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Potholes

As a building started to emerge amid the constant blizzards, we started considering how to market our new and improved approach to cat and dog boarding facilities.  

I knew from my experience putting a Champion title on my beloved Toby that the Ottawa Kennel Club had a dog show in November.

This was a euphoric time. We were in that wonderful liminal phase you sometimes hit in life, like summer vacation when you’re a student, or a hiatus between two jobs. You are more or less done with the responsibilities of one phase of your life, and not yet engaged in the inevitable frustrations and vexations of the new. In our case there was the added excitement of being off the beaten path, into uncharted sections of the map of our lives.

The omens continued to be propitious. I reached an easy and amicable parting of the ways with my law firm. My partners agreed to pay me for another, final year without the necessity of my actually showing up and doing any work. Having this cushion of income during the time we would be trying to get the kennel built, running and profitable was an incredible comfort to us.

A year should be plenty of time to come up with a design, get permits, obtain financing, hire contractors, construct a unique building, fully conceptualize our business, market it, get a client base, fill up those oversized dog and cat rooms and start making a profit, right? Right?

Now that we had found our property, it was time to move along with planning. This amorphous term covered a number of things from the obvious, like packing up our stuff in preparation for our move, to the more delicate, like breaking it to our family and friends that our life was about to take a rather eccentric detour.

And oh yes, procuring another Siamese cat. The local paper had a plea from a nearby shelter begging anyone with experience with Siamese cats to come forward to adopt a large male. As it happened, the cat had the same name as one of the cats we then owned, Pyewacket. It seemed like it was destined.

When we arrived at the shelter, we were taken to a back office with a large sign on the door stipulating in huge letters: “No one but Geri is to open this door or attempt to TOUCH this cat.”

While we were pondering these mysteries, Gerry, the real estate agent who had sold the dream house to us less than a year before, returned my call. Manfully hiding his incredulity, he happily agreed to list the property for us. He wouldn’t have to put in much work for his commission after all, as we had changed little in the scant ten months we had occupied it. He was on his way out of town on vacation, but brought us the Listing Agreement to sign before he left. The ‘For Sale’ sign would be put up on his return.

Gerry agreed with our assessment that it would probably take a year or more to sell our house. It was a large property in a small town. Before we bought it, the house had been on the market for two years. For once, we were actually fine with a long wait before we sold our house. We would have the year while we were trying to sell, to make up our minds about the future course of our life; time to plan and organize our major life change. While at that point we were not at all sure what we were going to do with the next part of our lives, we were pretty convinced that it would not involve this particular (expensive) property. If we decided we wanted to stay there after all, we could just take the property off the market.

Rewind back to February, 1998. 

On the surface, we appeared to have an ideal life.

We lived in a three story, historic-register house in Almonte, a picturesque small town only a 30 minute commute to my office in Ottawa. Pocket doors between two enormous parlours. Oak wainscoting throughout. Built-in china and linen cupboards. Fireplaces upstairs and down. A glass-walled sunroom that overlooked the acre of gardens, majestic 50 foot tall black walnut trees, ornamental pond and swimming pool. All of it surrounded by an antique iron fence with big stone gates. Our poor man’s Kennedy compound included a rustic brick potting shed and a two-story carriage house/garage, with a full basement under it. The carriage house was connected to the house by a tunnel. How cool was that? I was living in an episode of “Dream House”.

The house was hardly big enough to contain all of the stuff we had collected over the years – antiques, art, musical instruments, thousands of books, fine china, silver and crystal, my antique doll and toy collection, John’s model trains and train memorabilia.