Category: Urban living

There are occasions when being a writer and having a blog is a curse. An event will occur, or happen as a consequence of matters I am party to, and nothing would suit me better than to give a full account of it. I would have liked nothing better than to have given a full accounting to the exact reasons for and the beastly behaviour of other people during my marriage breaking up – fine, let it stand that I was self-willed and I’ll leave the name calling and cruelty and bald faced f*cking lies other people subjected me to out of the picture. To protect innocent people, and to prevent myself from looking like a goddamned asshole, more to the point, I guess, that’s what I have had to do. Nor am I complaining about the results. I am clearly happier and better off for having moved out of that house. I just wish I could tell the truth about it. I’m still on good speaking terms with my ex and kids, so no harm done, right?
I would like nothing better than to describe in gory detail what it’s been like to stop being a member of a couple and to have many of favourite activities curtailed and destroyed. Yes, I had to go there, yes, it was my idea when I was no longer psychically safe, but I really really haven’t liked it, and I haven’t talked about the times I’ve spent a day or two, here and there, crying for reasons I can’t describe. Yeah, I could definitely go on at length there. Into the memory hole with it. I’m not even keeping a private journal of those events, it’s not worth it, as in the end it’s living well that counts, not keeping a tally of every grievance. If I wrote it all out it would become impossible to forgive, and even now I haven’t forgiven… into the memory hole. There is no good outcome in setting it all out, whether for myself or others.
I would like to render a full account of yesterday evening’s events – how an entire panoply of human cruelty, stupidity, waste and denial played out as a consequence of the death of a companion animal and how I had to sit with it, and be companionable with that parade of nastiness, and deal in practical terms with it (ie, help move the body of a large Rottie cross onto a board and then a truck, and clean the inevitable leakage off the floor). When Scooter died, it was an opportunity to show family solidarity when we all went to the Lodge to say goodbye to her, in the dark midwinter; when Bounce died we were all together and had each other for one of those uniquely horrible and sad days families go through. Last night wasn’t like that. I have no beef with Mike, he lost his dog, and I am honoured he called on me to help. I have no beef for the icky factual stuff, and I now know that eating a pizza pocket and then cleaning up after a dead dog is a great way to remind yourself your gag reflex is set way high. I am angry, hurt, bewildered and rendered half daft by how mean some people are. Fifty years old almost and I still think people should be nice to each other, and here’s me upset when they aren’t. What am I, a child still?
I intend to give a donation to the SPCA in Vancouver and say a brace of prayers for the animal control staffer, who was an angel of mercy, dignity and punctuality.

I thank my mother for being a civilized human being unlike some others whose behaviour I am shielding as a result of my mother’s teachings, and my brother for his material aid yesterday in conveying me to Mike’s after work.