Kato: December 27, 2007 - August 7, 2014

It's too late to be awake dearest but when I close my eyes pictures of you roll down my face. It's too late for I'm sorry, I did my best. It's too late for 'could I have done more?' Clickety clackety, jingle jangle, flip and flop. It's too late for your lovely sounds. It's late now. Sleep and return from whence you came.

The End is Nigh

I took Zoe to the veterinarian the other day for her semi-annual geriatric check-up. The doctor said that Zoe had a heart murmur and the lumps, which we had assumed were fatty deposits and arthritis inflammation, were in fact tumours. She said that she could biopsy them but really that she could predict the result. I told her that we had long ago decided that we would put darling Zoe through no further invasive procedure, even if it was merely diagnostic. The point is that even if she is riddled with cancerous tumours, I don't want to know. It won't affect how we treat her or what joy she brings to us all. My only concern is that she live her remaining days blissfully. Smelling the sunshine. Chasing butterflies. Grumbling irritably at the younger dog--as is the prerogative of the elderly. Pointing in beautiful position at whatever forest creatures pass behind our fence. Kissing us gently with her little 'corn-on-the-cob' nibbles that she gives to keep us and herself clean. I have increased her pain medication and she seems to be coping well. Somedays she falls or doesn't quite make an attempted jump. Her embarrassment is tangible. I see her looking at me, with that one whisker that never goes in the right direction, as if to say that it must have been a mistake and surely that it couldn't have been her fault that she fell. She's proud, my girl. My first girl, I call her. I love her so much. Zoe has brought me so much joy, comfort, and compassion. How could I repay that with a selfish desire to prolong her discomfort? I hope that she chooses her own time to die, when she's ready and when she knows that we will be okay.

RIP Dr. Kate Bride, my faerie

My thesis co-supervisor died suddenly on Sunday after a brief illness. Today was her service. Having just completed first revisions and planning to submit to the examiners next week, I feel totally surreal working on my writing knowing that Kate won't read the final product. There was a memorial service for her today and I was asked to read. Reading at funerals always makes me panicky--not because I worry about my ability to do it: as a trained actor, the reading is the easy part--it is the selection of works that causes my anxiety. I always feel that I should choose something appropriately sombre or even religious (which I am not) but instead feel a subversive urge bubbling up inside me to be irreverent, sardonic even. Always the anarchist. But thankfully, I know to trust my instincts and I went with humour. In fact, I adapted a posting from this very blog, 'Dog Love'. It was well received but most importantly, Kate would have appreciated it. My other supervisor told me that Kate, not having tenure and being on a postdoc, was not actually being paid for my supervision--that in fact she was reading my work, encouraging me, challenging me purely because she believed in the type of writing I do. I am glad that I know the truth of her not being paid. I could carry it as guilt but instead, I will hold it as a very precious gift. A memento of confidence for me in the dark hours when I doubt myself, my words, and perhaps the value of both. Kate told me not to worry about being self-indulgent when writing in my own narrative; that it is the work of heartful educators to broach personal questions in order to be critical pedagogues. She also told me when in doubt to walk the dog. I don't believe in angels but as my work is in fantasy, I do truly believe in the faerie world. When the fair folk enter a human's life, it can never be for a long time or harm will come to either the mortal or immortal world. Kate was my faerie and I thank her for the time she allotted me.

The Gross-Out II

After being reminded the other day of the Rhodesian Ridgeback, whose the cultivated gourmet palate preferred only the finest found feces of homeless Vancouverites, I must concede the 'my-dogs-are-grosser-than-yours' title. I am okay with this. Kudos to the new title holder whose disgusting deed (and ensuing regurgitation) I shall recount for many a day. It seems as though obscured in the dog's consumption and rejection of street person poo there was a veiled commentary on society's underprivileged. In other news, I recently heard that British teenagers have begun a fad of communication via message in a bottle. It seems they are placing personal ads into bottles in the hopes of finding a romantic match--offline dating sites, so to speak. The current generation of adolescents has grown up with a level of technological sophistication incomprehensible to anyone who remembers Commodore 64 or getting the neighbourhood's first microwave/VCR/CD player. The peculiar parallel between the British teens and our Ridgeback, is that in their subversive acts, both are unknowingly enacting a hegemonic defiance.

Rebuttal from the Other dog

I know I'm low on the family totem pole.

It's okay, though, because I'm a dog and am comfortable with hierarchy. I'm somewhere after the first dog and people but maybe before the turtles and fish. I guess in the film world, my position would be described as 'below the line'. Not a producer or director but still talent.

There's something to be said for not having a very strong brain. I can't make up my mind on things so I listen to my peoples' guidance. I adhere to every instruction given to me. My people tell me I just got too much beauty and not so much of the other stuff.

Sure, the first dog is beloved but I am obediant.

My people stuck by me when I did all kinds of stuff I wasn't supposed to do, even when I was BAD DOG. I know I'm still sometimes stinky, sloppy, and silly but my people take care of me and tell me I am GOOD DOG. Those are my happiest days.

I had a rocky start to life. I was physically unwell, mentally unstable, and instinctually-delayed. It's not fun having the canine equivalent of ADHD. The Prozac helps a lot. Now, I can concentrate and listen. I promise my people that I'll be the very best dog I can be.

And that's good enough for one dog's life.

Dog Love

I had a strange thought just now: perhaps I love this creature more than anything on earth. How can that be when I have a cherished child and a reciprocally devoted husband? Someone with a psychological background would surely advise me that I am merely projecting onto the dog. And indeed, I am.

I was born in the Year of the Dog. I have always identified with the notion of dog. I consider myself dog-like. I have even, at times, wondered longingly what it might be like to have a tail. I relate more closely to dogdom than to the realm of any other animal, except perhaps that of the elephant.

Interestingly, the elephant strikes me as very similar to the dog in its emotional makeup. Magnificently, they invest physical locations with their grief for the deceased. The don't have a fantastically functional tail but they do have an awesome trunk. The elephant maintains such a wisdom and a gentleness of spirit despite its size.

And so I truly love this dog, as if she is part of me--an extension who is independent, willful, cheeky, playful and infinitely compassionate.

First run of spring

Today, I took a moment of pure bliss to jog beside a river full from spring runoff. As the water dashed down, I heard the roar in my ears and the dull thump of my feet on the path. It was ten meditative seconds of replenishment for my soul.

That was, of course, before the searing pain in my lungs and throat.

I am a runner but you have to understand: in Newfoundland, the snow has only just melted. One cannot run outside with the winter -25C windchills. (Well, some sickos do, but there is no accounting for those weirdos who not only force themselves to breathe through balaclavas while running but also willingly negotiate ice covered sidewalks, roads narrowed by two metre-wide snow banks, and drivers who don't scrape their windows.) So, this was my first run of the year outdoors. And it's different than being on the treadmill, with no one to watch me, as my steps got narrower and narrower.

Spring in this part of Canada is about waiting for one elusive bird to sing and the masochism of the return to Standard Time. (It hurts but it feels so good.) It is also when three metre snow drifts in the backyard melt to reveal layers of near-fossilised dog poop, previously hidden by flash snow storms. And once the ground has begun to recuperate from that trauma, it is time for a jog.

The jog is a paradigm. My mind versus my body is the dichotomy. I read recently that the best way for runners to stave off shin splints, is to take smaller strides. I cling to this fact for justification when I am tempted to collapse and curl up in a ball rather than finish the last hill. Another memory that goads me on is the recollection that I ran this very same trail when I was seven months pregnant. It's been almost three years since then, surely I can do the same route now! The eternal battle intensifies as the internal wimp retorts that I am almost forty. Whew, that was a low blow.

Suddenly, I emerge from the forest near the road. Traffic whizzes past, witnessing my puffy red face and sweatline down my chest. I, huff, must, huff, not look like an idiot in front of these people.

Pathetic, isn't it, how it's vanity that ultimately pushes me to succeed?

I wish I could run with my dogs. Yes, the same ones responsible for the nauseating detritus that is my backyard. But one is from champion field trial stock and is too much of an instinctual hunter--she'd pull me off towards the ducks, swans, and squirrels. The other one is from champion show stock and is um, pretty. So, one is too smart and the other not enough. I would love the company though. Now that I say it, I wonder. Jogging, like hiking, is a spiritual experience for me. I enjoy the solitude and the opportunity to commune with nature, reflectively. Stooping to scoop would kill the flow.

I feel virtuous as I write this. I've done my exercise for the day. Thank goodness because I have a nasty headache, a vague urge to vomit, and a slight dizziness. As the battle threatens to begin anew, the addicted runner finally reemerges with a reply to the 'forty-year-old' insult, "Maybe I will feel better when I try it again tomorrow..."

The Gross-out

Why is it that one feels so liberated after having grossed someone out?



I have a theory: that this is the very notion behind the success of all horror literature and film. It feels titillatingly delicious to really crank it up, I mean, sensing when you have crossed the line with a story and then going totally overboard. Moreover, we love to be disgusted. It's naughty.



The other day, I was recounting to a colleague one of my dogs' disgusting habits. As I sensed her squirming, I found myself delving deeper and deeper into heinously unnecessary detail. I left her in a state of half-scream/half-laughter. Yet, I had to go one step further and exit the room while making sound effects relevant to the anecdote. When I heard her climactic groan, I could no longer erase the grin from my face.



I felt tremendous success and catharsis. I was now relieved of the hideous memory, having divied it up amongst other beings in the universe. I no longer have to independently carry the burden.



We may actively hunt down creepy moments to relieve our over-active imaginations, to free our stressed psyches, or to simply to feel more than we do in daily life numbed by societal pressure. Perhaps we are attempting to connect with some now-forbidden archetypal instinct. Whatever the reason, I'm sure my friend felt just as rejuvenated after hearing my story as I did after telling it.