(Post #52) Swinging Through My Time: How a Dog and a Golf Club Changed My Game

 My six weeks with Remy, the lively labradoodle from Cadboro Bay, somehow flew by in a whirlwind of strolls, greenery, and a few moments of triumph. You may be curious about how one spends six weeks with such a spirited dog. Strolls? Absolutely, many. Often calm, sometimes filled with excitement. 

For instance, the day before the homeowners returned, Remy and I found ourselves near a local school—children running amok, yet Remy remained poised. This was largely thanks to my now-instinctive phrase, “Leave it,” followed by a tasty treat as if I were dealing cards in Vegas. Then, from across the sidewalk, a young girl (perhaps 12) appeared, leading a Great Dane-sized giant who clearly had no regard for leash laws—or the laws of physics. The dog spotted Remy. Remy noticed the dog. I tightened up. The dog lunged in our direction. The leash slipped from her grasp (no surprise there). Pandemonium ensued. The girl froze. The mother yelled. I, now in full action-hero mode, pivoted Remy around and shouted “HEY!” at the furry projectile charging toward us. The dog halted abruptly. Disaster averted. My heart? Somewhere near my feet. From that point onward, I began carrying a walking stick—not for support, but as my emotional crutch. 

That was the sole hiccup in what otherwise turned into a daily pattern of pleasing, well-mannered walks. Neighbours even paused to remark on how much Remy had changed. Honestly? I felt proud. This pup, once a notorious jumper and balcony bathroom user (yes, that one), had transformed into a beach-walking, campus-exploring, steady sidekick. However, house-sitting isn’t just about tossing balls and giving belly rubs; there was also the upkeep of the yard. 

Visually appealing; nestled along the beach with stunning views. I had been instructed by the homeowner on how to operate the electric mower if boredom struck. And operate it I did. Yet, I wanted to go above and beyond. That’s when I grabbed the weed whacker and got to work—until the line snapped. No worries. I located the replacement wire and, in true “modern woman” style, turned to YouTube. Useless. Next stop: the neighbour with the pristine lawn and the charming robotic mower I had been surreptitiously observing from the third-floor balcony. He graciously repaired it. Problem solved. Or so I believed

The subsequent week, it malfunctioned once more. This time, I reached out to another neighbour I had met during Remy's walks. He eagerly took it home, fiddled with it for thirty minutes, and messaged, “Apologies, no success.” At this juncture, I headed to Canadian Tire to seek assistance. Two enthusiastic young men in the tools aisle embraced the task as if it were a collaborative effort. After some impressive investigation, they figured it out. It turned out to be simple—once you know the trick. 

When the homeowners came back, the house was immaculate. Three floors sparkling, the yard immaculate, and four bags filled with weeds were no longer part of the scenery. Their reaction? “We’d love to have you back.” And they genuinely meant it—I’m already scheduled for another visit for two weeks of this year, plus a six-week return next spring. Good thing I extended my condo lease until 2026. I am fully booked. 

But Remy wasn’t the only one experiencing change. My golf lessons were progressing, and I was enjoying every second. My instructor, Sean, was both patient and skilled. Grip, stance, body movement—it was a complete workout. But I relished it. Sean was part motivator, part technician. I grasped grip, stance, swing trajectory, and something referred to as “low point control”—which sounds like a dating analogy but is apparently essential for golfing. Especially the sound of the ball being struck cleanly. Is there a more delightful sound? (No, there is not.) 

I became a regular at the driving range. Always on the upper deck—less crowded, fewer spectators. And somewhere between basket one and basket two (because yes, I always acquired two baskets of balls), a realization dawned on me. I understood that no one was concerned with what I was doing. Everyone was simply focused on their own game. I could hear some offering advice to their pals. Others shrugged and said, “I just swing and hope.” That freedom to merely give it a shot? It changed everything. Although I paused the next set of lessons (thanks to a sore wrist—likely from gripping the club as if it were a medieval sword), I continued to practice. Sean kindly allowed me to keep using the clubs to practice with, and I will return to the club hopefully this fall. Because every now and then, when I strike the ball perfectly—and the sound is so gratifying, I forget everything else. Yes, I’m addicted. 

And now, it’s time to bid farewell to Remy… for the time being. Next destination: Cordova Bay. New hosts. A cat named Nellie. A condo. A litter box. And, I hope, a view. No leash this time. No treat crumbs in my pocket. Just tranquil mornings, fresh connections, and perhaps—at last—a chance to relax. However, if you have been a loyal follower of my updates, you know there is always something more on the horizon. 

Farewell for now, Remy. I’ll catch up with you in December

"Surprising the Host with a Message from afar"

"Not too hard to cut grass with this view"