- I often “forget” to get something from the store after I leave it. I usually do this on purpose, to save money.
- Yeah, I’ve eaten the coffee grounds that occasionally fall from the percolator into my coffee cup. And there are times I’ll re-use the cup without rinsing it. Hell yeah.
- Selective hearing continues to be a major survival technique.
- I am 100% more interested in anyone who has a dog with them at that moment. It might be personal.
- I only sometimes like Schitt’s Creek, unless I love it.
- Doom scrolling until 3:00AM? I’m there.
- Love eating at restaurants, hate ordering at them. Tip your servers, everyone.
- The person who leaves the empty toilet paper roll in the bathroom isn’t just me, it’s always me.
- I think is better to be sociable rather than agreeable and asleep rather than sociable.
- I wish I had more to confess. But not that much more. Only a bit. That would be more than enough.
Category Archives: Dogs
In the place where I live there are raccoons in the streets, skunks in the driveways and possums in just about any alleyway you dare to imagine. Pigeons abound during the daylight hours, coo-coo-cooing as they bob their pigeon heads and flap their pigeon wings. There are falcons and hawks in the crooks and crannies of the skyscrapers, who swoop down from nowhere to pick off a pigeon here and there.
Coyotes creep the margins, stealing food and eating the scraps given to them by imprudent humans. They have are often believed to be the killer of pets (small dogs, the occasional cat), and then hunted down for the transgression. This is done to keep the public calm – to keep people from freaking the fuck out about something probably overblown and which in any case they have very little control over.
The coyotes are not interlopers.
No. They are not.
In the place where I used to live there are also raccoons and skunks, possums and pigeons and hawks, but not as numerous and not nearly as brazen. Country creatures to the city ones, although of the suburbs (a close and yet infinitely distant second). Furtive creatures, mostly keeping out of the way, mostly keeping to themselves.
There are also coyotes. These are ghosts, seen in passing along the periphery of one’s vision. Pets go missing thanks to the coyotes, or so the story goes. Nothing new there.
But the coyotes here are not the solitary rogues of the city. These coyotes amass, forming family groups; forming packs. They amass and they scream. So much screaming sounding in the night from the patchwork of green spaces and tumble-down woodlots scattered about the suburbs. Bloodcurdling screams that go on and on into the night, laying territory over property, calling each other home again.
Once I found a coyote den, long abandoned, in the woods. Nearby was a scattering of bones and among those, one pristine coyote skull. Here it is, I thought. Proof.
Dogs come and dogs go.
Lou, our beloved, slightly deranged 14-year-old dachshund, will leave us soon. His health is poor; his quality of life declining with each passing day.
But this story is about mostly Toby, my aunt’s 4-year-old maltase mix. That’s 28 in dog years, for those of you contemplating the math. 28 to Lou’s 98. Quite the disparity; quite the gap to mind.
Louis and Toby lived together, as brothers, for three glorious days (or maybe the relationship was closer to great old uncle and weird little nephew). My aunt gave Toby to us because she was recovering from an illness and believed she couldn’t handle the all the work a dog entails. Dogs are, admittedly, a lot of work.
We picked Toby up from her house with Lou in tow to make sure they’d get along.
No fights. Lou remained largely indifferent to Toby, much to Toby’s disappointment.
That night, the texts and emails began.
Hello Cindy! How is Toby? Can you send me pictures? I am sure he will be happy with you because you are young and can take him to the park and for walks and things.
Hello Cindy! Did he cry in the car on the way to your house? I hope he ate all his food.
Hello Cindy! Did Toby sleep well last night?
Hello! You took the dogs out walking together! Did Toby have a good time?
Hello! Did Toby eat his food this morning? How much did he eat?
Hi! Is Toby still OK? How are his eyes?
Hello, Hello, Hello!
On and on it went. I was inundated. I have never been quite so inundated before, in my life, ever.
Finally, a phone call on the third day: “Auntie, do you want Toby back?”
She came the following afternoon, a stressful trip as I had inadvertently gave her my old house number instead of my new one and she had to stop at more than a few gas stations and ask to use their phones because she doesn’t have cell phone and didn’t have any change in her pocket but then she couldn’t reach me because my cell was acting up and didn’t receive any of her phone calls until, finally and all at once, it did.
But that is another story.
And although Toby seemed to have settled rather nicely into his new life at our place, he was as overjoyed to see my aunt as she was to have him back in her life. Lou, as ever, remained totally unaffected.
End of story.
A month later my mom told me that Toby had taken ill. Addison’s disease. He needed emergency surgery and will be on various medications for the rest of his life in order to manage this otherwise debilitating condition.
“Your poor auntie,” said my mom. “But lucky you. You see?” It was, to her, all a matter of simple fact and she let it die right then and right there.
Not so for me.
You see? See what? What did that mean, you see?
That you shouldn’t give something away unless you are sure you don’t want it back? That fate, it seems, can intervene and undermine even the best of intentions? That Mom Knows Best?
Whatever happened, it’s not the dog’s fault. The dogs are blameless. As far as I know, Toby is doing well (better, at least, then poor Lou), but the medications are expensive and my aunt is not sure how much longer she will be able to afford them.
Still, it’s not his fault. After everything, he is totally without blame, completely without fault and actually there was never a need to exonerate him, ever, was there?
He didn’t do anything.
The hedge encircling our house was a world onto itself, a network of tunnels and hidden places we scurried and hid in like rabbits. It was a refuge, a hideout, our shared headquarters. It went on and on, right around the house and into forever.
That was years ago. Years and years, the kind you can put into groups of five or ten and count on off. Our house, a squat three bedroom bungalow, was at the bottom of a hill, right at the dead end street behind which the train tracks that ran. Not exactly prime real estate, but then I never minded the trains (freight, never passenger), and missed them after we moved away.
Next door was our neighbour the hunter, and his pack of three walker/beagle hounds. Across the street was the family whose kids we feuded with on and off and whose grandmother had a pug. We also feuded (again, on and off) with the next door neighbour’s kids, three girls (but not one for each dog, as I’d assumed. The dogs were their father’s dogs and his alone).
Later, the next door neighbour acquired a chihuahua, which had puppies after he “accidentally” let it out loose in the neighbourhood with my aunt’s chihuahua. There were three or four of them, I could never keep track.
He named one of the tiny dogs Rambo. He never offered my aunt any of the puppies. As mad as she was about it, she still let her dog roam the neighbourhood untethered after the fact so it’s hard to feel indignant on her behalf.
I check in from time to time, on the old house, the old neighbourhood, despite myself.
The hedge has been removed, pulled out from the ground, roots and all, and replaced by a sagging wire fence (maybe it wasn’t always sagging…I have just only ever seen it sagging). The space the fence occupies, once enormous, seems so small now as to have been frankly impossible. Perhaps it shrank? Or maybe it just atrophied in memory.
The bungalow – somehow even squattier now and dingy in spots (the once white brick, the once gleaming windows) where I remember it had been pristine – has been split into two (of all things, lengthwise), and has been remade into a rental property with faded patio furniture in the driveway (at last glance, three off-white plastic chairs and an overturned table).
Other things, too, have changed.
The houses up the street have been bought up by the city and are in various stages of being torn down so that the street can be widened and a new, modernized transit system can be put into place – in this case, a light rail transit system and not, as I’d initially assumed, a monorail. Pity.
Some years ago, our next door neighbour died (in his basement), as did the man across the street (in his sleep), although that one is more recent. A coma and then a recovery and then that singular twist of fate that took him out of the picture.
The dogs, naturally, are all dead too. Rambo included.
My aunt gave away her dog soon after she had children. Be it shame or indifference or something more or light banal or benign, she never mentions him. It is as if he never existed, as if none of it ever happened.
Like none of us were ever there at all.
- A system of pneumatic tubes.
- Better snacks (healthy or otherwise).
- More dogs.
- A little less blame and a lot more slack.
- Keep it to 90 minutes or less.
- Make it optional…informed, but optional.
- Fire him already.
- Polish it.
- Yes to no.
- Unlimited dipping sauce.
- No time limits despite expiration dates.
- Your face.
- Still more dogs.
- SMOOTH LINES.
- Better coffee.
- Let it play out first.
- Just ignore it sometimes.
- Portable numbing agents.
- A cat or two. Or three.
- To the left, to the left.
- Now goes to 11!
- Prioritize those odd numbers.
- Dried out grapefruit is still grapefruit, but not great grapefruit.
- Semi-identical twins!
- Sometimes the weather really is all there is to talk about.
- If you put a dinosaur on it, I will buy it.
- More lemon water please!
- Take care of your cast iron and it will take care of you.
- Beware the jerks (but no need to fret over them).
- I like asking nicely until I don’t.
- My dog is DRAMATIC.
- Nothing like bad advice to put the rest of the day into perspective.
- Spicy beef patties or nothing at all.
- It’s good to be present, if not always available.
- Talents come in all shapes and sizes and, occasionally, smells.
- How to read the imperfect novel (still learning that one).
- Less brains doesn’t mean more heart.
- I hate “Actually.”
- Odd numbers please me.
Jesus Lady lived a few houses down from us, on the house near the top of the hill (we lived nearer to the bottom).
She had a mean yellow dog and loud signs taped to the large windows of her front patio, which read:
JESUS SAVES THOSE WHO ARE SAVED.
JESUS WEEPS FOR YOUR SINS.
She was a small woman, but physically strong and persistent, as most people who believe themselves to be righteous often are. She waited in front of the patio (many school kids had to pass her house in their decent down the hill, towards home) and rushed forth to shove pamphlets about Jesus and how he loves and saves and weeps into our hands. She would hold on to coats or sleeves demanding to know if we loved Jesus in turn, and whether we were saved or not.
She did this most of her days, often with her mean old dog in tow. Together, they dominated the sidewalk. I came home from school with many pamphlets, which my parents used to wrap fish guts and egg shells so that they wouldn’t stick to the inside of the garbage can.
Jesus Lady got to know my face. How could she not? We saw each other almost every day. I went to that school for years.
I tried to dissuade her, get her to leave me alone. I really did. Told her I wasn’t interested, that I didn’t believe in god or Jesus, that I was Buddhist (and hence, good insofar as matters of the soul were concerned).
But Jesus Lady was not moved. Would not be made to see anything but her god-driven mission to save. Us. All.
So, one day I did the only thing that seemed natural. I lied right to Jesus Lady’s Jesus face.
“Yes, I am saved now.”
The transformation was instantaneous: she lit up like a fiberglass Jack-O-Lantern. I remember it well, her expansive grin slightly grotesque, her pallor decidedly…orange.
“Oh, praise Jesus! Praise Jesus! Praise Him!”
I expected her to see through the lie (I did not put much effort to selling it, just mechanically said the words, Yes. I. Am. Saved. Now.). That she accepted it so readily taught me that truth and validation are not the same thing, and that a lie, one beautiful lie between two people, can set them each free.
And that nothing is free.
From that day forward, I was able to walk by Jesus Lady (dog or no dog in tow) with only a mild, “There she is! The girl who is saved!” rather than the usual litany of “You’re going to Hell/Devil child!/Buddhism isn’t real!”
From that day forward, Jesus Lady watched me walk by, the child she saved for Jesus’ sake, who never had a word otherwise to share with her and whose friends snickered at her back with every, “She is saved! Praise Him,” that flew from her thin lips, empty words that they were.
Jesus Lady, I eventually learned, had an adult son. I’m pretty certain his name was Christopher (of course it was), but not in a factual way.
By then I was working most days in our city’s grimy downtown, one cashier among many.
That’s where I saw them, one summer’s day: Jesus Lady and her son (the dog was long, long dead) walking the streets, pamphlets in hand.
Her son. He was dressed as Jesus, complete with a straggly fake beard, flowing robes, a crown of (pipe-cleaner) thorns and a giant wooden cross strapped to his back, which immobilized his arms (his mother, naturally, handled the pamphlets).
It was quite the display; he really seemed to be suffering, under all that grab in that all that heat, bearing that mighty cross day after day in a downtown core that was already half-dead in its dying.
It took me days to see it, but then I did.
The cross. It had a set of roller skate wheels attached to its bottom, allowing this Jesus to master the sidewalks, but also to struggle against the burden of his beliefs quite convincingly, if he so chose. It was really up to him.
I wonder if he ever thanked god for that.
Did you know that “dog” spelled backward is “god”?
People say it is also the same thing the other way around, but as a non-believer, I have my doubts.
I warned him, but he didn’t listen.
“Don’t touch the dog. He doesn’t like it.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll make him like me!” He smiled, his mouth an exhausted rubber band pulled listlessly to both sides of a disingenuous and frankly uninspiring face.
Not exactly a “no means no” kind of guy.
Lou snapped at him twice before he gave up, retreating with a look of pure resentment shot toward me like I hadn’t just warned him, hadn’t told him so. Exactly so.
Of course, it was the dog’s fault, wasn’t it? And because I am responsible for the dog, Lou’s not liking this particular man was also my fault; the dog is still my dog, after all, and it shouldn’t snap at anyone, least of all someone determined to make him like him.
Imagine making something, someone, anyone like you. Being blameless to such fault. Imagine believing in that, as a person.
According to a book I read about filmmaking, an easy way to signal to the audience that a character is a good person is to have them pet a dog.
The dog, of course, has to let them. Has to want to be approached in the first place, to say nothing of the person approaching it.
Now. Imagine that.
At times and in turns unsolicited, unprovoked, utterly unreal.
1. Flower Market, New Delhi
Random Man: “You there! You are at the flower market and you can’t smile?”
2. Dog Park, High Park, Toronto
Dogwalker [runs up to me and Lou]: “Look at him! Him? He’s beautiful. Lovely bone structure. You’re lucky to have him. Congratulations!”
3. Coffee Time, Kitchener
Woman Steps Through Front Door: “Dang, dang! Y’all got none of them there cheese cussiants, do ya?”
4. Beaches, Toronto
City Garbage Worker [jumps off side of moving truck ]: “Hey! [points to truck driver] He’s Filipino!”
5. Ben Thanh Market, Ho Chi Minh City
Vendor [referring to Stephen]: “He has such a gentle face!”
6. Beaches, Toronto
Random Man [points to Lou]: “Heinz 57! Heinz 57!”
7. Downtown Kitchener
Random Man [blocks my path, bows]: “Ni hao, ni hao, ni hao!”
8. Calgary, Alberta
Random Man [yelling from driver’s side of parked pick up truck as Stephen and I walk down the street]: “Got him walking on the outside of the sidewalk! Good man you got there!”
If I do not know the ordering procedure of a particular eating establishment, I will:
a) Decide to go somewhere else.
b) Eventually convince myself that I am not that hungry after all.
c) Stare on in puzzlement until it’s officially socially awkward for everyone involved.
d) Turn heel. Run home.
e) b & d
f) a & c
a) Is the most adorable thing I have ever seen. Your puppy has therefore ruined my life.
b) Is the absolute best.
c) I WANT A PUPPY.
d) I cannot afford a puppy right now.
f) All of the above.
What That Guy Said?:
e) “Sassafras gonads.”
c) : OR ;
d) c OR Both
e) c & d
f) How come no one cares about ampersand?
c) You ruined it by calling if “flatulence.”
Book or Movie:
c) Both is not an answer.
You’ll be in:
a) My heart.
b) My thoughts and/or prayers.
c) Deep shit.
d) Shallow Paraguay.
I would love to:
b) Be able to help.
c) Consider helping.
d) Consider being able to help.
e) b, c & d
f) Never a.
Choose Your Fighter:
a) Emperor Penguin.
b) Death Cap Mushroom.
c) Giant Spider.
d) Tiny T-Rex.
e) Haunted Waterslide.
f) Ugly American.
a) “Owning the Libs.”
b) “I can fix them.”
c) “I’m sorry if…”
d) “All lives matter.”
e) “Books are dead.”
f) All of the above (plus a few others, TBA).
g) All of the above (but e especially).
b) GOD NO.