Subie was sure-footed because she used all four of her wheels to propel herself forwards, unlike lesser breeds who use only two. Every winter she was shod with snowshoes, as she had to make a weekly northern trip to Wakefield, a return trek of 100 kilometers. With such four-wheel-drive footgear, she managed every blizzard she encountered safely and confidently.
Last year she appeared to have a toothache. The hood latch would not hold the hood down. Was her mouth frozen? Was it her gums? Cars, like horses and dogs, cannot tell us what is wrong with them. Fortunately, I was able to call on a retired doctor downtown who was able, with an uncanny intuitive sense of what ailed her, to inject some lubricating oil on to the latch, and we were soon on our way again. I had neglected my own duty of care to Subie. Mea culpa!
There is one unfortunate dramatic event in Subie’s life that stands out in our memory. One Labour Day weekend, a couple of years ago, I was driving back to Ottawa southbound along Quebec’s Highway 309 in heavy traffic, most of which was going in the opposite direction, apparently in a hurry to make the most of the three-day weekend. Suddenly, I heard a sharp crack, and felt something hit my chest. I felt no real pain, but something was amiss. Had someone shot at the car? There was a hole through the windshield presumably caused by some projectile, so I pulled over to the shoulder of the road. My wife Louise, a former nurse (but of people, not vehicles), insisted on a chest inspection. There was evidence of abrasion with some redness, but no blood or soreness. The projectile, travelling at the combined speed of both vehicles, in excess of 160 kph, had providentially hit my sternum, the hardest bone in the body, made to protect the heart.
Ever vigilant and practical, Louise looked for the offending bullet, stone, or whatever had caused the damage. She found the culprit on the floor on the driver’s side amid the windshield’s shattered glass: it was a two-inch long wheel bolt that had come off a truck. It was pointless to try to track the truck’s driver, even then long gone among the northbound traffic, which had included several trucks. We were assured that we could drive the car back to Ottawa safely. At the hospital hours later, an emergency doctor said it was lucky I had not been hit higher up, in the throat or face, for example. The windshield was replaced two days later. Louise says there is a slight indentation on my sternum today; we have kept the wheel bolt as a reminder. In spite of greater attention to flying wheel bolts from trucks in Ontario, as a result of a publicity campaign mounted by concerned journalists, accidents like this, but with far more serious outcomes, continue to happen, particularly in Quebec.
We of course have no way of knowing how this trauma affected Subie, but she appeared to endure this assault with her usual fortitude, and went on with her life without complaint. Wherever she is now, she will have time to reflect on her life of uncompromising and faithful service, as a credit to her manufacturer. Perhaps a replacement for her should be another member of her family. Christopher Robin, had he known of her, would have been proud.
