Introducing the latest winner of the canine Powerball lotto – Hampton Augustus Cuddlebug Clague, a miniature goldendoodle to be henceforth known as Ham:
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.
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.
There are a lot of ways to eat potatoes
Last summer, a chance encounter resulted in meeting my extended family in Banff, Alberta. They had attended the Calgary Stampede, which my grandfather tried to visit annually in order to watch the bull-riding competitions he so loved. He was a cowboy at heart. A stoic, gentle soul with Manx roots who grew up on the Canadian prairies. Self-sufficient at a young age, he was a hard worker with strong character and moral upbringing that seemed to encapsulate the image of the good guy in old Western films. And I was related to him. I was always so proud to be of his blood.
Treating us to Tim’s (his favourite spot to converse and pass the day), conversation evolved from life in Winnipeg to memories of my father to eating potatoes … and only potatoes.
As I sipped my peppermint tea, I laughed and cracked a joke about such a diet until my aunt chimed in that my grandfather wasn’t kidding. He didn’t eat vegetables. He only ate potatoes. I looked over at him and his blue eyes twinkled with a warm smile as he confirmed it again.
“There are a lot of ways to eat potatoes” he remarked. And yes, I agreed that there was.
At ninety-two-years-old (at the time), still active and lucid, I figured his lived experience with this starchy diet was a valuable indicator of the stock which I bore.
I have many valuable memories of my grandfather. Growing up I spent a lot of time at his small home, amusing myself with the toy of the day as he sat in his recliner and held court with my father and other guests. Christmas was always an event. My entire extended family would congregate with homemade potluck as a turkey cooked in the oven and then spend hours catching up with each other, gossiping and sometimes arguing about politics. Between the wall of noise, multicoloured lights, and fragrant pine air of a real Christmas tree, it would feel like sensory overload of the best kind.
One thing missing was his partner, my grandmother Beatrice. She was the love of his life. I never got to know her. She passed away from breast cancer at the age of forty-nine in 1981, right after I was born. He never remarried, nor sought out female companionship, ever again.
Life was rich though. In later years, after retiring from his blue-collar career, my grandfather took opportunity to see the world. His favoured spots seemed to be in warm climates where he could relax under a palm tree and gaze upon the Pacific. Hawaii, in particular, seemed to call his name. Oahu was his home for several weeks during the long, dark and infamously cold Winnipeg winters. I sometimes think the “travel bug” is more a gene for exploration and adventure that he passed onto me. He was a cowboy in spirit after all.
The last time I saw my grandfather was that summer of 2022 in Banff. In retrospect, it felt seminal. We were there to pay tribute to my father by scattering his ashes at a place he so loved, under the shadow of mountains with pine once again perfuming the air and a surprise visit from a big-horned sheep who curiously watched our makeshift ceremony from afar. The weather was beautiful and by chance–or by angels–we were able to reconnect as our paths crossed thousands of kilometres from home. Fate had intervened and given us a beautiful goodbye.
My beloved grandfather passed away on September 20, seven days after his ninety-fourth birthday.
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.
Your Occasional Monty
He absolutely hates baths but he still doesn’t stop smiling.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I was 33 when I received the news.
I still remember my father’s sullen face as he informed me he had less than a year to live. I never pictured my dad as anything but strong. He was always the protector. A former athlete, he was my definition of vigour and brawn. So to see him in that state was unsettling and spoke of just how dire the situation truly was.
A few months later when I turned 34, he was gone.
Since that day, I’ve kept him close both figuratively and literally. In my home, on a bookshelf, sat an inconspicuous gold metal box containing his remains. It didn’t resemble a traditional urn. Rather, it was contemporary and not unlike decor available for sale at Home Sense. Guests would never guess it’s true purpose. I felt a sense of comfort having it. An inanimate presence that I would occasionally hold one-sided conversation with. Over time, I built a makeshift shrine with trinkets collected from my travels. Places he would have liked to visit. Achievements he would want to be part of. It was my way of keeping him involved.
Playing on my mind has always been the thought of “letting go” but I was never sure if I would be strong enough. Grief may follow predictable patterns but everyone’s experience and timeline is unique. Eight years on, mine is still there. The sorrow quieter but ambient; I anticipate it will never fully wane.
I always wanted to honour my father in a very specific way. The pandemic influenced me to finally plan for it. As much as we all wanted to break out of our homes after consecutive lockdowns, I envisaged my father’s spirit the same way. A box—even a gold box—was not worthy for his eternal rest. I originally toyed with the idea of taking him to a place he always wanted to visit but had never been (just to say he made it there) but later determined that he needed to be closer. To have eternal rest in a familiar locale that brought him peace in life. A place where those survived could form new memories while thinking of him.
Only his favourite place in the world would do. The crown jewel of Canada: Banff National Park.
My father loved the Rockies. He visited so often, every road, every trail, was embedded in his mind. From valley to peak, the unspoilt wilderness—and wildlife which he always revered and respected—were affirming for him. Thus, in perfect orchestration with loved ones present and a bighorn sheep that curiously observed the ceremony from afar, my father was returned to the wild he loved so much. Goodbye for now, but not forever.
We are all eternally bound by the earth, sea and air.