The Ham Era

Introducing the latest winner of the canine Powerball lotto – Hampton Augustus Cuddlebug Clague, a miniature goldendoodle to be henceforth known as Ham:

Ham, five-weeks-old (©Deborah Clague)

Ham, six-weeks-old (©Deborah Clague)

The One-Eyed Fox of Waskesiu

Before the first snowfall, I spent a day solo hiking in Prince Albert National Park. I wasn’t alone though. I made friends with the one-eyed fox of Waskesui.

One-eyed fox at Narrows Marina, Prince Albert National Park, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

Fox at Narrows Marina, Prince Albert National Park, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

Fox at Narrows Marina, Prince Albert National Park, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

Fox at Narrows Marina, Prince Albert National Park, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

Autumn scenes at Prince Albert National Park, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

Dew on the Grass

It was early morning, roughly 6:00am. I’m not normally up at that time but had been awake for awhile as the room I slept in had a window facing East with the sun filtering through its gauze curtains for at least an hour prior. It seemed to signal what would become an absolutely beautiful July day. First sight I saw in the brightness as I looked over was my wee best friend, Monty, staring up at me from his own dog bed placed beside mine. “Time for a walk”, I thought to myself. As always, he seemed to know exactly what I was thinking.

The park we walked through was well-familiar from my childhood but offered pleasant surprise at that early morning hour. There was a stillness as the city prepared for the day. The wildlife, however, were visible. Monty and I counted rabbits, as a lone pelican swam in solitude at an adjacent pond. What caught my eye was the dew on the grass, glistening as the slant of light from the rising sun hit at just the right angle. It’s not something a sleepyhead like myself normally gets to observe. The quiet of that July morning left me with a simple, cherished memory that I can now only reflect wistfully on. It was such a beautiful day.


This is hard to write.

I am writing this through tears and with the knowledge that I will be editing it in the future, as a few paragraphs could never truly encapsulate what he meant to me.

Monty, my best friend and the goodest good boy I have ever known, passed away on October 5. He was two-months shy of 14 years of age (or roughly ninety-four in dog years). I am completely heartbroken.

I adopted Monty two weeks after moving to a new city. After our initial introduction, I knew that we would be the best of companions … and we were. Our bond was immediate. He helped divert depression and fill the void of loneliness in traversing an unfamiliar place. And I, in turn, loved—and spoiled!—him endlessly with affection and adventure. From leading him on hikes through the scenic Rockies to Monty helping me emotionally navigate the early, unexpected loss of a parent, he was a trusted sentry in my life with the aim of keeping me protected from ills both seen and invisible.

In later years Monty lived with my mother, acting as an unofficial therapy animal for someone beginning their own new life after being widowed. While I missed him terribly, I knew that this was needed. I always felt his gentle, sweet nature was made for assisting people in times of need.

There are parks and hidden trails in my hometown that I will forever associate with his memory because of how well we travelled them.

And I know his spirit will continue walking them with me in the future.


Longevity of life is a privilege not everyone gets to experience—and it is this understanding that helps lessen the sadness I currently feel. I am so thankful for the wonderful memories I got to experience with both my grandfather and Monty. They both lived full lives well into (their respective) old age. If I brought them as much happiness as they shared with me, then we will have both lived a wonderful life.

As I reflect on their legacies, I keep returning to the idea of “presence”; the active presence they both made to be included in the lives of others. Active engagement with the world and beings around them. Active listening to others as they speak. Active, genuine affection towards their family and loved ones. Actively being there for someone when needed. We can gain personal strength from observed lessons of their character.

May they have parted this world knowing the depth of my love for them both.

Me and my Monty this past summer (©Deborah Clague, 2023).

The first time I saw Monty in 2010 (©Deborah Clague, 2010).

My beautiful boy in 2018 (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

One of my favourite pictures of Monty. He was always smiling (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Monty and I at Assiniboine Park, Winnipeg (©Deborah Clague, 2023).

One of the last photos of my best friend in the universe, Monty (©Deborah Clague, 2023).

Red River Girl

I grew up in a blue collar, working class neighborhood, the type of which is not lucrative to build today. Located in south Winnipeg, it is surrounded by agriculture, once-secluded monastic ruins, and a landfill. The Red River snakes through its easternmost boundary. As an only-child, I explored this space by bike and foot on my own creating stories in my head of adventure that were bigger than anything present in the reality of suburbia. While I didn’t grow up wealthy, my imagination was allowed to flourish and became rich.

Approaching the road leading to the neighbourhood I grew up in during a recent visit to my hometown, an encampment consisting of several tee-pees, canvas tents and a longhouse caught my eye. As did several news trucks. It was the start of a blockade protesting government inaction in the search of a Winnipeg landfill for the remains of two Indigenous women who were murdered and disposed of in a most inhumane way. Discourse surrounding the decision centred on cost and safety, but was remiss in excluding race. The protestors vowed to stay until a search was conducted. During my childhood of backyard and beyond exploration, this isn’t something I ever encountered or learned about. Although, it probably was by design.

It is only in recent years that I’ve learned about Canada’s true history with its Indigenous population (thanks in big part to an employer that prioritizes this education for all staff). Now whenever I hear news stories like this, I see how First Nations communities are transparently treated as “other”. As a different, other sub-class of people denied the opportunities and, at times, dignities, that are offered to the general population. Being forced to accept that your loved ones are viewed as literal trash is part of that. I can’t imagine anyone else subjected to that without at least an attempt for proper closure.


Books of wonder and fantasy offered escape as a kid. But the books I gravitate towards as an adult are rarely light. The words on the page can be dark and cause discomfort as is the case with Red River Girl: The Life and Death of Tina Fontaine by Joanna Jolly. This was my summer reading before I knew about the protests at Brady Road landfill but each is intertwined with the other and needs to be studied in tandem. Tina was murdered and disposed of in the Red River in 2014. This discovery led to federal government action on an inquiry into the many missing and murdered Indigenous women in Canada. Some argued this was long overdue as the phenomena of MMIWG2S stretched back decades (and continues today).

While reading Red River Girl, I couldn’t ignore the contrast of our adolescence. From a young age, I was encouraged to discover, supported to grow, and empowered to become. I felt safe and had a sense of belonging in my community. Tina never had these opportunities. At just fifteen, she had a very, very different life than my own. One punctuated by loss, addiction, exploitation and abuse that no child should ever have to endure. Her story’s ending also lacked closure; the main suspect in Tina’s murder was acquitted.

The book was a hard read that shared a Canadian story that is ongoing. Indigenous women and girls are the most vulnerable members of our society. Canada, and, as such, Canadian society, needs to do better in ensuring their wellbeing is protected and their value to our cultural mosaic is respected.


As I prepare to depart Winnipeg, the protest at Brady Road landfill continues.

Time's Up

Three years into the pandemic and I have been COVID-19 free … until now. Despite having all my shots and boosters, it has hit me like a train leaving me sicker and weaker than I have ever felt in my life. Oh, how I lament my naïveté at thinking I was somehow immune.

Day One: a little kitschy-kitch in my throat that develops into what probably feels like a smoker’s cough. I don’t smoke.

Day Two: my head feels like there is pressure. I experience very sharp pain in my right eyeball. A feeling of exhaustion comes over me so I go to bed at 5:00pm (!!!) … and I don’t wake up until 9:30am the next morning. The entire night, I alternate between being frigid and absolutely sweltering. In the morning, my sheets are soaked in sweat.

Day Three: I can’t seem to do anything for more than five minutes without taking a rest and lying down. Going from my bed to the kitchen, for example, leaves me exhausted. I haven’t eaten in three days. I am not hungry at all. Just subsiding on water. It feels like it is taking more effort to simply breathe and get the same amount of oxygen in my lungs as it would under normal circumstances.

Day Four: my throat feels like someone used extra-course sandpaper in an attempt to scrub it raw. My tongue is completely white. I assume it is this. My teeth hurt. My head is still pulsating. This is the day I have lost both my sense of smell and my sense of taste. Which sucks because I haven’t eaten much and now everything is just texture. Fucking wild. Debating switching my diet to raw vegetables in an attempt to find a positive in this.

Day Six: I’m now on Day Six and while definitely doing better than last weekend, I am still so exhausted and my nagging cough and sore throat just aren’t leaving yet. I don’t know what, if any, long term complications will arise but this is definitely something I have never experienced before.


Day 22: sore throat and coughing like a life-long smoker who goes through five packs a day.

Your Occasional Monty

Thirteen-years-old (91 in dog years) and still looking like a champ.

Wee Monty, January 2023 (©Deborah Clague)

All dressed up and ready to go for a walk, my Monty (©Deborah Clague)

Monty and some of his (many) assorted toys (©Deborah Clague)

California Dreaming

I recently had one day in Los Angeles to act as tourist and make the most of a visit before the working portion of my excursion took over. So what does one do with twenty-four hours in the city of angels? Well, to be honest, it was probably closer to thirteen hours, as I like to be in bed by nine like the grandma I am meant to be. But in the moments I was active, I was getting my steps in (and bleeding my wallet for Uber).

9:30am: First stop was The Original L.A. Farmer’s Market and The Grove shopping area. Purpose was to source local goods that I can’t find back home in Canada like regional spices, teas and chocolate. I may have failed to check the opening schedule for the market and got there a bit early, so I used the wait time to walk up to West Hollywood (which also got my Target fix in). The Original L.A. Farmer’s Market does have a good variety of vendors and unique items. I also managed to pick up some varied flavours of Nonna’s Empanadas for lunch and dinner. I had honestly never tried this Latin American delicacy before, which is a damn shame because they are delicious.

Nonna’s Empanadas, Los Angeles (©2022, Deborah Clague).

1:30pm: after dropping off my purchases at the hotel, I made my way to The Broad, a contemporary art gallery in downtown Los Angeles a few blocks from my hotel. Tickets are free but must be booked in advance. The highlight of this visit was entering Yayoi Kusama’s Infinity Mirror Room—The Souls of Millions of Lights Away. I also got to see the work of contemporary artist Jeff Koons, whom I got to hear stories from later in the week.

Yayoi Kusama’s Infinity Mirror Room—The Souls of Millions of Lights Away, The Broad, Los Angeles (©2022, Deborah Clague).

Balloon Dog, Blue, Jeff Koons, The Broad, Los Angeles (©2022, Deborah Clague).

Michael Jackson and Bubbles, Jeff Koons, The Broad, Los Angeles (©2022, Deborah Clague).

Tulips, Jeff Koons, The Broad, Los Angeles (©2022, Deborah Clague).

Under the Table, Robert Therrian, The Broad, Los Angeles (©2022, Deborah Clague)

4:30pm: I would be remiss if I didn’t take the opportunity to visit the beach while in California. And so this is where my hectic twenty-four hour adventure ended—at the end-point of America’s famous Route 66, Santa Monica Pier, as the sun set along the horizon of the ocean Pacific.

Palm trees, Santa Monica, California (©2022, Deborah Clague)

Santa Monica Pier, California (©2022, Deborah Clague)

Santa Monica Pier, California (©2022, Deborah Clague)

Ocean Pacific (©2022, Deborah Clague)