(367 because this year was a leap year and I’m one day late).

I never planned on getting a dog. I was able to crawl around petfinder.ca on my lunch breaks and close the window with restraint and civility and walk away from the faces waiting for adoption.

That was until one lunch break during the last week of April, last year. There, at the top of the page was the featured pet of the week. This is what I saw:

He was called “Kilo” and he was a 10-year old, 3-pound chihuahua who was relinquished by his owner when he stopped eating and was basically starving himself to death. From what I understand, his previous owner’s sister and her toddler children had moved in and he was tormented the way most naive toddlers would – chasing him around and rough housing with his little body. His owner gave him up to the Dhana Metta Rescue Society one day, I figure for his own health and safety. But, by then he was quite underweight.

That photo of his little, peaking face with that furled brow just devastated me. There was no amount of strength I could muster to not try to rescue him from the shelter life. What did shelter life look like to a 3-pound chihuahua? Probably pretty terrifying. He needed me.

I received a response to my application in the next couple of days and a home visit was scheduled. It went amazingly as Marshall and Otis just lay in my wingback passed out in a sunbeam and me and the shelter girl talked for a long time. I was subsequently approved as the adopter (obvs, toot!).

After a few emails back and forth, April 29th, 2011 was to be the day that I met “Kilo” for the first time. Tania had offered to come with me which was nice because the drive was a little long and included a four-minute (yes, four) rickety ferry ride to Barnston Island, which really is an island in Surrey.

Barnston Island is a teeny little spot on the map. 2001 Census data shows its land area is 0.43 km2 and total population at that time was 46; just to put it into perspective. I don’t believe it has grown much since then. Henyway… on Barnston Island is the Dhana Metta Rescue Society which is founded by a nice lady named Yuana. 20 or so chihuahuas greeted us the moment we stepped into the kitchen. Her specialty is rescuing chihuahuas, particularly the ones she finds for sale on Craigslist some being offered up as studs or bitches so their owners can make money off the litters over and over again. Bah to those people. Luckily, Franco was no stud.

I was told that “Kilo” was upstairs in a room to himself because he is “so small; smaller than every dog you see here.” I couldn’t imagine. I was looking down at little chihuahuas! How on earth could he be smaller than “that one?” “Yes.” “That one??” “Yes!” Tania and I sat in the middle of the kitchen floor for a while while a swarm of doggies vied for our affection. In the middle of it all was an old cat that sat on a little bench with its face stuffed between the coils of a stand-up, electric heater. It was his “thing” and I wish I got a photo of it because it was the one of the most bizarre “things” I’ve seen a cat do. He just sat there, face inserted, eyes closed, and breathed in the heat.

Upstairs we went and into the room where “Kilo” stayed. I must say it was a nice, large room with a big, bright window. The three of us tiptoed in and there was movement under some blankets in a pet bed. Out he came. Tania and I both let out an “Oooooh.” He really was THAT small. It was almost shocking. Not only is he small for a chihuahua in frame, but you could also see his ribcage which was good evidence of just how starved he had let himself become.

The three of us sat down on the floor. I am not lying when I say this next thing -you can even ask Tania- but of the three laps for him to choose from, he came to mine and sat right in it and stared up at me. It was remarkable and the minute I looked into his sad eyes I felt this instant need to just take him away from all this and give him stability and quiet again. T and I left shortly after that with him in tow. It was getting dark by this time and “Kilo” stayed snuggled in Tania’s arms inside his orange blanket. The only muscles he moved were his eyeballs as he took in the inside of the car as well as streetlights and trees floating by outside.

We dropped Tania off at home and he immediately nestled himself into my lap where he fell asleep. It was so obvious how much he craves contact.

For the next two full days he never came out of his little nest inside his pet bed. Not even to eat, drink, or go to the bathroom. I put his dish of food and water inside the blanket and would hear him nibbling late at night as I was getting ready for bed. Finally on the third day it was especially sunny in my living room and he emerged very cautiously to lay in a patch of sun on my living room floor. Over the next week or so I think he became used to the smell and permanency of his surroundings and started to stay outside of his blankets a bit more. Still though, the steps to his food and water was grueling for him. His entire body would shake so much he could barely control his legs to move them to the dishes. His ears were just peeled back and his eyes darted. I figured there was some connection between the children moving in and his eating disorder because boy was he ever terrified of getting to his food.

Slowly but surely his personality emerged. I didn’t like the name Kilo either so I spent some time trying to figure out a two-syllable name that I thought suited him better. I came up with James Joplin Franco (after James Franco and Janis Joplin) and he became Franco for short and for obvious simplicity. He started to be more comfortable around me as long as I moved slowly. Although at first our business was slightly peculiar when he would paws up on the sofa cushion and whine to get up but once I would bend down to lift him he would run away. And repeat. Over. And over. Again.

There came a moment when I believe he decided to just muster the strength to eat a meal in one shot. I realised the moment had come when he removed a food piece from his dish, brought it to my feet, and proceeded to … scold it? Attack it? Kill it? I’m not entirely sure what it was he was doing but it was demonstrative of real pack-animal behaviour. The first three or four bites would be brought right to my feet, commence routine of barking and swatting at food, and then return to dish to eat rest of food. When I watched this interesting eating ritual I figured it must have been really exciting and hilarious for little kids to watch and I’m sure they must have involved themselves in the process in a way that probably felt intrusive and confusing for him. It is a ritual he is quite serious about and I don’t think any kind of distraction from it would be of any benefit to him.

He also now respectfully waits until I am home to eat. I always put food in his dish first thing in the morning and he won’t touch it all day until I come home. In addition, he also seems to hold his number ones and twos until I’m home, which is a real treasure. The moment I walk in the door he rises from the sofa, makes sure it’s me, and before I even have the chance to put his harness on to take him outside, he scurries to his pee mat in the bathroom, pees, then takes a few steps to the side of the toilet and poos then comes running at me with his tail wagging all proud of himself. He is the most darling thing.

I look at how loving, comfortable, playful, curious, and calm he is and compare it to the terrified little chihuahua I didn’t see for two whole days because he was buried under a nest of blankets. Even after he came out, it took him quite some time to feel safe and comfortable and I marvel at how far he’s come.

If there’s one thing I want to stress to people who are thinking about adopting a chihuahua it’s that I have learned that the reason they are notorious for being yappy, skittish, nervous dogs seems to largely be due to their specific emotional and environmental needs not being respected or met. First of all, they are not a dog for small children. I think, because of their size, they are instinctively in a state of hyper-alertness and the large, loud world around them can be overwhelming. I think constant stimulation from curious toddlers takes a toll on their fragile nervous system and they spend much of their time in a state of anxiousness and defensiveness. I also think that because they’re so cute and small that it’s easy for strangers to want to touch them, hold them, talk to them… the thing is they’re not big enough to feel powerful in their own bodies. And, I believe this almost feels harrassing for them because the touching is rarely on their terms. I look at how Franco reacts when strangers see him and want to hold him or pet him. He kind of just freezes right where he is and almost looks like he’s anticipating something that he won’t have the power to stop, then keeps his eyes on me the entire time as if to ask, “Is this okay? Am I okay?” And thus, chihuahuas are passed off as overly nervous, anxious maniacs.

Chihuahuas need to feel safe and underwhelmed in a way, and really need to have their personal space respected which I know can be hard with a family pet. However, if they do have that from the begining then I think most people would be surprised at how peaceful, playful, and affectionate they truly are. And, Franco’s a perfect testament to that, even despite the few months when his life turned upside-down.

Look at my little Franco now…

Here he was supposed to be ET for Halloween, but ended up looking more like Mary Magdalene; especially in this pose and with that facial expression.

Franco Claus and then in the Christmas sweater Tania crocheted for him:

Literally lap dog

This past Saturday morning, around 8:45 AM… then at 9:50 AM… then at 10:15 AM… and finally at 10:45 AM I woke up for good; but not happily. I pretty well forced myself out of bed because I knew if I had given in to my exhaustion, I could easily have slept in well into the afternoon. The degree to which I was tired surprised me. I actually contemplated whether I had taken a Gravol in my sleep or something. I had taken one out of the blister pack a couple of nights earlier when I felt like ass, but thought against it because I knew I wouldn’t have more than seven hours of sleep and that’s not enough time for a Gravol to wear off. But, then I looked for it on Saturday morning figuring that if I couldn’t find it, that maybe I did take it in my sleep; but I found it. My next thought was that perhaps I was getting sick. Either way I honestly felt paralysed on Saturday morning. Even opening my eyelids felt like there were dumbbells sitting on them.

Enter Sunday. I cough once and it’s enough of a cough to register that yes, I’m getting sick. It just had that unique kind of feel. Different from a cough that might come suddenly if you inhale weird or choke on a poppyseed. This was less than ideal timing because I had my 2nd mid-term coming up that Wednesday (as in yesterday… as in last week – since it’s been four days since I wrote the above). I was so annoyed. I rummaged through our drug cabinet and begrudged my life. Here I am, in the middle of a University-level sociology course, not an academic by any stretch of the word, and I am studying while on drugs. Who does that? I’m the biggest sick wussy on this planet, too. Although it’s really only the symptom of congestion I cannot handle. I have a huge tolerance for pain, in fact I will hysterically laugh when I’m in pain vs actually cry out in agony (ask my brother how annoying that was when we were physically assaulting each other as kids); but, if the pain of a cold comes in the form of congestion then I will honestly behave as though there is no symptom on earth that could be worse. Keeping in mind that my congestion can sometimes be so awful that it feels like my sinuses are impacted with boulders and I can actually sometimes feel the throbbing of my heart in my face – that is unacceptable and intolerable for me. It is a severe injustice for me. I would even prefer a sore throat. So, when I’m congested, you can be sure that for the duration, I am also high or coming down from a high.

I’m high on Tylenol for the analgesic, then there’s the Advil for the aches and pains, then there’s not one, but two, extra-strength decongestants, on stand-by is actual nasal decongestant spray – which I usually try to avoid because once you ween yourself from it, your sinus tissue inflammation comes back with a vengeance and then the cycle of drug-use can repeat itself. I chase all the above with four Milk Thistles to protect my liver. After all this, and within the hour, I can breathe and I’m in a state of total bliss and ambivalence toward my sickness and only then can I sleep. See, during the day I will allow myself to feel the full effects of a cold and use little to no medication, if possible. I figure I can use this for willpower and as an inner-strength-building exercise. Extreme congestion (and I’m talking the kind where not even 0.00000001 kg/s of air flow will get into my lungs through my nose; where if I had no mouth I would surely suffocate to death) is probably the one symptom that actually causes me to physically respond to my frustration. My legs get the heebie jeebies and no position, not even one where I may find myself surrounded by memory foam, a lavender air diffuser, essential oil candles, a dark room, and jazz in the background, will ever be comfortable enough. This, as you can imagine, would greatly impede my chances of a restful sleep and thus further extending the length of this cold because if I don’t sleep then I don’t heal.

(I’ve spent a lot of time thinking this through).

On top of all this I have to time my nighttime drug use perfectly during the week, because if I don’t allow myself enough sleep during the night, then by the time my alarm goes off at 7:00 the next morning I may as well have been dead for, say, six hours, revived, then be so irritated at the idea of being revived under such ill-timing that I demand to be put back to sleep. Add to this the fact that I had another sociology mid-term that same week which meant that that particular Wednesday would be an extra long day of waking hours since I don’t get home from my class until 10:00 at night. Oh, and I also had a three-panel interview that morning complete with an on-the-fly mock client interaction. My cold would have got the award if there was a competition for worst timing.

Despite all these stupid monumental handicaps, I made it through the interview, worked, went to class for my midterm that night and actually felt okay coming out of it. However, I will admit that should there have been drug testing pre-exam I likely would have failed. But, if I do as well as I felt I may have, then I would consider them to have been not only of the cold relief variety but also of the performance-enhancing kind. The true answer will come on Wednesday night though for that is when I will receive my mark. For those of you who remember my post about my last mid-term, I was less than impressed with her furtive exam style and came out of this last one thinking no more of myself than had I just tied my own shoe. In other words, no big deal. Whatever.

I do like the studying part though you know. Even if I come out of it as a complete failure. I accept that I am not an academic. I am a day-dreaming, multi-tasking thinker who has problems with absorbing information that I will later be quizzed on. I accept that all of the things I have learned and understood through the years have all occurred at a time when I am not “told” to learn. So, this is out of my comfort zone a little, which is fine. I like to have my limits tested. This just means that when I do absorb material that I have been told to study then I feel extra proud of myself for having accomplished that. I was due for a sense of accomplishment, I think.

Here’s my study table that I felt really happy to be around. It’s exactly the way I’ve ever learned anything crucial. That is, in a more shit everywhere type of environment.

Disclaimer: After reading this post you may be all… Um, this girl is really weird.

I really am a nut. But, it comes from a very good place; although a crazy-making place.

There are animal lovers, advocates, PETA, veterinarians etc., … then there’s weirdo me. And, I know I can’t really automatically separate myself from the aforementioned types as if I stand out or am different from their feelings but I just wonder sometimes if I actually need to see a therapist about this because I think I have a real problem. Er, problem probably isn’t the right word. It’s more of an … issue, maybe.

For example, I could never be in any kind of position where I may come across an animal in fear and/or suffering, even if I’d be in that position to help them. I will go the long way around live fish tanks in grocery stores because if I see them crammed in there I start to get this very subtle sense of claustrophobia or anxiousness. I fantasize sometimes about Super Andrea (!!) raiding a puppymill… guns a blazin’! And… and… rescue all those poor, suffering puppies and mama and papa dogs. Instead, I avoid walking by butchers with chickens hanging in the display window because I can’t get past the fact they may very well not be actual chickens. If I hear dogs barking or cats meowing around alleyways where there are several back entrances of restaurants I wonder if they’re trapped in crates in the basements.

I can only wish to be strong enough to just get a frigging grip. But, like any humanitarian who could never be a surgeon – even if it meant saving lives – because they can’t stand the sight of blood, I cannot get right in there and save these suffering animals with my bare hands. The sentiment is the same. Or, in discussion with my fellow humans, I know that my cat/dog/restaurant wonderment is akin to them passing by forested areas and wondering if there are dead bodies from murders that have been thrown there.

What? You don’t think that way? Don’t tell me they’re the only ones…

We.Are.All.A.Bit.Morose.

This is all coming from an email my dad sent me over the weekend with a YouTube link to the Battle at Kruger.  The body of the email describes the video like this:

Wow, this is truly incredible. A group of lions attack a baby buffalo, then engage in and win a tug-of-war with a crocodile over the buffalo, only to lose in the end to a herd of buffalo who return to defend the baby. And, the baby walks away having lived through it.

Now, I know my dad knows how sensitive I am to animals so I was a little confused over why he’d send his video to me, so before watching it I emailed him to ask:

Dad, are you SURE I should be watching this? I can’t even handle seeing lobsters and crabs in grocery store tanks.

To which he responded:

This is a happy ending… but it is a little rough. I like how the buffaloes decided to protect their baby against all these lions.

So I sat on it. Then, I read up on it. What goes down in this amateur video was so monumental that Time Magazine actually featured an article about it and National Geographic produced a documentary about it. I certainly read enough to intrigue me and bring me really close to wanting to watch it. But, my fear was around what kind of post-symptom I would suffer after it was all over. That’s where things get complicated for me.

I’ve learned that I cannot bear seeing animals in any kind of panicked, pained, or defenseless state. That if I can see their faces of fear, or hear their grunts of panic and distress, or see their bodies writhing to escape, that it most definitely will affect me for days later, sometimes even months. I know this, I’ve learned this. This could even be a snapshot on an animal cruelty ad. I used to hate logging into my Hotmail because of that image of the bear in chains behind bars. I know that was the intent of the campaign; to be impacting and affecting, but for me, I see the face and the eyes and I almost feel its fear and helplessness and then it might as well be me in that position. It can debilitate me.

Sometimes the image is enough to actually make me feel stomach sick and I will often transition into feelings of anger toward the image, or whoever is behind posting the image, especially when it catches me off guard or I am not prepared for it because I know that now I’m going to hang on to it for longer than was probably intended. It wouldn’t be uncommon for me to have nightmares of animals in states of pain and suffering for a few days afterward which makes for pretty awful and distressing sleeps.

I know that if I see a video like the one my dad sent me - in as powerful, beautiful, amazing, and interesting as I know it is - the only thing that could very well stay with me after it is the terrified, helpless animal in pain. Especially with this particular type of terror. The buffalo calf, completely defenseless, with a pack of lions all over it then a crocodile, then back to the lions. Even though I know the video ends with it getting up and walking into the herd of adult buffalo, the only part that concerns me is the part where it endures fear and pain. Then, even though it gets up, I will convince myself that it will bleed to death anyway.

I mean, how depressing, eh? The thing is, I can’t think myself out of it. I’ve tried. So, I just wait for the sadness to subside and the image to leave my head.

I’m pretty sure it would be categorised under some of the signs of PTSD.

Back to the video… I asked Nick to preview it for me. I think he’s getting a better sense of just how serious my animal sensitivities are so he watched it for me first. He said it was a bit grim during the attack but fascinating and that ultimately the buffalo calf manages to get up and walk away. All well and good, but I also need to know if there is a writhing struggle, can you see the look of fear in the calf’s eyes, can you hear its terrified screaming? He answered my questions honestly and I made the decision to watch it. This was not without the volume turned way down and my mouse on the FF button in the event I catch glimpse of a moment that may traumatise me later.

I admit I FF’d through the attack and subsequent tug-of-war with a crocodile. I watched pretty well the first five minutes in broken groupings of seconds, but when that buffalo herd came to the rescue of one of their own I got that kind of relief I rarely see, and that is of someone or something coming to the immediate aid of a defenseless animal while the attack is actually taking place.

I have analysed the possible reasons for this extreme hypersensitivity toward animals and have my own, personal ideas. But with respect to how my mind interprets the information, why is it specifically the terrifying emotions that I seem to take on. Like, why can’t I watch a video like this and not see the beauty and fascination of nature at work and appreciate it for what it is?

I used to joke with people that I could never go on a safari ride because I’d be the one jumping out of the Jeep to run and rescue the gazelle before the lion gets it. That everyone who stayed behind would have photos of me running through the tall grass, arms flailing and not of the captured power and agility behind the lion or how beautiful a gazelle looks when it’s running for its life.

When people first meet me, their first introduction to my animal sensitivity might come when they begin to tell a story about an animal and I actually have to stop them mid-sentence, just as the story is meant to become interesting and I need them to tell me whether or not the animal gets hurt, suffers, or dies. If they say yes, then I say “I’m sorry, but I can’t hear your story.” This usually gives them a terrible first impression of me because I will no longer allow the story to continue to be told to me, but over time they seem to become quite endeared this weirdness and I take comfort in that. Love you guyssss.

Some people’s reactions will be to remind me that this is life, that the predators need to eat, too. This is of very little consequence to me because I know that. I would be just as upset over an emaciated lion who is too injured to hunt and is just waiting out its last days alone in a state of helpless starvation. It really boils right down to me absorbing the feeling of doom, fear, terror, suffering of the animal. I wish I could get through an entire episode of The Nature of Things, for example, but I’ve learned to listen for queues in changes in the mood of the music or in David Suzuki’s tone. I know that the style of shows like this are to illustrate and portray the beauty of the animal, its biology, how it survives and lives in the wild, so by the time the part of the show comes where we get a sense of what kind of predators it has to protect itself from, I’ve already fallen deeply in love with this beautiful animal that I have to now face the fact that it is going to be hunted and maybe even killed by the end of the episode, so I change the channel.

I once watched this documentary called “The Little Prince” which followed the birth of a male fawn up to the first year of his life. I was so captivated by how beautiful they are against nature and the relationship between doe and her fawn. Her attentiveness, her attunement, and her instinct, it was all so remarkably portrayed until…

The producers just had to get into how fragile their lives are against mother nature’s wrath. Enter the winter season, almost a year after The Little Prince was born. The doe is pregnant again, however, she and her Little Prince maintain their connection. The tone of the narrator’s voice is now deliberate and concerned. The doe and her fawn traipse along the frozen terrain, all the nourishment that the warm, summer ground offered is now frozen over, they must survive by walking for miles a day eating shoots of dry grass that pop from the frozen earth. The doe is dehydrated, weak, and with very little energy as all the nourishment she must ingest is absorbed by the developing foetus inside her. She walks very slowly and carefully as the ground is frozen and slippery. Oh how unforgiving the harsh winter is upon the doe and her Little Prince.

I watch on…

We see a shot of the doe and Little Prince grazing and nibbling the frozen shoots. The camera view changes to a young family snowshoeing through the back country off in the distance. They are laughing, joyous, binoculars swing from dad’s neck. The doe jerks her head up immediately and her ears twist. Her fight or flight instinct kicks in as she immediately recognises that she, Little Prince, and the unborn fawn are in danger. She darts, Little Prince follows close behind… the ground is slippery, mom is weak, every stride she makes sends pain through her weakened body, but her instinct to protect her babies takes over and they run, run, run, until she skids, and trips and there’s a hill and…

I changed the channel at that very moment and went back to it after about 180 Mississippis and the doe has died. The fall was too much for her to bear and her foetus has subsequently also perished. The Little Prince is now grazing in a field all alone after having witnessed the fall of his mother. He was still too young to have been integrated into the herd independent of his mother, however, now his very survival depends on whether they will accept or banish him. Banishing him will be certain death. By this time, I am basically rocking myself like a lump of the sofa with the sleeves of my sweater pulled over my hands. One for wiping my tears, the other for my snotty nose. I felt as though I had lost my own darn mother!

I’m sure I sound completely nuts. I mean I must. Even serious animal lovers have been known to look at me strangely.

I don’t know what it is with faces, especially the eyes and body language, and it’s not only animals… I can be this way toward humans, too, if I pick up on certain energies or moods; but, for the most part I think my ache is channeled mostly toward animals. Why I pick up on this kind of energy, I’m not sure really. It’s not like I saw horrible things done to animals when I was a child. For as long as I remember I just had this connection toward anything I felt was vulnerable – human or animal. Old men eating alone in McDonald’s would make me feel like crying.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t used to unstick the struggling flies from the sticky tape and used Q-tips to get the goo off their wings and send them on their way. Does anyone else do things like that? There must be someone!

I found an abandoned Canada Goose nest once after the mother had been scared away by a mower, I knew that those eggs need to be rotated and kept at a certain temperature for the embryos to survive and had witnessed the nest unattended for hours too long. Would you believe me if I told you I collected all six eggs and turned my walk-in closet into an incubator complete with heat lamps, humidifiers, and a timer to remind me when to turn the eggs? I never knew what happened to them though because I brought them to the wild bird sanctuary after the weekend was over. I think in one way, I never followed up because I didn’t want to know that they turned out not to be viable. When I was a kid, I used to keep cages in my bedroom closet in the event that I came across a rodent that had survived a cat attack with minor injuries. It was basically a little infirmary I had created and I did actually have a few “patient” success stories. I even had a little mole once.

I remember a time when my dad’s cat caught a baby Blue Jay. Oscar …

This is Oscar:

… must have grown tired of his catch and left it lying in the grass in the backyard. My dad put it in a little shoebox and called Ace Ventura (that’s me) right away. I came over and we talked in the backyard where the shoebox with the baby Jay was. It was alert but ruffled and otherwise looked okay albeit with a bit of blood around its neck. What devastated me the most from that situation was the poor, anxious mother. She chirped and circled the patio table for as long as that box was sitting on top of it with her baby inside. We even walked away for a brief moment and witnessed her perch herself right on the edge of the box and feed her baby then just sit there and they chirped at each other. It nearly brought me to my knees right then and there; I was so upset. The whole situation was upsetting for me. I felt bad that it happened in the first place, I felt terrible for the poor mother, and I felt terrible that I had to take the box away to the bird sanctuary knowing that she knew her baby was in there. I received bad news two days later when I heard that that baby hung on for a solid 48 hours but for some reason by the afternoon of the 2nd day it just lay dead in its cage. The veterinarians thought it may have had internal bleeding. That entire scene cycled through my head for a very, very long time and it was a while before it became less vivid. I’m sure the vet tech never expected herself to be actually consoling me on the phone but I couldn’t help my tears. I kept bumbling over again about the mom and she was like, “You did the best you could, you really did.”

I’ve considered that what I do is apply my own human emotion to the animal and imagine that it is suffering the way I would as a human if I found myself in the same situation. The thing is I know animals feel fear and pain. You can see it in their eyes when they’re trying to outrun a predator. Watching something like that, for example, makes me have the same types of feelings that I would have if I was running for my life. It’s really like that. It comes to me in a physical form.

I guess this is a lot to take in. And I thought about it over the weekend with the whole buffalo video. Sometimes I wish I could get a link like that and watch it with fascination even while still keeping my love for animals within. Just like a lot of people can do. I mean I don’t look at Nick and figure he doesn’t love animals just because he can watch a video like that – I just long to draw from the same kind of… I guess it’s probably a measure of indifference and accepting it for what it is. He doesn’t absorb the emotions or feelings of the animal – and that’s because he’s a human. I don’t know how to do it that way.

Maybe I was an animal in my past life.

Anyway, does anyone else relate to this kind of feeling at all? Or, am I really as alien as I sometimes feel I am.

I’ve been taking a Sociology course as part of a University transfer program in pursuits of a University degree in some sort of social science that I’m not even certain of yet. It’s only part-time (one night/week), as I can’t afford any more of a course load for the same reason I can’t afford a decrease in my salary by going part-time. Nevertheless, this course has kind of made my sleuthy, over-analytical, mistrusting, debunking, intensely curious brain quite satiated as of late! Now the world around me is accompanied by a bit more background and history. In other words, I’m starting to get a good sense of when society really went down the shitter.

Just kidding. I love you, Society!

It’s interesting in terms of my own self-understanding as well because this is really the first time I’ve been attending school classes since I finally cut myself off from all mis-directed post-secondary courses back in… what was it? 2004? Yes, I graduated high school in 1996 and was in post-secondary education for eight years. And no, I did not become a doctor. I left school educated and enlightened but still unlabeled when it came to taking courses with an end goal in mind.

For a while I wanted to be in Advertising, then it was Graphic Design, after this it was a bartender in an upscale restobar that I was going to establish, so six months of that led me into Small Business Management where lo and behold I finally obtained a 2-year diploma. However, that wasn’t enough for me because I no longer wanted to be a restobar owner and decided that computers were actually my calling so into Enterprise Networking I went. By the time I finished my post-secondary education I could create an entire advertising campaign from beginning to end, do all the graphic design work for it, while moonlighting as a bartender, and networking, configuring, and encrypting enterprise servers in my spare time.

My problem was that for my entire educational life I was so focus-and goalless that I just went through the motions of what was acceptable and expected while having very little interest in what was actually being taught to me. If I had it my way I would get through school successfully by drawing, writing stories, and reading novels of my choice. I was so indifferent toward the structure of school that I felt almost irritated by it for getting in the way of letting me learn what I really wanted to learn.

Can you imagine being my teacher? Funny though, some of them actually really liked me.

I once did a left-brain vs right-brain test… lemme see if I still have the results in an email.

Looking…
Looking…
Looking…
Yes.

Your Brain Usage Profile:
Auditory : 35%
Visual : 64%
Left : 63%
Right : 36%

Andrea, you are somewhat left-hemisphere dominant and show a preference for visual learning, although not extreme in either characteristic. You probably tend to do most things in moderation, but not always.

Your left-hemisphere dominance implies that your learning style is organized and structured, detail oriented and logical. Your visual preference, though, has you seeking stimulation and multiple data. Such an outlook can overwhelm structure and logic and create an almost continuous state of uncertainty and agitation. You may well suffer a feeling of continually trying to “catch up” with yourself.

Your tendency to be organized and logical and attend to details is reasonably well-established which should afford you success regardless of your chosen field of endeavor. You can “size up” situations and take in information rapidly. However, you must then subject that data to being classified and organized which causes you to “lose touch” with the immediacy of the problem.

Your logical and methodical nature hamper you in this regard though in the long run it may work to your advantage since you “learn from experience” and can go through the process more rapidly on subsequent occasions.

You remain predominantly functional in your orientation and practical. Abstraction and theory are secondary to application. In keeping with this, you focus on details until they manifest themselves in a unique pattern and only then work with the “larger whole.”

With regards to your career choices, you have a mentality that would be good as a scientist, coach, athlete, design consultant, or an engineering technician. You can “see where you want to go” and even be able to “tell yourself,” but find that you are “fighting yourself” at the darndest times.

I’m left-hemisphere dominant with a preference for visual learning. Yes, totally. I think up until this test I just convinced myself that all my troubles of mis-direction were explained simply because I was “right-brained.” The daydreaming, crayon loving, space-cadet that loves numbers, calculations, theories, and logic, as long as it’s all demonstrated to me in pretty little pictures and stories.

This little assessment is pretty bang-on for the most part; with the exception of the athlete as a career choice. Truth be known, my hamstrings would never allow it.

So, let’s just say this hemispherical breakdown has been a theme for most of my life, then, a sentence like this: “Such an outlook can overwhelm structure and logic and create an almost continuous state of uncertainty and agitation,” explains so much.

Moving right along…

As with every single post I’ve written over the last two years, the first half is usually initiated at least 2-3 weeks before the second half, sometimes 2-3 months (see diagnosis above). Since my very first sentence up there, I’ve written my mid-term, and received the results. 68%! Now, some of you scholarly academic types will see that mark and throw up a little. For me, I’m just proud of myself for passing! Granted this was my very first University exam, ever (remember, I’ve been college educated), I have all great intentions of surpassing 70% next time (they’re called baby steps, okay?). I studied so gall darn hard for that mid-term. And, what was different this time around was the fact that I actually enjoyed learning. I wanted to learn. I couldn’t wait to learn. These intentions are great except for the idea, as I’ve recently learned, that University professors all have a specific, and individual, way of structuring their exams. I imagine the social science professors are probably the most unique in their exam structuring, too. I know from the first five minutes of my class I was already assessing her. Watching her body language, her use of the floor space at the front of the class, her animated face, the way her nostrils flare when she talks through her smile. The way she almost flips her head in a ditsy fashion which doesn’t match the PhD title she maintains in her email signatures. How she goes bug-eyed when she says something ”hip” to the fairly young class and blinks over her bug eyes while waiting for a reaction. The thing is, the class reaction comes in this kind of hesitant, I’m snickering because it looks like you want me to snicker, but I don’t exactly think what you said is funny, however, you’re standing there, staring out at us, waiting for a reaction so here it is, now please carry on with what you were saying.

You know the type?

Sometimes she signs her emails with just her first name, other times it’s Dr. Last Name.

At any rate, I felt as though there was definitely one answer (which I got wrong) that was so misleading I asked her about it after class. In my opinion, it should have been tossed entirely (which would have brought my mark up to 72% – there’s that 70% I wanted!) but she passed it off as semantics and thanked me for pointing it out. I’ll note that for the final. Semantics? Listen sister, I went into this mid-term with a University-level approach. I know those multiple choice questions are tricky on purpose and I already have a feeling you enjoy being tricky so, when I read the question and the subsequent a), b), c), d), and e) answers I thought right away: “Ah ha! This is one of those tricks!” and answered the question accordingly. Unfortunately, the answer was e) all of the above but I completely disagree and if I were in the court of law, I’d actually represent myself; I was that confident. However, I didn’t have the energy to discuss things further (class nights make for really long days) so I Meh’ed it off and drove home feeling 3% smarter, because I knew I was right.

I enjoy class, though, if not for the fact that I was so ready to learn something new. I swear, if I would have entered grade 9 at 34 years old I would probably get straight As. ha. I’ve had 34 years of discovering, experiencing, learning, and understanding how to look at the world, how to deduce things, how to break things down. My brain is much more equipped at being able to learn things based on this kind of mental experience, or exercising. I can’t just head straight to the race track and expect to win gold. I need to train for those things! That’s how I look at school.

Other than this, life is moving along swimmingly. I’m really enjoying playing house and like the idea of having another body to wake up with in the morning and falling asleep with at night. I like how Nick makes zero noise while in slumber so that sometimes I actually touch his back to make sure he’s breathing.

Okay this is good for now. Nicole, you will happy with the relatively short timeline between this, and my last, post. See? I’m learning.

Bye bye.

You really don’t have to do that today. Or, if you do, just do the garbage bags, that would be a big help. I can still go Thurs and Fri on my own. You sounded sick and grumpy and I don’t want you to overdo it on account of me. I’m serious. Just do the garbage and drop off the vacuum and I’ll be grateful. No more though, she said.

haha. As if. I would walk around the world on broken legs for you, he said.

The over-used word of the day is: love.

I must admit how progressive this is for me to be blogging from my iPhone. I guess like with all dedicated writers (ahem) we must write the moment the material comes! And, not a moment too soon! And so, I write from my iPhone in the middle if the night. Why? Well Franco was stirring. I could hear squeaky sounds of Chihuahua distress and I could not sleep knowing that a tiny, 3.5-pound pet of mine was in such a state. Mind you, a pet of mine of any size would garner the same concerned feeling; tonight it just happens to be Mr. Franco.

If I know him at all by now, I know that his taste buds got the better of him as he must have spent time earlier meticulously eating up whatever remained of that delicious, savoury, protein-rich Halo Spot’s Stew of the Wholesome Chicken variety meal that his feline brothers chow down on. Not to offer more information than you were prepared to read, but I came across one of his distinct number twos and I knew right away someone had dipped into the wrong cookie jar.

I’ve made Nick’s sofa into a makeshift bed where Franco currently sleeps, curled into a ball in the bow of my legs. His tummy squishes and gurgles but not a peep from him vocally since I arrived. Not to sound like a crazy person but I think this little thing finds comfort in me. I’m not sure what kind of life he lived before I picked him up from the rescue shelter but if I could count the changes and transitions he’s undergone since I adopted him on April 29th last year I’d run out of fingers and toes. He’s such a darling and I am so immensely endeared to him.

Marshall and Otis are at Nick’s now as well as of this past weekend. You know how relationships go – especially the ones you actually wholeheartedly want to be in – you spend a lot of time together and it never runs the risk of feeling like too much but that means less time at your own stomping grounds, in your own bed, and pets, clothes, houseplants and creature comforts suddenly find themselves with a little less of me around. Now, before you peg me as a selfish, neglectful pet owner (although my guts tell me you would never because you’ve been following me for so long and/or you know me personally and already fully expect there to be a spot in my coffin for my pets) I will tell you that I was desperately trying my darnedest to give both human and animal the most wholeheartedest parts of me that I could actually distribute. Eventually though, I felt like I was giving Marshall and Otis visitation rights to me and on a lighter, more of a haha, I’m saying this to make light of a situation that is causing me guilty feelings, I’d often tell people that I have the luckiest cats because I’m paying $800/month for them to live in a beautiful one-bedroom apartment.

Since then my eggs, some neglected but still consumable veggies, hand soap refill, and a vacuum have also made their way here although I wasn’t facing any detachment issues with the latter list, thankfully.

Anyway ya, Nicole will like this update because she’s been hoping for a) anything and b) an update on my love life.

Hmmm. The headline would read:

See, the problem is I’ve been so neglectful of my blogging you’re going to read the title and think, “Franco? Who is Franco?” You might even think James Franco which is a third of the way close. Franco is my nine-year-old, 3.5-pound Chihuahua rescue dog. His full name is James Joplin Franco. I named him that from Kilo – which I felt was mocking him.

Last night Franco was lost and running the streets of New Westminster in the darkness and I nearly lost it myself.

The feeling was like a boulder in my sternum actually. You know, right where the happy butterflies fly around in a perfect world? I was gone all day and Franco had a play date with a Dachshund named Beanie and some humans. I remember driving back to him and thinking how I was looking forward to seeing his squirmy, flailing, skittish little ass end running toward me with his little tail wagging so fervently that sometimes it looks like a propeller.

I walked in and was all, “Frannnnco, Francoooo, Franco? Frannnnco? Fran-co?!” He didn’t come running to me and that’s when my stomach landed heavily on top of my feet. Franco was missing. He wasn’t under beds or in cupboards or hiding in the basement. He was really and truly lost outside somewhere.

I’ve had animals all my life. All kinds. Gerbils, rats, fish, cats, dogs, ferrets, rabbits, caterpillars, injured birds, moles, mice, Canada goose eggs. I don’t discriminate. I remember spending hours calling my cats in at night when I was a kid. I remember my dogs Sam and Billy running rampant through the streets of Kanata after my childhood home was on fire. I remember missing pets and wanting them back. I don’t remember feeling like I did when Franco was missing.

I was walking around like a possessed maniac, calling his name every 2nd heart beat. A rush of sadness and hopelessness came over me with every 10th heartbeat and my Francos came out in a shaky whimper. Franco please, I remember saying over again. In the distance I could hear children calling him. I could hear the adults. It was dark and so hard to see anything. We all split up. I could hear distant echoes of varying intonations but it was the same name we were all calling. Franco’s.

As I was searching I thought about how small he is and how “indoor” he is. He is not an intrepid hound dog big enough to defend himself and explore and know how to survive until someone picks him up and traces him back to me. He is 5x less than the weight of my CATS. I thought about cars hitting him, bigger dogs finding him, coyotes, someone picking him up and making him theirs. I thought about never seeing his little face and wiggly body again and I was so incredibly sad. So immensely sad. I was so sad that I wasn’t crying. I couldn’t cry. I mean, my voice was shaking but I was unable to let out a cry, it was completely stuck inside me and boy did it hurt my throat. I also didn’t want to cry in front of the people helping me look for him. For some reason I felt as though I didn’t want them to see how in love with Franco I really am. Some people don’t understand that kind of pet love and crying over it is awkward for them.

So I kept it together on the outside for an hour as best as I possibly could.

Eventually I made my way back to the house and figured I should call him from one place. That the speed and irregular lines at which I was walking would make even a leopard confused. I went back to ground zero and called him over and over again from the front stoop. The rest of the search party was out and about, talking to the late night dog-walkers, “Have you seen a little Chihuahua?” “No, sorry,” they all said.

I went inside to rummage for my cell phone to see if BCSPCA had called me. It was ringing and it was someone who was in the search party. Franco was found. He was one block over and one block down. Whatever happened after that I can’t remember. I don’t remember walking, I don’t remember talking. I wasn’t alone. I was walking with someone and talking to them but I barely remember it. I do remember knocking on the door and saying that I wasn’t going to feel relief until I actually saw him. But there he was. His tail was propelling before he even left the young lady’s arms. He came into mine and licked my neck and cheeks and they all went “Awwww.” And I just held him so close to my chest and he just stayed there breathing heavily.

They were a really nice family, living in a really nice home, and he had some roast beef for dinner. They were smitten by my little Franco dog and I think they were as happy as I was that we were reunited. We carried on talking for about five minutes and I don’t remember what we talked about except they were happy to learn of his name because they were running through all sorts to figure it out. I walked home, everyone in the search party gave him some forehead tickles and chin scratches and were were off.

I got into my car and let out what I’m certain was my first exhale since realising he was missing and it felt like a huge relief. I remember crying a bit at that time just sitting in my car before starting it. Funny how it was stuck, or maybe I held out until I was alone with him. Maybe it’s how I kept my wits about me. I don’t know.

But, I know I’m happy he’s still with me.

Iago spoke this to Othello. It speaks to me.

OMG. I’m still here. I’m here and there. Mostly there though.

I can’t believe I’m still getting messages advising me to get my sorry ass into gear and put up a post. I can’t believe sasr.com hasn’t got lost in a black hole in cyberspace and that some of you still remember. Remember the good old days when I solicited my tangents regularly. Those were the days.

Anyway, as per the usual I start a post or continue a post at least once a week usually on my lunches but then I lose focus and check the news or eat or do whatever else and then I’ve got as far as one measly sentence that is so useless that by the time I return to the thought I can’t even make sense of it myself.

“And the worst blogger of the year award goes to…”

I’m sorry. I write soon. Still alive and very well. Like, very very well. Thanks for asking.

Love, Andrea

Way to leave things on a depressing note, eh?

Just so this will make a bit of sense, I’ve been in Hawaii. I’ll be posting backward for the next few.

Okay so, of the final playoff round between the Canucks and the Bruins I missed one game of the seven. I happened to be in an airplane, 36,000 feet above earth and watched up to 2nd period before we lost the satellite feed. The first thing the pilot said as he came on the speaker to announce our descent was that he had terrible news regarding the Canucks score: 8 – 1 Bruins. The whole plane felt like it heaved in horror as its passengers were made up of mostly Vancouverites. People looked at each other, some put their hands to their mouths. How the hell can we win the first two games and lose so badly during the third? 1 – 0 Canucks, 3 – 2 Canucks, then 8 – 1 Bruins? 8 – 1 is not 2 – 1. Games 4, 5, and 6 we caught in Hawaii, then, I was home for Game 7.

At the start of Game 7 day I had no idea where I was going to catch the game. I started out with a few options and for about half an hour in the late afternoon one plan was confirmed with Nick to go down town to catch the game on the outdoor screens amidst the fandemonium. This plan was subsequently un-confirmed and I was left sitting on my sofa watching the first period by myself hoping to come to some kind of conclusion soon over what I was going to do. I decided I was going to go down town by myself. By that time time was of the essence and I knew there were people I knew down town so I texted them all in the hopes that they’d somehow be able to feel or hear my calls and texts and give me their coordinates for a meet-up. I left knowing that the chances of me finding someone were slim but I kept telling myself that if the Canucks win the Stanley Cup on that very day then down town Vancouver, the centre of it all, would become something unforgettable to me.

I was still living in Ottawa when the Senators made it to the finals against the Mighty Ducks in 2007. It was the first time the Sens had made it to the finals in 80 years. The last time being in 1927. This was a big deal for Ottawa. The Sens were defeated in Game 5 and much like Vancouver, Ottawa’s down town streets had been completely shut down to traffic for the entire final round. Elgin Street was coined ‘Sens Mile’ and received its “official” street sign.

© breakfastblogger.com

I was down town for that last game – we all knew that it could very well be the Sens’ last. And, it was. We lost that game and subsequently the Stanley Cup. People cried, some hugged, then the streets cheered regardless, and in solidarity, then eventually emptied out by late night and life carried on without incident.

When the Canucks lost it was the complete opposite and boy, was it ever unforgettable…

I took the SkyTrain to the Stadium stop which was a few blocks away from the Georgia and Hamilton intersection otherwise known as the “Fan Zone.” Facing me as I came down Georgia was the back of a huge screen TV mounted on a bus. The intersection was blocked off with blue fencing so I had to go around it to enter the area where all the fans were smooshed together. Somehow, I managed to squeeze and coil all 5’4″ of me through a deep crowd of hot people. I had no idea where I was going, all I knew was that I wanted to see the screen. I was guilty of rubbing up against people in ways that would have otherwise been extremely inappropriate in a grocery store aisle for example, but I was on a mission without destination. Eventually, I found myself on the steps of the Canada Post building on the northwest side of Georgia, kitty-corner to the CBC building. About eight steps up and I was then on the platform and could see the screen. I was also under a ledge which was nice because the sun was high and hot and being showered with its rays would have been horrible given how much body heat was being given off.

I remember stopping there once I found my spot just to look around. I remember the smell of beer and sweaty body but there was enough of a breeze every so often so it didn’t stagnate too badly. I saw goal two scored by the Bruins, and by goal three I remember the crowd’s energy had noticeably changed. One young man at the bottom of the steps began spit-screaming in the direction of the screen and punching the railing. Plastic bottles started soaring through the air and landing on various heads in the crowd at my feet. I remember texting a couple of my friends right then and there and telling them that I would not be surprised if there was a riot – I could feel it.

Come the 4th, empty-net goal more bottles and other objects were flying around. The crowd was getting restless having to dodge these flying objects. Before I knew it, the young girl beside me yelled “Oh my god they’re flipping that SUV!” I looked over and there was a silver SUV being rocked back and forth by a group of men, it was eventually flipped right onto its side then, right onto its back. I started taking photos and videos around then. It was starting. Admittedly, at that moment, I did question whether or not I should stick around. Part of me wanted to mainly out of honest interest also because I’m a shameless voyeur. I also wanted to see just how crazy these young people were actually going to get; you know, being my first riot and all. I was up off the street too and more or less “sheltered” from what was going on below me so had a good view. Little did I know that eventually I would not be able to leave even if I wanted to and that the activity would become dangerously worse.

The flipped SUV was a ways away from me but still close enough to see the faces of the people jumping on it and screaming like gorillas in the mist. I felt terrible for the owner of the SUV (who, as I later found out on the news, actually instigated the flipping of his own car) but also found the crowd’s subsequent reactions quite interesting and highly peculiar. They were starting to roar in unison. Fists started being pumped into the air as if at front row of a Megadeath concert. People began to climb up onto the under carriage of the SUV (which was now facing the sky) and jumped up and down on it with as much glee as children on a backyard trampoline. The front bumper was stomped off and was then tossed through the air from person-to-person just like a beach volleyball. The crowd roared and heaved. With every new, destructive assault inflicted upon the vehicle, the cheers and roars would elevate in decibels. I remember stopping to think about all this around that time. I had witnessed this crowd go from togetherness and anticipation for a Stanley Cup win, to the start of total anarchy and complete disregard for personal property. Not to mention how fast the destructive crowd grew in numbers. By this point it was easy to differentiate between those who had actually anticipated, if not instigated, the riot as they were donning bandannas over their faces and those who had actually started their day as bonafide fans. They wore Canucks jerseys, and had logo tattoos on their cheeks, aluminum foil-made Stanley Cups, blow horns. But, eventually the aluminum foil Stanley Cups became projectiles and the butts of the blow horns would be used to help smash any glass that was around.

The entire scene unravelled into something that reminded me of Lord of the Flies. This analogy was also adopted in the media and in daily conversation and I think it’s because that’s exactly what it looked like. It was pretty well the only comparison that immediately came to mind. I don’t want to use the words “mob mentality” in this post because I feel like it’s already received its maximum use in any one-week period but it is what is is. I looked around and was pretty sure over three-quarters of those eventually involved in the full-blown riot would have never, in their wildest dreams, imagined themselves in a riot in their lifetime. But, it was hard to ignore the energy and sensory overload that evening once the rioters’ impulsively swelled to hundreds within minutes and the two vehicles in my immediate sight (one being the SUV, the other being some poor man’s utility truck) were shooting flames to the sky. I saw young men taking turns standing in front of the burning vehicles facing the sky with arms up and fists clenched roaring until they had no air left in their lungs. In addition to Lord of the Flies that part reminded me of some sort of satanic worship with the fire and all.

For a while I was pretty well stuck where I was because the ground below was not safe. There were brawls occurring at the bottom of the steps to my side and fiery bedlam on the ground at my feet. So, I stayed up on my perch for about an hour. I watched the cops come in and attempt to control the situation. I saw the fire truck come in to douse the flames of the SUV. Not too soon after this the utility truck would be next. I saw the cops retreat to the very outskirts of the chaos and figured they were planning something. They later returned with shields, batons, and helmets. The S.W.A.T came out in full gear at the same time and were manning the street while a handful of cops covered the Canada Post building and cleaned house. They wanted no one standing on the raised landing where I was “safe” and whacked everybody off into the streets as if we were all dangerous. Luckily I didn’t get hit by a baton but a photographer was nearly pushed down the stairs and one young woman received a hard whack on her forearm – which made her cry. This part reminded me of Children of the Corn only the sickles were batons, and the children were police officers, and the corn stalks were humans. Luckily, they gave me a chance to jump down onto the steps as the last spectator remaining. Eye-contact and a “Don’t hurt me, I’m fragile” smile works well I find.

Noted for the next riot.

I was now on the street in the middle of it all. This part reminded me of an apocalypse. In a very cliché way, all hell had broken loose. The street fighting had been going on for a while so I was passing people with ripped t-shirts and bloody faces. Some guys were bouncing around like orangutans; almost as though they were in Jolly Jumpers but without the apparatus. The cops had formed a solid line right through the Georgia/Hamilton intersection and the smoke from the empty frames of the simmering vehicles billowed behind them. It was quite a scene. The reinforcement cops in the second row were holding cameras and video cameras to the crowd. They stood motionless and straight-faced. One “rioter” actually had the nerve to walk right up to their line, drop his pants, whip out his peen and actually send a hot stream down at their feet. Still, they stood motionless. I tell you, one quick swoop of a baton would have likely taken care of that man’s arrogant anatomy for the rest of his life.

The Canada Post building was under attack now and people were taking turns running at the glass with a karate kick to shatter it. Eventually a pane broke and again the roars surged.

Backyard firework explosions now competed with the sounds of tear gas booms and the air started to tickle my throat. Unfortunately, I did not bring my trusty riot bandanna to filter out the gas and my mucous membranes were being attacked. I was no longer in my safe place and was traipsing the streets among the fury. It had become hard to breathe and the chaos was as upsetting as it was frightening and I had experienced more than enough. The shock of watching a crowd regress into something out of the stone age had dissipated and upset was taking over. By this point, those who remained were ready to take on the cops and the S.W.A.T. They seemed to have lost all dignity and composure and were pretty well feeding off the chaotic energy like fiends. They looked inhuman. Like zombies almost - especially when the sun had nearly set and everything took on this kind of grey, ominous hue and the smoke from the vehicles, fireworks, and tear gas looked that much more mean and growly.

I heard someone suggest hoisting up the fencing and rushing the S.W.A.T… I walked to the SkyTrain station after that.

The rest of the riot I caught from the cozy confines of my living room. I see the rioters had become more ballsy as night time set in. Looting was in full force, police vehicles were being set on fire, someone fell from the viaduct to the ground below, there were injuries. Poor Vancouver, I kept thinking to myself, I’m so sorry this is happening to you. And, why was it happening? Well I figure it was some kind of psychological trigger that happened. I believe that a handful of people went down town that day with the sole purpose of instigating a riot. I don’t believe they were from Vancouver, especially down town. I believe once it began, the feeling perpetuated – just like how reckless driving can perpetuate on the highways. All you need is one asshole driver tailgating and weaving and it takes another driver with a short fuse to get him back by doing the same. Before you know it, three more drivers are all getting each other back. You ask one of them over dinner at a nice restaurant if tailgating on the highway at high speeds is dangerous and they’ll most likely say yes.

Anyway I could theorize for hours gleefully but, I’ll leave the rest of the psychoanalysis up to the pros…

It’s Friday.

I forgot my lunch at home and I can’t bring myself to spend money so luckily I have a container of plain yogurt and a bag of bulk mixed … I was going to say nuts, but they’re seeds; well 2/3 are. Pumpkin, sunflower, and sliced almonds. This is my lunch. This was also my breakfast. I put this little rodent fusion together myself and although I smack my lips over its goodness I laugh because … what a lunch. Nicole would have waited for me to say something like: “I just finished a tin of oysters in oil for lunch.”

It’s Monday.

Two weeks ago I learned one of my clients passed away. Last week, while sitting in the waiting room at my doctor’s office watching Global News, I learned that this client was a victim of murder. He was on my case load because he was confused easily and needed someone regular to keep him organized. We don’t have case loads at work anymore but I petitioned to have him on a specialized one because I wanted to help make his life a little easier. He was a gentle, sweet, simple-minded, and peaceful man. He was a breath of fresh air in a work environment that is often volatile, cranky, addicted, and desperate. His name was Ray and he is Vancouver’s second murder of the year.

I want to attend his service but to date, there is no trace of him in the obituaries. No one has placed a notice. No one has prepared a service. After the news headlines go away Ray might too. Just like that. It saddens me to think that maybe he has parents somewhere; or siblings; dear, old high school friends who would mourn his loss; who would plan a beautiful service; and who would visit his resting place often to have silent conversations with him. Maybe they already think he’s gone. But he wasn’t. He was alive as of three and a half weeks ago.

He was alive doing handy things, he was alive working odd jobs and sometimes panhandling, he was playing harmonica up and down East Hastings, he was alive visiting pubs and talking to people, and brightening their day with his simple happiness.

I emailed the reporter who put an article in The Province asking her if she knew of any funeral service for Ray. She had noted in her article that a memorial was held in the down town east side close to one of Ray’s hangouts but in her reply added it was put together very quickly by the DTES community and advised she didn’t know of any official service. Her email ended with: “It seems that Ray was really well-regarded by everyone.”

“He was a good dude, a good solid guy, not a drug addict, not even an alcoholic like me…” one acquaintance told the reporters.

Another said, “Ray would give you the shirt off his back, but he was always inviting people up to his room and I told him it wasn’t the safest thing to do.”

He was murdered and the papers called it a “brutal” one.

Typing that makes me feel like crying.

I’ve been getting Microsoft Outlook calendar popups to remind me to email Ray’s temp labour employer to get Ray’s monthly income so he can declare properly with my help. I haven’t been able to “dismiss” that notification yet.

I hope there’s someone crying for Ray. I hope he was dear to someone. Important enough to them for this news to make a sorrowful impact. To make their heart stop for a second and for them to feel troubled over his loss – for a while.

I cry for Ray.