, a comfort item, or a trend. It is independence. It is safety. It is mobility. It is freedom.
As someone who understands what a real service dog means to its handler, I think the public often fails to realize how devastating it can be when a poorly trained pet, fake “service dog,” or uncontrolled animal interferes with a working dog team.
A guide dog leading a blind handler through traffic is not just “a dog allowed in a store.” That dog is functioning as that person’s eyes. A seizure-alert dog may be the only warning someone receives before collapsing. A mobility assistance dog may help someone stand, retrieve medication, or open doors. These dogs are highly trained medical tools wrapped in fur.
And when something happens to one of these animals, the consequences are life-changing.
The Three Types of Dogs People Often Confuse:
1. Service Dogs (Including Guide Dogs)
In British Columbia, guide dogs and service dogs are legally recognized under the Guide Dog and Service Dog Act. These dogs are specifically trained to perform tasks directly related to a person’s disability.
Examples include:
Seeing-eye dogs for blind or visually impaired handlers
Seizure-alert dogs
Hearing dogs
Mobility assistance dogs
Psychiatric service dogs trained to perform specific tasks
A real service dog is not simply comforting its owner. It is trained to actively work.
In B.C., certification can occur through accredited schools or by passing a provincial public safety assessment. The province also recognizes dogs trained through accredited organizations such as Assistance Dogs International (ADI) and the International Guide Dog Federation (IGDF).
Under B.C. law, certified service dogs have public access rights and tenancy protections. Businesses generally cannot deny entry to legitimate service dog teams.
2. Therapy Dogs
Therapy dogs are very different.
These dogs are usually brought into hospitals, schools, care homes, or crisis situations to provide comfort to other people. The dog is helping the public – not specifically assisting its handler with a disability.
A therapy dog may be calm, gentle, and well-trained, but therapy dogs do not have the same legal public access rights as certified service dogs in British Columbia.
A therapy dog cannot simply enter any store or restaurant because it wears a vest.
3. Emotional Support Animals (ESAs)
This is where much of the confusion begins.
An emotional support animal provides companionship and emotional comfort to its owner, but it is not trained to perform disability-related tasks in the way a service dog is.
British Columbia specifically states that emotional support animals are not eligible for certification under provincial service dog legislation.
That means:
An ESA does not automatically have public access rights
A store is not legally required to allow an ESA inside
An online certificate or vest does not make a dog a legal service dog
This distinction matters enormously.
Unfortunately, many websites now sell fake “service dog registrations,” vests, and certificates online. These documents often look official, but in British Columbia they generally have no legal standing. This has created confusion for businesses and frustration for legitimate service dog handlers.
Even many online discussions within B.C. communities point out how fake service dogs damage public trust and create access problems for legitimate handlers.
Why Fake Service Dogs Are Such a Serious Problem
Some stores are very pet-friendly today. Many businesses choose to allow dogs voluntarily, which is their right. But problems arise when people bring uncontrolled animals into public spaces and falsely claim they are service dogs.
A poorly behaved dog can:
– Bark at a working service dog
– Lunge at it
– Distract it during critical tasks
– Cause fear or stress
– Injure the service dog physically or psychologically
To the average person, it may seem like “just dogs being dogs” or “just a distraction.”
But to a service dog handler, it can mean losing independence overnight.
If a seeing-eye dog becomes fearful after an attack, it may no longer be safe to guide a blind handler through traffic. If a medical-alert dog loses focus after repeated aggressive encounters, its handler could lose critical warning time during a medical emergency.
Many professionally trained service dogs cost tens of thousands of dollars to raise and train. Training often takes years.
When a service dog is washed out due to trauma or injury, the handler may lose mobility,  safety,  confidence and the freedom to travel independently.
And then comes the waiting period for another trained service dog – sometimes months or even years.
Imagine going from confidently navigating the world alone to needing help crossing streets, shopping, or commuting because someone’s uncontrolled pet attacked your working dog in a grocery store.
That is the reality many service dog handlers fear every day.
What the Law Says in British Columbia
Under B.C.’s Guide Dog and Service Dog Act:
It is an offence to falsely represent a dog as a guide dog or service dog
Violations can result in fines of up to $3,000
Interfering with or harming a guide or service dog is also an offence under provincial law
Businesses also have rights.
If any dog – including a legitimate service dog – is disruptive, aggressive, or uncontrolled, a business may ask the handler to leave.
Real service dogs are trained to remain calm, quiet, and focused in busy environments. That level of training is one reason legitimate service dogs are held to such high standards.
Respect the Difference
Most people love their dogs. Many people genuinely benefit emotionally from having an animal companion. There is nothing wrong with that.
But there is a major difference between:
“My dog comforts me,” and
“My dog is medically trained to help me function safely in daily life.”
That distinction is not about gatekeeping or elitism. It is about protecting people whose lives genuinely depend on these animals.
A legitimate service dog team already faces enough obstacles — access challenges, public questioning, distractions, and safety concerns. Fraudulent service dog claims only make those challenges worse.
At the end of the day, a true service dog is not simply a pet wearing a vest. It is often the difference between dependence and independence, isolation and mobility, fear and freedom. If your dog helps you in your day to day life that is fantastic, I am so happy for that. BUT if you have ordered a service vest off of Amazon and / or payed a few hundred bucks for an online certificate, you DO NOT HAVE A CERTIFIED SERVICE DOG. I honestly believe some people are scammed by this, and they believe they are certified. The public access certification is a very strict, comprehensive test that is very hard to pass and takes a lot of training and dedication to achieve. In the province of BC there is no way to fill out a questionnaire and recieve certification online. You are in fact breaking the law and you are causing problems for actual certified service dogs.
Thank you for coming to my dog-talk.

Lawn and Order – Flamingo Unit

*I tell this little tale of teenage debauchery with the assumption that the statute of limitations has expired for said events.*


It was somewhere about 1988 or 1989, nearly the end of the greatest decade that ever was, that myself and a couple of friends who I worked with had all rented a house in one of the less-than-great neighborhoods in town. When I say less-than-great, what I mean is I’m quite confident we didn’t have any Doctors or city council members as neighbors in this location. I mean, three teenagers working at a fast food joint could rent an entire house – it wasnt exactly Park Avenue. One evening we were out cruising around because… well it was the late 80s – what else were we supposed to do? 

As boredom reached its peak we come around a corner, and one of the guys had someones lawn decoration catch his eye. Not just any lawn ornament either – it was a plastic pink flamingo. You’ve all seen them I’m sure. The long-legged lawn chickens dressed up for a tropical vacation that people seem to love. “Hayden” (note, names have been changed – if the people in this story wish to out themselves that will be on them) – said “stop the car!!” and quickly jumped out, crouching low and moving like a ninja across the lawn. Looking around furtively he quickly scooped up the poor flamingo and bolted back to the car yelling “GO GO GO!!” 

He dove in the backseat like he was diving onto the last chopper out of Vietnam, plastic flamingo firmly in his arms.

“Dan” (note that whole name change thing again) floored it and we were off in a blue cloud of what was surely more burning oil than tire smoke. 

At this point of the story I feel it is necessary to tell you about Dan’s car so you can properly imagine the scene. It was a loud, emerald metallic green, 1960s Chevy Impala four door land yacht. I’m pretty sure it was big enough to need it’s own pilot car and oversize load signs to drive on today’s roads but back then it was fine. This car was anything but “subtle”. And here it was cruising around with three idiots laughing hysterically about the great pink flamingo heist that had just been pulled off.

Now if you think that’s the end of the story I have some good, or bad, news. We are hardly getting started. Freshen up your coffee, put away your judgement and let’s continue. 

The heist was apparently too much fun, in that the discussion quickly turned to finding more hapless flamingos, the yard’s most confident and flamboyant decorations. The hunt was on.

Neighborhood after neighborhood we cruised, slowly, scanning for our next mark with all the subtlety of a marching band in a library. And somehow no one noticed. Or noticed enough to chase us with a rake. Either way, the evening ended with a successful hunt yielding an entire trunk full of pink flamingos. I still have no idea what the bag limit is or if we needed tags to hunt pink flamingos but we were rebels. This kind of fun could never be had today as this particular car burned about 16 litres of fuel per minute. It literally had raw fuel pouring out the exhaust as it idled. Driving was worse. The Rockefeller family couldn’t afford this kind of entertainment today.

   Back at the rental house it was decided that the best way to use our pirated treasure was to cover the front lawn with them. Again in a testament to the subtlety we were known for, we proceeded to stick the wire legs into the ground and randomly stand the homeless birds everywhere, like a zoo that gave up on biodiversity and chose chaos instead. When we were done the yard looked like a wildlife exhibit titled: Flamingos: An Unreasonable Amount. We had a lot. I’m sure we counted at the time but the 80s were a few too many aluminum cans ago so I don’t have that stat available to you, but let’s say it was over 20.

I see now you can hire companies to come by and cover your yard in pink flamingos as a suprise for someone’s birthday. I’d like to take credit for starting that trend before anyone knew it was possible.

As typical teens with the attention span of a squirrel on it’s third double-double, we quickly moved on with our lives and kinda forgot the flamingos existed – despite walking past them every day. Winter came and with it the flamingos were reduced to unrecognizable lumps under a thick blanket of white snow. And still completely forgotten – until spring came along.

As the snow melted the first thing to pop out was just the flamingos heads, like a neon-pink periscope scanning a very wrong environment. They looked like tropical birds aggressively regretting their life choices. I’m sure people driving by were curious about a yard full of pink flamingo heads but again no one showed up with a selection of straight jackets so we were safe.

One particularly cool evening we noticed that the snow had frozen hard enough to walk on, with just the flamingo heads still protruding. A joke was made about it looking like a golf ball on a tee and the final and most horrific chapter of this tale was initiated. Digging through the closet we found one of “Dans” golf clubs (a nine iron I believe) and under the clear, cold moonlight “Flamingo-head Golf” was invented. At least I assume it was invented. If it had happened elsewhere its by sheer coincidence, and I would like to meet those people. I will let you now handle the job of forming a mental picture of how this Flamingo-head Golf went but suffice it to say, it went EXACTLY how you are imagining it. Those heads broke off cleanly and covered a considerable distance!

You might think the scene couldn’t get any worse, but you would be wrong. You see, as the days went by the snow continued to melt so at some point soon there was a lawn completely covered in headless pink flamingos. A plastic bird apocalypse, like a crime scene at a tropical mini-golf course that nobody wants to talk about. I cannot imagine what any passersby would have been thinking, but I’m sure the word “cult” would have been thrown around. 

Now for some housekeeping. First, what happened to the flamingos? I cannot remember if we took them down or someone else in the neighborhood came by and cleaned up. Probably someone who was putting their house up for sale and was worried about property values.

Second, If anyone knows the laws regarding pink flamingos please advise if I need to apply for witness protection or something. Again, in the meantime I am going to assume that the statute of limitations for flamingo piracy is somewhere under 35 years.

Also, if you had a flamingo go missing from your yard in the late 80s feel free to reach out and I will make it right. I can get a 10 pack online for about $40.00 so I figure reparations should be swift and affordable. 

Finally, if my kids are reading this – don’t laugh too harshly, this is where 50% of your DNA came from. 

Respect

“Come on,” Dave sneered at the old man. “That’s all you’ve got? Pathetic.”
The bag of soil didn’t budge.
Dave laughed under his breath, shaking his head like he was embarrassed for someone else. “You’re kidding me. This is where you tap out? A bag of dirt?”
The old man grabbed it again, yanked hard. It lifted just enough to prove a point – then dropped.
“Wow,” Dave scoffed. “You’re actually that weak now.”
Behind him, Dave’s wife exhaled sharply. “Hey – knock it off.”
He ignored her completely.
“Look at you,” he went on, voice sharper, nastier. “Hands shaking like you’ve got no control. Can’t even hold a grip. What happened? You forget how your own hands work?”
The old man flexed his fingers in front of him like he was inspecting someone else’s failure.
They trembled anyway.
“Yeah,” Dave muttered. “Thought so.”
“Enough,” his wife said, firmer now.
“No,” he shot back. “Someone’s gotta say it.”
He kicked the bag lightly. “You think you’re still the same guy? You think you can just power through everything like before?”
He bent again, grabbed the bag, strained – his arms shaking harder now – but it barely moved.
“Look at that,” he said, a cold laugh slipping out. “Can’t lift. Can’t hold. What’s next, forgetting why you even came out here? Standing around like an idiot trying to remember your own name?”
The words kept coming, faster, crueler.
“Face all lined up with wrinkles, back bent, hands useless, brain slipping – what exactly are you hanging onto? Pride? That’s gone too.”
The bag slipped again and hit the ground.
Hard.
The old man stayed there, breathing heavier, staring down like he’d just proven something.
Then, quieter, conceding
“Just… worn out. Past your prime. Nothing left.”
Dave’s wife stepped closer. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
Dave didn’t answer.
He straightened slowly, one hand pressing into his lower back. The other rose to his temple, rubbing like he was trying to keep something from falling apart.
“First thing to go is memory,” he muttered. “Little stuff. Names. Why you walked into a room.”
“Dave…” she said, aggravated.
“Then strength,” he continued, like he was explaining it to someone who refused to get it. “Then balance. Then you’re just… in the way.”
She moved right in front of him. “Stop it.”
That landed.
He didn’t argue.
His eyes dropped to his hands.
Still shaking.
To the bag at his feet.
Unmoved.
Then slowly… to the his reflection in the truck window.
Lined.
Older.
Him but not him anymore.
His jaw tightened.
“I thought if I said it first…” he said quietly, the edge gone now. “…it wouldn’t feel like it was happening to me.”
Silence stretched.
He kept staring at his reflection.
At the man he’d just torn to pieces.
“That’s you,” he said under his breath.
The words didn’t cut anymore.
They just sat there.
Heavy.
His wife stepped closer, her voice firm but steady.
“You wouldn’t talk to anyone else like that,” she said. “So quit doing it to yourself.”
He swallowed hard, eyes still locked on his reflection.
“Look at me,” she said.
He didn’t want to, but he did.
“That man you’re talking about?” she said. “He raised a family. He built a life from nothing. He worked through injuries, through long days, through years most people would’ve quit.”
Dave’s eyes flickered.
“He’s still here,” she continued. “He still shows up. He still tries. You think that counts for nothing?”
He swallowed.
“You’ve got grandkids who light up when they see you,” she said. “Who don’t care how fast you move or how much you can lift. They just want you.”
Her voice softened – but didn’t lose its strength.
“You still fix things. You still teach. You still make people feel safe just by being around. That didn’t disappear because a bag of soil didn’t move.”
Dave looked back at his reflection.
It didn’t look as small now.
Still older.
Still worn.
But not… empty.
“You’re so busy tearing yourself down,” she said, “you can’t even see what’s still standing.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, barely a whisper
“…Yeah.”
Dave stood up a bit straighter.

Were all Just Passin’ Through

There’s a strange, quiet reckoning that comes with getting older – one that doesn’t arrive all at once, but creeps in gradually. It is hidden in the comfort of familiar faces that once felt immortal.
If you, like me, were born anywhere around 1970, then the 80s weren’t just a decade – they were a proving ground. A time when music felt louder, movies felt bigger, and the people on our screens and in our stereos felt untouchable. They weren’t just entertainers, they were larger than life. Indestructible. Permanent.
And now, as time goes by, one by one they’re going, going, gone.
When a musician or actor from our youth passes away, the grief hits differently than it used to. It’s not just about them anymore. Not really. Of course, we feel it – we remember the scenes, the lines, the moments burned into our memory. Heck, a full half of my vocabulary is made up of 80s movie quotes and song lyrics. Underneath that however is something deeper, something harder to quantify. It’s the realization that time didn’t stop where we hoped it did. Back then, those people represented a kind of invincibility. They were fixed in place, a moment in time. Frozen at their peak. Forever in their leather or neon jackets, their iconic roles, their very prime. And if they were permanent, then in some way, so are we.
Unfortunately time doesn’t work like that.
Now, when we hear that another one has passed, it’s not just a loss – it’s a marker. A reminder. A quiet voice that says, that era is ending… and so is the illusion that we’re somehow immune to the progression of time.
So when we lose a childhood staple of our youth, we’re not just mourning that person; We’re mourning the version of ourselves that existed when they mattered the most to us. That kid blasting cassette tapes in their room. The teenager watching the same movie for the tenth time. The feeling that life was wide open and free, stretching endlessly ahead of us. The feeling that we still had forever to go.
What’s different about our generation (and generations to follow I’m sure) though, is this:
We have never in history had the kind of access to the past that’s available to us now.
At any moment, we can pull up a song, a movie, an interview, even a photo. We can see our heroes and idols exactly as they were – unchanged, unaged, still in their prime. It creates this strange dual reality where the past is both gone and completely alive at the same time.
They’re still there. But they’re not.
And neither are we.
That’s the part that lingers in the back of my mind.
Because while we can revisit those moments endlessly, we can’t fully step back into them. We can’t be the person we were when they first meant something to us. Time only moves one way, no matter how many times we hit replay.
And maybe that’s not entirely a bad thing.
Maybe the point isn’t to hold onto that illusion of immortality. Maybe it’s to recognize just how powerful those moments were – and still are. The fact that a song from 40 years ago can still hit you in the chest means something. It means it mattered. It still matters.
And so do we.
Because if the people who felt invincible aren’t physically invincible, of course, they can be “immortal”. Time doesn’t just take – it leaves things behind. Memories. Soundtracks. Stories. Pieces of who we were that we still carry. We’re not just watching the past disappear.
We carry it forward.
And maybe that’s how we make peace with it – Not by pretending we’re still young, but by realizing that those years didn’t vanish. They became part of us. Woven into who we are now.
  So when the next headline comes, as it inevitably will, and another name from our youth fades into history, take a moment. Feel it. Remember.
And don’t just mourn the passing of a person or a period in time, recognize that you were there for it. Celebrate that those moments were in some way, large or small, a part of becoming who you are.
Time marches on, for all of us.
Now get to the choppa

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The Megazapper!

My cousin Rick and I were pretty normal, curious preteen boys back in the early 80s. We were always testing theories and trying out science without the aid of social media or the internet for inspiration. We mixed foods that sounded like they shouldn’t go together just to see how bad they’d taste. We mixed random cleaners and chemicals to see how bad they’d smell (how that didn’t end in us passing out from a toxic gas was shear luck). We would drop things from tall heights to see if they’d break. We’d drop ourselves from tall heights to see if we’d break. Whatever seemed like a good idea at the time.
One particularly cold winter day we were at Rick’s house and noticed the audible “snap” of static discharge when we touched a doorknob. This caused us to immediately lay all of our other plans of deviance to the side to start exploring the wonderful world of electricity. We started scrubbing our feet up and down the hallway and touching any metal that we could find, usually resulting in a visible spark and a very satisfying crackle as the built up charge arced from our bodies to the nearest conductive surface. Further experimentation led us to try different sock and shoe combinations and we soon figured out that we could get a much larger zap from wearing oversize wool socks from out of the skiing bin.
We continued our electrical assault on the house until we wondered if we could join ourselves and combine energy for an even larger spark.
Some digging through the old junk bin rewarded us with about a 1 meter long piece of used speaker wire with the ends already bared. We pulled the double row of insulated wire apart and twisted two of the ends together to finish the construction of our self-dubbed “megazapper!”
Rick gripped the middle, twisted section while I held one bare end of the wire and we started shuffling down the hallway. As we approached the end of the hallway Rick lifted the wire, holding the free bare end of the wire out slowly towards the doorknob.
“KAZZAP!!”
The sparks was so big we both jumped and then immediately fell to the floor in gales of laughter,  not unlike a stereotypical mad scientist and his assistant would do if their monster suddenly rose to life on the table.
“Let’s do a bigger one! Shuffle longer!” Rick instructed and off we went down the hall again.
The 80’s brown shag carpet was really getting a workout from our feet conjuring up whatever static we could muster to pass along to the world, each time with the same awe inducing snap and blue spark leaping from the wire.
What was to be our largest spark ever was underway as we had created a path that went down the hall, circled through the bedroom and then proceeded back down the hall to circle the living room. This one was gonna be awesome.
As we turned the corner into the living room I noticed that my Uncle, Rick’s dad, had come in and was going to light a fire in the fireplace. He was crouched down in front of the mantle neatly stacking paper and kindling inside of the fireplace. As we approached, Rick noticed that the back of my uncles jeans were gaping open. Plumber-butt was on full display, although he was not a plumber by trade. The world will never know what possessed Rick to do what happened next but as we approached, both of us still firmly gripping the MEGAZAPPER, Rick proceeded to lower the bare business end of the wire down the opening of the back of his dad’s pants. I did not have time to react to his plan and could only look on in horror before that now familiar electrical “SNAP” sound filled the room.
What happened next was so fast it is kind of a blur, although it felt like slow motion. My uncle jumped up with a horrible bellowing sound and I am not sure, but his feet may have left the ground. This might be a good time to mention that my uncle was a multilevel black-belt karate instructor. My cousin Rick dropped the wire from his hand and bolted out of the room. I was too scared to move. My uncle then turned around to find me standing in the middle of the room, oversized wool socks pulled up to my knees, holding a wire that went from my hands directly down the back of his pants where it remained. I’m pretty sure we both had our lives flash before our eyes. The standoff was broken by the absolute screaming howls of laughter coming from Rick who was now “hiding” in the other room. Thankfully my uncle must have been a good sport about it since we lived past that moment to tell the tale, but I do recall that we stayed out of the adults way the rest of the day. Probably the best behaved we had ever been in fact.
I do still wonder if there was any smoke.

Sadly, my cousin Rick passed in a tragic accident in 2012. This story and memory is dedicated to him. RIP dinglefritz 💔

My Dog Bit Santa on the A$$ – a new chapter

So Apparently… I Write Songs Now

Fun little story time. The original story can be found here – https://theinvolvedhusband.com/2023/11/28/the-challenge/ – but I’ll summarize with an update. Back in 2021, my friend Scott McWalter posted one of those harmless-looking, bucket list / life goals questions on social media. You know the kind — the ones that sneak up on you and make you take inventory of your creative life. I replied honestly. I had written:

magazine articles

short stories

stories that became radio dramas

stories being looked at for short films

how-to articles

product reviews

news articles…and on and on.

But there was one thing missing.I had never written a song.

Scott, being Scott, didn’t let that sit. He gave me an arbitrary but very real deadline — January 1st, 2022 — and challenged me to write one. At the time, it felt like a fun creative dare. Something to try, maybe fail at, and then move on. That little challenge turned into a song called “Country Cause of You.” That song was recorded by Rick Stavely and the incredible Tabor Creek band. Even wilder? It cracked the Top Ten on the Canadian Indie Country Countdown. Yeah. That happened. I still have moments where I shake my head at how a casual comment turned into something very real, very public, and very meaningful. It reminded me that sometimes we don’t avoid things because we can’t do them — we avoid them because we’ve simply never tried. Which brings me to why I’m writing this post. A New Chapter for The Involved Husband. Going forward, I’ll be sharing songs here — songs I’ve written, songs I’ve produced, and projects I’m involved in from the songwriting side of my creative life. This doesn’t replace the heart of The Involved Husband. If anything, it expands it. Being involved isn’t just about marriage, parenting, or showing up at home — it’s about saying yes to growth, creativity, and the unexpected paths that open up when someone challenges you to try something new. Sometimes that looks like learning how to better support your family. Sometimes it looks like writing a country song you never planned on writing — and watching it take on a life of its own. I have started a YouTube channel to collect some of these productions. “My Dog Bit Santa on the A$$ is the first one I’ve uploaded. I hope you enjoy, thanks for being here. More music coming soon.

Personal trainer or Pirate? – planks and pain

walkingplank

  1. Anyone who has been married or in a relationship for a long time will know what support is.  When your spouse is trying something new it’s your duty to get behind them and help in any way possible.  You may not agree with their  decision or even believe it will work but if their mind is made up you need to support and back them 100%.  For me these little plans usually come and go, like that time she decided we were going to use scent free laundry soap, or start a cardboard recycling program to help save the world – you betcha girl, I’m with you to the end.  So imagine my trepidation when she included me in “our” new years resolution to improve physical fitness.
    It actually sounded simple enough at first.  We were already eating pretty well so all I had to do was join her doing something called “planking”.  Nothing to it, I’m with you sweetheart, sunshine, oh light of my life!  I don’t know what a plank is but I see boards just lay there, I can do that!
    For those that don’t know, a plank is basically a pushup without moving.  After she explained it to me I figured this had to be the silliest, easiest exercise known to mankind.  “You mean, I get in a push up position and then don’t actually do any pushups?”  I was incredulous.  The world record for holding a plank is 8 hours; she suggested we start with 30 seconds.  I scoffed.  I shouldn’t have.
    I confidently got down on the floor while she got the timer set, dreams of my new rock hard abs dancing through my head.  She said “ok, GO!” And I lifted myself up, making sure my back was square, and I waited , wondering why the world record was only 5 hours for this.  After some time passed I noticed that my stomach muscles were complaining a bit and wait – did my arm just shake slightly?  Hmmm, pay attention… yep there it is again, more pronounced – my arms definitely have started to shake.   “How much time?” I asked, starting to doubt my original estimate of an hour duration for my first ever plank.  “20 seconds to go” she said.  WHAT?  That can’t be right, I have to get that timer checked.  I can’t possibly have only been doing this for ten seconds?  My stomach muscles are really starting to let me know that something is wrong.  They have gotten used to being relaxed in a sitting position, covered by the cushy layer of warmth I have developed over the years.  My stomach muscles are spoiled to be honest.  I didn’t treat my children as well as I treat them.
    As my wife called out “10 seconds!” I realized that if I was to continue my analogy comparing my stomach muscles to my children then I am now entering the realm of child abuse.  The discomfort turned to pain and I noticed that my arms were not the only thing shaking now.  Shoulders and legs also shook like the paint mixer at a hardware store while my stomach started a full revolt, threatening to just collapse and leave me in a heap on the floor.  “Keep your back straight, you’re slouching, five more seconds!” she barked.  She was no longer the sunshine of my life. At this point I was convinced that she was pure evil, the root of everything that is pain in this world.  I’m also pretty sure she was laughing at me.
    As my wife and personal trainer counted down from five I glanced down, half expecting to see a pool of feces on the floor.  Or at least a pool of blood.  I actually would not have been surprised if I had found myself face to face with a small alien head as it ripped himself out of my stomach like the movie “Alien”.  “FOUR!” She called out as I envisioned the alien climbing free of my innards.    “As seen on TV!” Crossed through my mind and I started to giggle. “THREE!”  the countdown continued and the giggles increased, apparently the pain has made me delusional.  “Hi little guy!” I imagined I’d say to my new friend as he peered out of my intestines.  I’m laughing harder now.  This chuckling did not match up well with the shaking the rest of my body was already doing and it occurred to me that this whole fitness thing was a terrible idea.  I have now decided that I would rather actually walk a plank at knife point than do these planks any longer.
    “TWO!”  I’ve really got to check that timer, either that or she is just messing with me now.   There is no way time is passing this slowly. Kind of a mean thing to do for someone that supposedly loves me.   I also realized at this time that I wasn’t breathing.  In fact I don’t even remember the last time I had taken a breath.  Have I been holding it this entire time?  Shouldn’t I be dead?
    “ONE!” She continued the painfully slow countdown and I started to do the math on when I could quit and not be considered cheating.  Acceleration is 9.8 meters per second squared so if I dropped now I should be down about the time she says stop.  How long are my arms, how far to the floor?  Should I allow for air resistance?  So many questions but I decided I was close enough to let myself go, anticipating the sweet relief of giving in to gravity.
    As she shouted out “DONE!!” I was already about halfway to the floor and I realized two things: 1 – my math was dead on, and
    2 – my arms no longer worked as expected, meaning my face was about to be the first thing to meet the relief of the floor.
    As I laid in a sobbing, laughing, sweating, heaving pool on the floor I did an assessment to see if I had a bleeding nose.  Apparently the human nose is not designed to stop the body from a free fall, which is pretty poor engineering I would say.   I did not dare look down further to see if there were any other fluids leaking onto the carpet.  This was her idea, she can have cleanup duties – I’ll let her figure out which towels to use for this mess too.
    Hour later, after the stomach pains subsided and I regained the use of my arms, I stood in front of the mirror (which showed absolutely zero improvement I might add) and quietly considered moving to Tibet.  However I am not a quitter! (or I am not allowed to quit, thats kinda the same thing isn’t it?)  With the same resolve that allows a woman to have another child after enduring the pain of child birth I too decided I can press on.  I mean, I am only 7 hours, 59 minutes and 30 seconds off of the record, right?
SamKruleskiNationalCoffeeDayFixed

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“Stop eating your sister!”


I work with dogs for a living. A lot of dogs. Usually in the range of 100 per week. I spend an inordinate amount of time together in large groups and it’s really fun to watch the socialization of the group as they pick out friends and learn how to play together. I once read a study that compared dogs social skills and learning ability to that of a toddler and as such I have worked hard to treat them accordingly. I have also had great success with training and behavior control when treating the dogs more like children, setting boundaries and working within their level of understanding as opposed to trying to simply make them obey.
My spouse on the other hand, is a teacher and has spent many wonderful years in the elementary school system helping shape the young minds of tomorrow. One evening I was talking about one of the silly things I had said to a dog and she exclaimed “I’ve said that to my students too!”. This of course has lead to several very entertaining chats on the similarities between young children in class and our dog groups out on a hike.
Some expressions that we use are direct crossovers and their meanings leave very little room for doubt as to what’s happening.
“Did you just pee?” Is a question that can be directed at either a child or a dog at any time, with obvious meaning.
“Whats in your mouth?” And  “Dont eat that!” are outbursts that are closely related to each other and are often used in conjunction. It is however considered slightly more acceptable to physically pry something out of a dogs mouth as opposed to a child’s mouth.
Some of the less common sayings we discovered an overlap of between teaching and dog handling can sound a little strange when heard out of context. These include things like:
“Let her have it, there are enough sticks for everyone.” When either group is in the forest, someone will invariably determine that one stick is the SUPREME stick and it must be defended at all costs, up to and including a physical altercation. Trying to convince someone that a lesser stick is equally attractive is usually a futile battle.
Sibling rivalries is a noteworthy but expected dynamic with both children and dogs. The fact that we have both used the phrase “Stop eating your sister” come as more of a suprise.
“Are your ears just for decoration?” or any other phrase to denote the lack of listening ability is also very common between both groups that we interact with.
Of course there will always be a rebel who holds up the entire class: “Ok everybody has to wait. We can’t go until Stanley joins the group.”
More often than anyone would care to admit, we all know who “Stanley” is going to be on any given adventure. We can tell.
“Get in the van” and “get on the bus” are virtually interchangeable along with “I hope everyone went pee before we left”.  Whether it’s a dogs wilderness adventure or a child’s school field trip, someone always has to pee five minutes into the journey.
As we head off for our days adventure we can’t help but notice that some parents of either children or dogs have over packed,  with lunches perfectly measured out and tagged with the students or dogs names. They often send extra treats as well, with some sending enough “for the whole class”. Other parents might send a used plastic bag full of unrecognizable food, with the top knotted shut. We both keep extra food on hand for those who are sent without.
Both my teacher spouse and myself have to deal with multiple pupils with he same name. She has several ways of dealing with this, including approved nicknames or perhaps using a middle name to differentiate the students. With dogs we have the luxury of just referring to a physical trait tied to their name. For example, we may refer to  “Brown Callie” versus “Spotted Callie” with my dogs. This is not a socially acceptable way for her to refer to children.
On a more serious note, there is also a very strong overlap found in the effects of their home life on their daily behavior. If there’s a major change at home, we know. Breakups, new relations, new baby, a serious illness – every teacher knows when something has changed in the homelife of a student. We do too. A dogs behavior can change drastically if their schedule/routine/circle of people changes. I can see a dog acting out or behaving out of character and have a pretty good idea when there is some kind of conflict or major change in their life. Like children, dogs can really wear their heart on their sleeve.
One final point that isn’t talked about a lot but is worth noting to anyone considering a career in either elementary school teaching or dog handling: You will deal with more poop than you ever imagined. I promise.

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The Impression

There was a short wait to be seated for my wife and I at our favourite restaurant. As luck would have it, we ended up standing in the foyer beside a former coworker of mine, who I had not crossed paths with in the ten years since I had left the company.
The initial “Oh hey, how are you!?” was followed up with the usual what have you been up to, how’s the wife, how’s the kids conversation.
I learned that he had continued to work in the same industry but had, like myself, moved on to another company. Still married. His kids had graduated and are doing well. Normal small talk.
Before we had a chance to chat further we were interrupted by the waiter calling out that our table would be ready in one minute.
“Well I guess that’s our cue.” I said, signaling the beginning of the end of our conversation.
“It was great seeing you again!”
“You too!” I replied, “Glad you’re doing well!”
At that moment, what would have been a brief interaction, the likes of which we all have daily, became something more.
As I turned towards the seating area, the former coworker reached out and touched my arm.
“Oh hey, do you ever see…” he trailed off, struggling to come up with a name.
“Brandon?” I offered, the name of another fellow that had worked with us.
“No,not Brandon. Oh what the heck was his name,” he continued, “He sat at the desk at the end.”
I paused, now curious where the conversation was going, before clarifying, “The desk at the end, by the shop entrance?”
“Yeah,” he replied, “what the heck was his name? You’d remember him for sure, he was the nicest guy.”
I wasn’t sure how to answer him. He was describing my desk. Half jokingly I said my own name.
“You mean Marty?”
His eyes widened and he nodded in agreement, “Yeah, Marty! I wonder how he’s doing?””
Just then the waiter gestured “Right this way sir.”
Unsure of how to answer my estranged coworker I just smirked and said, “Marty is great, I see him all the time.”
He seemed genuinely excited, “That’s fantastic. Say hi for me next time you see him. I always liked that guy!”
And with that my wife and I were off to our table.
I admit in the days that followed I probably spent too much time thinking about the somewhat odd interaction. How could someone I had worked with that closely not remember me? Should I be hurt?
Eventually one small part of the conversation jumped out at me:
“He was the nicest guy.”
Maya Angelou once said, ““people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” 
Someone I had worked beside every day for several years couldn’t remember my name, face, or much else about me really. But they thought of me as “the nicest guy”
I’m okay with that.

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The Challenge

I almost scrolled past the post. It was a normal “bucket list” kind of post that appears on all of our social media pages from time to time. The only reason I stopped this time was because it was a friend of mine whose opinion I respect that posted it and I usually enjoy his insights into life.
“When your ‘maybe someday’ list gets too long its time to act!” The post said, “I’m curious, what’s something you’ve always wanted to try but haven’t gotten around to?”
I thought about it for a few moments before I responded:
“I’ve written many different things. Magazine articles, short stories, life blogs, product reviews, news articles, how-to articles, poems… but I’ve never written a song. I think that would be fun”
After hitting send I never put much further thought into it, until later when I received a notification that the original poster had replied. He gave me a challenge and an arbitrary date: “Ok” he directed, “you have until January 1st to write a song. Go!”
I kind of scoffed at the idea – I dont really have a musical bone in my body, I am not that great a dancer and my singing sends animals and small children running. These are not exactly the qualities one would look for in a songwriter.
Life was moslty normal after the seed was planted – for awhile. I kept the thought in the back of my head though, counting syllables and listening to the cadence and rhythm of songs on the radio as I went about my day. Soon enough I had an idea for a song.
The writing process was not unlike writing a short, poetic story – cadence and rhyme, making words fit, adding or subtracting syllables until it felt “right” and soon I had a pretty good outline. I used Google and found the beats per minute of some songs that were in a similar genre and Google also helped with the total word count expectations and song length. I learned about song structure and what a bridge was compared to a hook. It was a fun writing exercise that got me to think differently how words interacted with each other and I enjoyed it, tucking the final product into my “work in progress” notes folder where I assumed it would stay forever.
A few months went past and purely by luck I ended up talking with one of our local musicians who has had some successes with a few songs played on Canadian Country music airwaves across Canada. We got talking music and I brought up that I had written a song. It actually very nearly did not come up as I assume that every artist has a constant barrage of people telling them they have a song idea for them, the same as every comedian gets the “I’ve got a great topic for you” speech. I didn’t want to be that guy. Fortunately however the conversation flowed naturally towards those topics, and soon I found myself forwarding my song lyrics to him.
The following weeks we were in constant communication, sending ideas back and forth as we worked together to shape some other ideas he had been working on and I helped put together a song that he was having trouble getting to flow the way he wanted.
Through all of this I had another idea for a song that I had not yet shared with anyone. It tells the story of a country girl and how she lives a country girl life because of how her father raised her.  When I had it completed (lyrically at least) I forwarded it to him as well and asked what he thought of the new idea. The response was immediate: He loved it and he wanted it to be the first release from the new group he was assembling!
The new song fit very well as a duet and his new band had brought on a female singer as well so it was perfect timing. The band worked together to finalize the music beds and before I knew it I found myself sitting in a recording studio listening and watching as the producer worked his magic to mix levels and assemble the complete song. To hear the lyrics I had put together come alive in music is truly a breathtaking experience.
A date was picked for the “live” release of the song on a night that the band was booked into a local club. A film crew was on hand for footage for a short video about the song and we had many family and friends show up for the event.
The video also required dancers and since it was a father/daughter song it was decided that I would dance with my youngest daughter for the release.
I’m not sure there are words to accurately describe the feeling of dancing with one’s adult child to a live first-performance of a song that you wrote about a father and his daughter but it was completely surreal.
That song, titled “Country ‘Cause of You” was released on all streaming platforms and climbed to number eight on the Canadian independent country music chart.
Since then we have several other songs that I have lyrically composed, including one titled “Last Cold Beer”, which is also quickly climbing the Canadian Independent Country Music Countdown chart. All because someone made a post about trying something new, and followed it up with a challenge.
Right Turn Clyde.

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