Yukon Chatter Bug

The constant whir of the blow-dryers competing with barking that could wake the dead reminds me of my fluorescent orange earplugs tucked in my pocket. I slip open the metal bolt behind the gate and click it shut immediately behind me for fear of losing a canine client who wishes nothing better than to escape this noisy, scary place. That’s the start of my Saturday morning, but it doesn’t compare to that of the four-legged kind:

The clanging of the chain and my alpha putting on his coat means walkie time. Woo Hoo!!! I’m sooooo excited… Walk?

Hey, wait a minute, aren’t we goin–uh, — a truck ride? WOW! This must be my lucky day! This is soooo much fun! Okay, we’re stopped now. A walk in the park, maybe?

Hey, where’re we goin’? I don’t want to go through that glass door. Oh, but wait, strange smells are wafting through the open door. Hang on, I’m a comin’.

Yikes, it’s so noisy in here. What the hell’s goin’ on? Who are all these other mutts starin’ at? I’ll show them! Let me go! Let me go! Get this stupid leash off me. Wait, where’re you goin’? Why are you leaving me here with this stranger? Heeeyyyy…Come back!

Oh no, what’s going on? Oh no…here it comes…Splishhhh. The water’s on me now, and this stranger keeps rubbing my butt like there’s no tomorrow. What the hell man? Stop it will ya? Geez. Get this gooey white stuff off me will ya? Uh oh…here comes the water again. Shut that off, will ya? Even with all this shaking I’m not getting any dryer. Shut it off! I’m being attacked! Oh…oh….there go my bowels. Ahhhh…. At least that smells better than anything else in this place.

Finally, that stupid stranger is turning off the water. It’s about time. Oh, I hear the door open, is it him? Did he come back to rescue me? Eh? Eh? … Hey you, come back here, I’m sitting here soaked to the bone…never mind that idiot poodle that just came in…Come back here!

Hey! What d’ya think you’re doing? Leave me alone! Whoaaa… Put me on the floor already, not on this stupid table.

—Hey!— The view’s different from up here!— I’m the alpha now! —

Yikes, where’s that gush of noisy air coming from? Get this air away from me. It’s too windy in here. Hey, get your hands off of me! Just let me down!

Alright, alright…I might as well just put up with it. I don’t have a choice in the matter, now do I? Sheesh…this is taking way too long. I’m dry, so let me go now will ya? Finally, the idiot turns off the airstorm. It’s about time.

Hey, quit tugging at my coat will ya? It won’t come off no matter how hard you try. Hey, leave my butt alone! GGgrrr! I don’t want to look pretty; just let me roll in the mud to scratch my back, and I’ll jump into the pond on the trail to wash it all off. That’s good enough for me.

They might call ‘em spas in Vancouver, but the name is only for the benefit of two-legged kind, as there’s no such thing as a spa for canines, except on the lap of their owners, or along a wooden trail. Call it what you will, few dogs like to be poked and prodded for any length of time by a stranger, even if it is for their benefit like cutting their nails, washing out dirt, or getting a hair-cut.

Blowing my nose, coughin’, spittin’ and sneezin’, are from an old song, one that describes my current condition. Those words are pretty slang for any French-speaker, but they sure get the point across.

I grew up in Northern Ontario, where a lot of people are bilingual. I went to French school as a kid and spoke French at home and English on the streets. As a result, I’m fluent in both languages, both written and spoken — a blessing nowadays.

In my experience, French people in Northern Ontario are just, well, people. They don’t care where you’re from: Québec, the Maritimes, Manitoba, or Europe. French is French, some people just have different pronunciations or expressions, that’s all. Who cares? As long as you can communicate with each other, all is good.

It wasn’t until I moved to Toronto, and later Whitehorse, did I realize that there’s a whole hierarchy in the French-speaking world. You may disagree with me, but here’s how it goes:

Highest on the ladder: Parisians, then other Europeans, then Québecois, and then the rest of us in no particular order: Franco-Ontarians, Maritimers, pods of Francophones in the prairies, Louisiana, Haiti, etc…

Every time I have had the privilege of working with Parisians, it seemed like they always felt the need to correct me. I don’t mind if I ask, but in regular conversation, it can get annoying very quickly. I must say though, that any French person from other parts of France that I have worked with are far more laid back, and don’t have this annoying habit.

As for Québécois, I love the place and its people. Growing up a short drive from its border, I spent much time in “La belle province”. In terms of the hierarchy, however, here’s a little story:

I worked as a teller in a local bank, and one client had a very thick French accent. So, I reverted to French. She was pleased and quite impressed, so much so, that she thought I was from Québec. She asked: “What part of Québec are you from?”

“I’m not from Québec.”

“Really?” Wide-eyed, she responded, “I never would’ve known. Where are you from?”

“Northern Ontario…Timmins…across the border from l’Abitibi-Témiscamingue, if you know where that is.”

“Oh, so you’re not really French-Canadian then.”

I wanted to knock her out, but instead, I counted her bills, smiled, and said, “Having gone to French school all my life and spoken nothing but French at home, I wonder what more I need to be considered French-Canadian. What do you think?.” We both knew what she was thinking.