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?
The month we had allowed between taking possession of the new property and vacating the dream house passed rapidly. We got a few renovations done to the stone house, but when moving day arrived, we were still faced with cramming everything into pretty cramped quarters. With no closets, usable basement, attic or garage, most of the extra bedrooms were piled to the ceiling with boxes. We decided to give priority to building a two story heated double garage, with running water, an attic for storage, space for John’s model train activities on the second floor and a workshop behind the parking spaces for cars. Pretty much a second house in other words. Oh hell yeah, we were being fiscally prudent.
Life in the country felt like coming home to me. It was a new experience for John, but he took to it immediately. Not to have to have curtains for privacy on those tall, deep windows. To be able to open your door without seeing your neighbours or their driveways filled with their cars, RVs, boats and trailers, to be free of the sounds of lawnmowers on Sunday mornings and skateboards on sidewalks and people blasting out their music from their garages while they worked on their cars. To see the night sky ablaze with stars, free of city light pollution – already we could feel our spirits rising.
The first time we saw a deer in our yard, we were as excited as if we had been visited by a unicorn. A unicorn which was being ridden by a leprechaun. Farting rainbows as it went. The unicorn, not the leprechaun. That would just be gross, even if more appropriate to the metaphor.
Even though our closest neighbour was not within shouting distance, John was adamant that we seek them out and make ourselves as agreeable as possible. His clever plan was to start floating the idea around the neighbourhood that we were considering building a dog kennel. If there was going to be opposition, we needed to identify the sources as soon as possible and do whatever we could to allay their specific concerns.
We were careful to let our neighbours know that we had a particular, innovative kind of dog kennel in mind, where the dogs would be happy and consequently, quieter. Hopefully. We also made it clear that if anyone had any problems with anything related to us or our operation, we hoped they would bring those concerns to us rather than calling by-law enforcement. We would do our best to make sure their concerns were accommodated.
I went along with John on this, even though I tended to be more dismissive of the necessity of jollying along the neighbours. I took the view that we had a perfect legal right to do what we proposed to do and we were under no obligation to make concessions to anyone. The future experiences of other people intent on building kennels however, proved that John had been right. Brilliant, actually, in his foresight.
And yes, I told him so. And no, he didn’t fall over in shock.
Within a year, two women who decided to build a pet resort in a neighbouring county ran into all kinds of hysteria and opposition from their neighbours, notwithstanding that the people who were objecting had no factual or legal basis for their opposition. The ladies were ultimately successful, and did build their kennel. But the neighbours’ obstructions cost them years of delay and tens of thousands of dollars.
Around this time, another lawyer bought a kennel that had been in existence for decades. He was subjected to a campaign of constant harassment by one of his ‘neighbours’ who lived about two kilometres away. She was continually calling the by-law enforcement officers about noise. Basically, if a dog barked within the county, she would lodge a complaint against the kennel.
So far at least, the country folk around us had not responded to our plans with pitchforks and torches. On the contrary, it turned out that our closest neighbours were generous, kind people who were as helpful and friendly as they could be. A wonderful older man named Clarence lived across the road from us, with his daughter and her family.
He had actually been raised in the house we now lived in, had farmed the land for decades, and was able to tell us a lot about the history of the house and property. When we discovered an antique safe partially buried in the roots of an enormous oak tree behind the house, for example, he was able to assure us that it didn’t contain any bodies. Nor, sadly, Al Capone’s loot, although Clarence’s assurances on this point didn’t stop us from dreaming. That old safe and the wilderness behind the house were a source of great curiosity and delight when the grandkids started coming.
Clarence was a touchstone in this rural community. He knew everybody, and everybody knew him. If there was news, Clarence would have it first. Yet we never knew him to be mean or malicious or peddle gossip for the sake of cutting people down or building himself up. He regarded the world with vast amusement and tolerance for the silliness of his fellow men. He could also take a joke at his own expense.
In fact, the only person I ever knew Clarence express disgust with was the person we bought our house from. Her, he only ever referred to as “the old reptile”.
Clarence’s family was equally likeable. We became good friends with another of his daughters who built a house on a lot next to where Clarence lived. We bonded with Mona over our mutual love of cats. She had one who once brought a live snake into her house and presented it to her while she was in bed.
In fact the only person who was openly hostile and discouraging to us was the wife of the guy who grew hay on our acreage and pastured his cows in our fields by a pre-existing arrangement with the prior owner. We’ll call them Mr. and Mrs. Farmer. This turned out to be not a happy relationship in any way, shape or form. The cows were poorly looked after, often breaking through the fences and trampling our gardens because Mr. Farmer had forgotten to turn on the water for them. His children were even worse than the cows. They trampled our gardens merely for fun, without the excuse of looking for water.
Among their other unlikeable traits, we discovered that this precious pair made a habit of not paying their debts, waiting until the person who had provided the service got desperate enough to accept pennies on the dollar. When they didn’t pay us for the hay they removed from our property, they got a surprise. I had the satisfaction of successfully suing their asses for payment in Small Claims Court, and barring them from our property.
Mrs. Farmer, something of a cow herself, regaled us with intimate stories about the difficulties they had when she tried to get pregnant, their marital sexual relations and all the methods and positions they had tried. I have no objection to people trying any sexual position they please, or for that matter to any form of sexual relations between any, or among any number of people of any variety of genders, provided everyone is of age and participating of their own free will. I am however, a fervent believer that there is such a thing as the sphere of the purely private. Yes, yes, sex is natural and wonderful, but I have no desire to hear about it in graphic, nauseating detail from a virtual stranger.
Nor to witness live, up close and literally in my face, the poorly maintained flesh of Mrs. Farmer breastfeeding her walking, talking, school age son. She invariably treated me to a front row seat. The first order of business as soon as they debarked from their pickup, whether they were there for an hour or for five minutes, was for the son to run to his mother, rip open her bodice and latch on.
Before I get angry comments from all the worthy members of La Leche, let me say I also have no objections to breastfeeding in public, or to women who want to breast-feed their children into adolescence. I firmly believe that any woman who wants to breastfeed should do so, for as long as she wants and wherever she needs to. However, I also cannot overstate the strength of my belief that any woman who does not want to breastfeed, or wants to, but has difficulty doing so, should not be guilted and shamed for her choice, or made to justify it. I have witnessed way too much of that, especially the latter. Her body, her choice. And on that theme, full disclosure, I will cop to irrational issues over breastfeeding.
Our first child became gravely ill at 15 months, to the point where cystic fibrosis and death were both mentioned as possibilities. Christopher stopped eating and drinking, became skeletally thin and was admitted to the Children’s Hospital. Every possible reason for this decline was mooted by the medical people, none of them being borne out by testing. Finally our gravely sick baby decided to start eating and drinking again, for reasons the medical establishment was as much at a loss to explain as his decline. He was discharged, but not before the pediatrician involved advised me that it was all my fault for not having breastfed. Also, I was making some money that summer by giving daycare to a toddler. This, I was told, was another possible way I had brought our son to the brink of death. I found out later that his wife was president of the local La Leche League. I had just turned 19 then. I admit I found it traumatizing. It coloured my views of breastfeeding, La Leche and the medical profession.
In the case of Mrs. Farmer, judging from the triumphant, belligerent expression on her face, and the fact that she did all she could to keep me there while I was clearly trying to make my escape, I was of the view that the display had nothing to do with the exigencies of breastfeeding and everything to do with exhibitionism.
I’m with Mrs. Patrick Campbell, who said she didn’t care what people did, as long as they didn’t do it in the street and frighten the horses. In this scenario, I was the horse.
On hearing that we were thinking of starting a dog kennel, this charmer pointed out that we had competition in the form of another kennel a few miles away and generously informed us that “You’ll never make a go of that!”
Oops. Did I forget to mention that other kennel?
We had taken this into consideration when deciding whether or not to buy this property, but had concluded that this particular kennel (let’s call it Strongarm) would not be a threat. We had actually left our dogs there once after we moved to the dream house, despite our new vet recommending against that kennel. She couldn’t or wouldn’t give us any particular reason for suggesting we go elsewhere; just looked off into the distance and shook her head when we mentioned needing a kennel and thinking about using that one. Our dogs had been okay there, but at that time at least, Strongarm had nothing to offer by way of amenities other than a cage for your dog and daily feedings. What we were contemplating creating was a different order of thing entirely.
One afternoon shortly after we moved in, there came a drop-in visit from the guy who owned Strongarm. Let’s call him Kennel Boy. He had been in business for over ten years. In fact, in one of life’s little ironies, on our first visit to the area several years before, we had enjoyed a laugh over the fact that there was a large, badly lettered, hand painted sign on the roof of Strongarm, indicating that it was for sale.
“Do you want to buy a dog kennel?” we had asked each other jocularly. Har har. Like that would ever happen.
As is typical in a rural community, word about our plans had circulated, and had reached Kennel Boy’s ears. When he showed up at our door, we braced ourselves for a warning to the effect that this town was not big enough for the two of us and we should get the hell out of Dodge. Clarence had already made us aware that Kennel Boy had a certain reputation of his own in the neighbourhood, and it wasn’t related to the excellent care that he gave to his boarding pets. In fairness, I should add that Kennel Boy and his wife eventually split and under her management, Strongarm developed a much more solid reputation. Some of our clients left their dogs there when we were full, and were quite happy.
Imagine our surprise when, instead of issuing dire warnings, he announced that he wanted us to buy him out.
“Um, you may have noticed,” I ventured, “that we haven’t yet fully moved in here. I don’t think we’re really too interested in turning around and putting a ‘For Sale’ sign up before we’re even unpacked.”
Undeterred, Kennel Boy repeatedly insisted that we come and look his place over. He told us that he had someone interested in buying his house who didn’t want the business. While he consistently pushed the notion that we should buy both, he was prepared to consider selling us only the business.
Well I ask you, who in our position could have resisted the opportunity to get an inside look at a local competing kennel business?
When the appointed day arrived, Kennel Boy gave us a tour of every nook and cranny of his house, kennel, numerous barns and outbuildings, most of which appeared to have been constructed higglety pigglety without apparent recourse to such pesky details as building permits. He agreed that we could take his books and records for 24 hours, and have a look at his client list and his financial information. He didn’t ask us to give an undertaking of confidentiality and we didn’t offer one.
It was both fascinating and horrifying.
After ten years in business, Kennel Boy’s client files consisted of one little index card box containing half-completed three by five inch client cards. Most had little more than the client’s name and phone number plus the dog or cat’s name, sometimes with additional information; maybe an address or the dog’s breed. Dates of boardings were written on the back. At a generous estimate, there were a hundred cards. Perhaps twenty showed repeat customers.
One card had the alarming notation “Ran away – lost.” In a stunning example of the sophistication of his public relations acumen, Kennel Boy had noted his magnanimous response to this tragic disaster: “No charge.” Clarence later told us that the whole neighbourhood knew that in fact several dogs had escaped from Strongarm. A miniature poodle who unfortunately had just been clipped down to the skin was found in the depths of winter, shivering under the porch of a neighbour across the road.
More than one dog had disappeared for good.
The only other records of Kennel Boy’s bookings were in small pocket calendars for 1997 and 1998 (the kind you got for free at Hallmark in those days). In the one inch squares provided for each day, notations had been written in to show the day’s business, such as “Rover arrives” or “Blackie leaves”. There were no records at all for previous years.
There were no financial statements or bank records of any kind. There were no income tax returns or General Sales Tax filings for the business; at least none that were provided to us. Instead we were exhorted to rely on Kennel Boy’s insistent assertions that business was booming and he was raking in the cash.
We sat down to see what we could make of all this. After a few hours’ work analysing the records we had before us, we concluded that at a generous estimate Strongarm was grossing perhaps $30,000 per year. Granted, those records were scanty, but was that what we could expect to earn after ten years in business?
On the other hand, Strongarm did at least have some real clients. If Kennel Boy was willing to sell us his goodwill – primarily his client list, such as it was – and sign a non-competition agreement with us, we could see some distinct advantages. We would shut down a nearby competing business and we would at least start with a ready made client base, however small and erratic, on which we could build and expand. For his part, Kennel Boy would get some cash in exchange for a business which he kept insisting he wanted to give up anyway. He could then sell his house and land separately from the business.
We made him an offer of $10,000 cash for the business. Before we could decide whether this was a stroke of genius or an act of complete idiocy, it became apparent that no deal was going to be possible in any event. Kennel Boy was convinced his business was worth ten times what we offered for it. When we pointed out the almost complete lack of any hard numbers supporting these claims, Kennel Boy would just repeat them more loudly. We began to understand why his business had been for sale off and on pretty much since he started it.
Further, shall we say – overtures? – resulted. Phone calls became less friendly. Kennel Boy warned us that if we didn’t buy his business, he would expand and put us out of business before we began.
In the course of our negotiations, John had told Kennel Boy that we were not interested in buying his business name. We had our own business model and it included the words ‘pet resort’. A few weeks after our discussions, Strongarm suddenly sported an additional sign announcing that it was a “Pet Resort”.
Partly with regret, partly with relief, we turned our back on this entertaining digression and returned to our own plans.
John knew an architect in the nearest town through their shared interest in model trains. We hired him to design the garage. While that project was going forward, we would move ahead with the preliminary plans for the kennel. If the architect and the contractor which he had recommended seemed competent on the garage project, we would already have our team in place for the construction of the kennel building. The architect’s wife bred Akitas so it seemed he might also have a grasp of the basics of dog kennels.
John came up with a wonderful name: ‘Oak Meadows Pet Resort’. Okay, the ‘Pet Resort’ part was my contribution, but it was totally derived from what I had been reading about upscale “pet resorts” and “pet hotels” getting started here and there, mostly in the wealthier parts of the U.S. Not only was the “Oak Meadows” name elegant, it was appropriate since we did have meadows dotted with stately oak trees. We consulted a local design firm who created a beautiful logo for us.
We now had not only a name, but business cards and stationery.
We started with very few preconceptions. Instead of following any of the building plans we had paid such big bucks to acquire from the ABKA, we began by asking ourselves what would we have liked our own dogs and cats to experience when they had to be boarded.
We had a million ideas, some of which proved feasible, some of which did not. But our freewheeling thinking felt liberating after years of arguing with partners whose approach to both business and life was so radically different from our own.
We owned more than one dog, and they were big dogs. So our first decision was to build rooms that were big enough for larger dogs or families of dogs. The ABKA wouldn’t have approved. Not unless we intended to charge a premium price for a bigger room.
We were determined, against all the expert advice, to keep the number of rooms in our kennel limited enough that the two of us could manage on our own if need be. We decided to divide our already small kennel into even smaller dormitories or wings so the number of dogs barking in any given space when everyone was excited wouldn’t create an intolerable noise. That would also allow us, in theory at least, to separate big barkers from quiet, nervous dogs.
My beloved Toby loved to play with other dogs. Boarded dogs who were so inclined should be allowed to play together, under supervision, and with the owners’ consent. The Canadian climate being what it is, we decided we needed an indoor play room in addition to an outdoor play space.
Our pathologically shy dog Annie would get up on a couch whenever she felt threatened or afraid. We wanted some living room-type space, with couches that belonged to the dogs, and with the TV playing as a background noise that sounded like home. John had the idea to amalgamate the indoor playroom and the living room-type space into one area.
We made decisions about big issues – we wanted good ventilation and a source of fresh air so the kennel wouldn’t smell – and small. Along the way, I decided I would bake homemade dog biscuits for the boarders.
We visited any number of local kennels to see what they were doing and how we could do it better. This would invariably result in John having to rein me in when I got overly ambitious (“We could franchise this if it takes off!! We could build three or four satellite kennels and staff them without us having to be on site!!!!”). Remember? We didn’t want to be moguls. We just wanted to work with dogs and cats in the country.
Many of the best ideas just came to us out of the blue. Driving past an old Victorian house with a windowed turret, I thought, ‘That turret would make a good cat room, because you could have the kitty condos all around the perimeter and each one would have a window.’
I regret to say I never got my turret, but I did get two bay windows instead, and the cats got their rooms with views.
I undertook responsibility for the process of dealing with our rural township office to get our building permit and other permissions. Being a lawyer, I asked for a meeting, not taking into account that I was now living in Green Acres, not Manhattan. While the township officials were polite in response to this request, the politeness carried an unmistakable air of barely suppressed incredulity. Why ever would we want a meeting? Not necessary. We’ll just pull the file for Mrs. X (another area kennel owner). She wanted to build her kennel as fast and cheaply as possible, so we’ll simply follow her application. Fill out these forms, return them to us with your drawings, no problem. Sweet. Smooth sailing right out of the starting blocks.
Of course, it wasn’t long before reality raised its ugly head.
First there were a number of less than satisfactory meetings with the architect. Did we want him to make some drawings? Duh, yes. We had thought that was all settled, but never mind.
We loaned him our notes from the ABKA seminar, told him the general approach we were taking and some of the ideas we had. Then we sat back to await his brilliant, creative solutions. When the drawings arrived, we found them competent but uninspiring. He seemed to be more interested in talking about how big the bathroom had to be to meet the regulatory requirements on accommodating people with disabilities than how big the dog runs should be.
Waiting for a physiotherapy appointment (let’s not forget this all started when I smashed up my ankle), I read a magazine article on the monitor roofs on the old cottages in Prince Edward County. We had pondered how to get light into the dog rooms. We wanted the attached outside dog runs to be roofed to keep out rain and snow, but the roofs would block the light if we put a window in each dog room. Would a raised monitor roof with a row of windows way up high on both sides, be a way of getting light into the kennel?
“Oh yes”, the architect agreed, when we ran the idea by him. “Monitor roofs are a very old idea in agricultural architecture.” He even pointed out a barn a few miles away that had this very roofline. Not to mention the Aberdeen Pavilion on the Ottawa Exhibition grounds. So why hadn’t he suggested it? But never mind.
As I became increasingly frustrated with the architect not being able to anticipate what would be needed in the kennel building, John stepped up and took charge. He quickly assumed the role of ‘make the building happen’ guy, while I was in charge of any dog or cat related questions, in addition to negotiating the financial and regulatory hoops.
John asked me pertinent questions, but each one seemed to lead to another, like reflections in a hall of mirrors. How many dog runs did we want, and how many should be oversized? Well, that would depend on how many people would be booking families of dogs, or large dogs. How could we possibly know the answer to that?
How much square footage in the kennel should be allowed for storage? Before we could answer that, we had to determine exactly what we would be storing. The first thing that came to mind was dog and cat food. But how much? That led to another issue. Would we provide food for our boarders, or would our clients bring their own? If we were providing it, would we buy one bag at a time, or would we be buying in bulk? If the clients provided it, how much would they bring? That would depend on the size of the dog and how long they were staying.
Considering that we were clueless about the kennel business, we made remarkably few errors, and no really critical ones. In retrospect, we wished we had built more big spaces. You can always put a little dog in a big space, but it bothered us to have to put a large dog in a smaller space when we were really booked up. Also, the drains should have been in the middle of the central aisles in the dog dormitories, not in the dogs’ spaces. They were forever getting the covers off and dropping their toys down there. Just a few hints in case any readers are thinking about building their own pet resort:-)
As we talked through these issues, John would sit down and draw endless versions of a kennel structure and floor plan that would incorporate what we had decided.
Between the times John was cross-examining me and translating my desires to the architect, I approached our bank about financing. I had the good fortune to reach a very sympathetic, competent and creative banker who was intrigued by our idea. She was more than willing to help in any way she could, but a problem arose.
My plan had been to get a severance of the one hundred acres we now owned, dividing the property into two legally distinct parcels; the 10 acres required for the kennel and the remaining 90 acres for the farm and house. We would sell the smaller severed parcel to Oak Meadows Pet Resort Ltd. The company could then apply for a building loan secured by a mortgage on that land, and guaranteed by us personally.
This was another lesson in “never assume”, even when the information you have seems to lead to an obvious conclusion. Despite the fact we owned a hundred acres which had never been severed, it turned out that according to the Province’s Official Plan, we were nevertheless not entitled to a severance. We might possibly be able to obtain an amendment to the Official Plan, but even if we were willing to undertake the application and review process and spend the considerable amount of money this would eat up, time was the issue. Working our way through that regulatory process could easily take the rest of the year we had allotted to get our business up and running. Even then there was no guarantee of success.
But without a severance creating a separate parcel of land owned by the company that owned the kennel, the bank could not secure any loan to the company with a mortgage on the company’s real estate. The company had no real estate, and no other assets at that point. The land we owned personally was already mortgaged. Without substantial security for the loan we were seeking, the amount of money our company could borrow would be inadequate for our purposes.
A combination of luck, creativity and perseverance paid off. For suggestions, our banker turned to one of her colleagues who had dealt with a similar securitization problem with one of his deals. I had actually conducted several litigations for the bank we were dealing with. Our banker’s colleague turned out to be a guy who had been in the litigation trenches with me. I therefore had already built up some credibility and goodwill with him. He came up with the notion of a twenty year lease from us personally to Oak Meadows Pet Resort Ltd., to be registered on the title of the entire property, as a charge against our own land.
The bank also wanted a business plan and cash flow forecast. I put them together, but I have to admit that the result was purely an exercise in creative writing. I had virtually no idea what our expenses would be. As to the revenue side of the equation, I knew that would essentially be our daily rate per room, multiplied by the average number of rooms occupied per year. But what was our daily rate going to be? We still hadn’t decided if we were going to charge more for the larger spaces, what discount if any would be given to families of dogs or cats sharing a single space, or even how much more we would dare to charge, if anything, over what our competitors were charging.
I also had little idea what we could expect by way of occupancy rates. The ABKA had said that a yearly average of 60% occupancy would be stellar performance. But would our new type of pet resort do better than this, or worse? Who knew if anyone at all was going to show up?
In the interests of actually having a chance at procuring financing, my business plan was discreetly silent on the possibility that we’d be sitting in solitary splendour in this wonderful state of the art building that the bank was being asked to finance, listening to the deafening silence from all the empty rooms where a throng of dogs and cats should have been disporting themselves.
My efforts at imaginative fiction must have sounded good though, because within a few days of submitting my plan and forecast, financing was a go.
By this time, the autumn was well advanced. We needed to get the concrete foundation for the kennel building poured before the ground froze. Otherwise, we couldn’t get the kennel built over the winter. If we couldn’t start construction until the spring thaw, we would have no chance of having the kennel business operating and earning income by the time my partnership income ran out in June, which was also coincidentally the start of the busiest season for dog and cat boarding. Which we would miss out on if the kennel was not built and operational by then. The burning question became, when would the ground freeze?
Winter in the Ottawa Valley can bring snow and freezing temperatures as early as October or as late as early January. The previous winter, we had had our first snow storm before Thanksgiving (the second weekend in October in Canada’s calendar). It became a nailbiting race to try to get our building permit and permissions before winter set in.
There was a tense period of calling the Township every day, and having the contractor on standby. Then one day my daily call elicited the news that our application was deficient. We had to submit a site plan. Wait. What? Why hadn’t I been told that before? What happened to, “We don’t need no stinking meeting. We’ll just pull Mrs. X’s application and follow that.”
But never mind. They wanted a site plan. We would get a site plan drawn.
We had eventually decided against a bathroom in the kennel to avoid the complications and cost of a septic system. While John was organizing the preparation of the newly required site plan, I was told by the Township that we had to have a septic system whether we had a bathroom or not. They had decided that some dog waste might be going down the drains, and therefore a septic system was necessary to receive it.
The septic system was a whole separate approval process, and was going to add about $15,000 to the cost of the kennel. Why hadn’t we been told this before? They’d had our application since the summer!
But never mind. We’d get the damn septic system organized.
If we were going to have a septic system anyway, we decided that we might as well add a bathroom to the plans after all. Back to the architect. Back to the Township planning department. Our contractor thought it was hilarious when, on returning from a particularly frustrating trip to the Township office, I reported that I had asked who I had to threaten with maiming and disfigurement to get a permit. He thought I was joking. Bless him.
Finally, we got the building permit in our hot little hands without, I suppose I should add, the necessity of my engaging in any sort of criminal acts. Our excitement was short-lived. The site plan approval resulted in a new demand for a “development fee” of (gulp) $10,000 from the National Capital Region, yet another level of government we were subject to, thanks to our proximity to the nation’s capital.
Why hadn’t we been told about that? But never mind.
I was uneasily aware that we were hemorrhaging money. I tried not to think about it too much, but rather stay focused on the main point. We had received our building permit.
The soil was scraped back, the forms put in, and the concrete was poured on November 1st, 1998, the very day we received our permit. Just in time too, because that turned out to be one of the harshest winters we had ever experienced.
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