Truths and Half Truths

Did I Warn You? 'Kay, Then.

Atlanta, Ga. - Officials from Coca-Cola Co. warned today that quarterly results will come in well below projections.

I stopped drinking Coke cold turkey back in mid-May. The ripple effects are only now being seen in the economy. Expect bad news soon from McDonald's.

Just sayin'.

Feast or Famine

After being away for some time, I've spewed out three in a row ... yay for me, too bad for anyone having to slog through it all. Blame Jodi, who nagged me.

Playing Dog

Just about every day, someone from our family takes Roxy to the Dog Park. It's located right behind the Humane Society building and it's a great place for a puppy to burn off energy.

When we take her out to the driveway and open the door of the car, she fairly leaps up into the back seat, and you can almost hear her saying "Oboyoboyoboyoboy, time to PLAAAAYYY!!!!". When we turn the corner on Sherwood Road, I have to put my arm across to block her from leaping into the front seat and pressing her nose up against the windshield, all the while sending me doggy telepathic signals: "C'monc'monc'mon!!!"

When we get to the park, she strains on the leash, impatient with this inconvenient, slow, two legged creature who is eating into her playtime. And then ... we get to the gate. Well.

The instant the gate opens she explodes into the Park, to be immediately swallowed by this roiling, amorphous mob of canine pals. They come from every breed, from a timid Whippet (Wimpet, you ask me) to Howie the affable but clumsy Great Dane to a rambunctious but goofily adorable bull mastiff named Onan.

And they play. Oh, how they play. They chase, they wrestle, they nip and tumble and fetch and tug and growl and bark and chase some more. They blunder around, bowling one another over and occasionally taking out the odd inattentive human. You can tell a human who is new to the Dog Park. They're the ones standing with knees locked. The experienced humans always keep a little flex in the knee.

When no other dogs are at the park, my daughter will often go inside and ask the folks at the Humane Society if any of the dogs want to come out to play. And they always do.

Some of the dogs who come out to play aren't puppies, and it breaks my heart sometimes to see them. Four, five, six-year-old dogs, beautiful, housetrained, friendly, ready to be adopted ... and routinely passed over in favour of a sparkly, adorable little puppy.

I don't fault people who choose puppies, by the way. We did. Well, Roxy was four months old when we adopted her, so she wasn't exactly a baby. She had been owned by a perfectly nice family with kids who decided that she was a little too much for them, so they took her off and left her at the Humane Society. And Roxy got lucky.

Some dogs, not so much. Mercedes (we call her Sadie) has been waiting for quite some time to get adopted. She's a lovely dog, very friendly, maybe six or seven months old, a mix of lab and ... oh, God knows what else. I don't think she's a beauty queen - a little stumpy and odd-looking, like she was assembled from spare parts. But she has this adorable way of bumping her head gently into you, asking to be petted, and you could drown in those eyes.

When we were signing the adoption papers for Roxy, another dog was being dropped off. It was a six year old Golden Retriever, or some variant thereof. Gorgeous, gentle, friendly. The woman in her mid-thirties who was dropping her off explained that she didn't really want a dog anymore, that it was too much trouble, that the dog pooped in the house a lot because she sometimes went out after work and the kids stayed at a babysitters' place so there was nobody to let the dog out. This was all I overheard ... at that point, I had to leave the building. Quickly.

I was thinking about that incident last week when I ran across this piece. How I would have loved to have had a copy in my pocket to give to that woman.

**************************************

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Average Pet Owner:

Thank you for contacting us animal rescuers, shelter volunteers, and foster-homes about your inability to keep your pet. We receive an extremely high volume of inquiries and requests to accept surrendered animals. To help us expedite your problem as quickly as possible, please observe the following guidelines:

1. Do not say that you are "CONSIDERING finding a good home" for your pet, or that you, "feel you MIGHT be forced to," or that you "really THINK it would be better if" you unloaded the poor beast. Ninety-five percent of you have already got your minds stone-cold made up that the animal WILL be out of your life by the weekend at the latest.

Say so. If you don't, I'm going to waste a lot of time giving you common-sense, easy solutions for very fixable problems, and you're going to waste a lot of time coming up with fanciful reasons why the solution couldn't possibly work for you.

For instance, you say the cat claws the furniture, and I tell you about nail-clipping and scratching posts and aversion training, and then you go into a long harangue about how your husband won't let you put a scratching post in the family room, and your ADHD daughter cries if you use a squirt bottle on the cat, and your congenital thumb abnormalities prevent you from using nail scissors and etc., etc.

Just say you're getting rid of the cat.

2. Do not waste time trying to convince me how nice and humane you are.

Your coworker recommended that you contact me because we are nice to animals, not because we are nice to people, and frankly, we don't like people who "get rid of" their animals.

"Get rid of" is my least favorite phrase in any language. I hope someone "gets rid of" YOU someday. I am an animal advocate, not a people therapist. After all, for your ADHD daughter, you can get counselors, special teachers, doctors, social workers, etc. Your pet has only me, and people like me, to turn to in his or her need, and we are unpaid, overworked, stressed-out, and demoralized.

So don't tell me this big long story about how, "We love this dog so much, and we even bought him a special bed that cost $50, and it is just KILLING us to part with him, but honestly, our maid is just awash in dog hair every time she cleans, and his breath sometimes just reeks of liver, so you can see how hard we've tried, and how dear he is to us, but we really just can't.”

News flash: you are not nice, and it is not killing you. It is, in all probability, literally killing your dog, but you're going to be just fine once the beast is out of your sight.

Don't waste my time trying to make me like you or feel sorry for you in your plight.

3. Do not try to convince me that your pet is exceptional and deserves special treatment.

I don't care if you taught him to sit. I don't care if she's a beautiful Persian. I have a waiting list of battered and/or whacked-out animals who need help, and I have no room to foster-house your pet.

Do not send me long messages detailing how Fido just l-o-v-e-s blankies and carries his favorite blankie everywhere, and oh, when he gets all excited and happy, he spins around in circles, isn't that cute? He really is darling, so it wouldn't be any trouble at all for us to find him a good home.

Listen, we can go through two sets of doors and count the darling, spinning, blankie-loving beasts on death row by the dozens, any day of the week. And, honey, Fido is a six-year-old Shepherd-Lab mix. I am not lying when I tell you that big, older, mixed-breed, garden-variety dog are almost completely unadoptable, and I don't care if they can whistle Dixie or send semaphore signals with their blankies.

What you don't realize is that, though you're trying to lie to me, you're actually telling the truth: Your pet is a special, wonderful, amazing creature. But this mean old world does not care. More importantly, YOU do not care, and I can't fix that problem. All I can do is grieve for all the exceptional animals who live short, brutal, loveless lives and die without anyone ever recognizing that they were indeed very, very special.

4. Finally, just, for God' s sake, for the animal's sake, tell the truth, and the whole truth.

Do you think that if you just mumble that your cat is "high-strung," I will say, "Okey-doke! No prob!" and take it into foster care? No, I will start a asking questions and uncover the truth, which is that your cat has not used a litter box in the last six months.

Do not tell me that you "can't" crate your dog. I will ask what happens when you try to crate him, and you will either be forced to tell me the symptoms of full blown, severe separation anxiety, or else you will resort to lying some more, wasting more of our time. And, once you’ve left your pet behind and walked back out to your car, do not tell yourself the biggest lie of all: "Those nice people will take him and find him a good home, and everything will be fine."

Those nice people will indeed give the animal every possible chance, but if we discover serious health or behavior problems, if we find that your misguided attempts to train or discipline him have driven him over the edge, we will do what you are too immoral and cowardly to do: We will hold the animal in our arms, telling him truthfully that he is a good dog or cat, telling him truthfully that we are sorry and we love him, while the vet ends his life.

How can we be so heartless as to kill your pet, you ask? Do not ever dare to judge us. At least we tried. At least we stuck with him to the end. At least we never abandoned him to strangers, as you certainly did, didn't you?

In short, this little old rescuer/foster momma has reached the point where she would prefer you pet owners to tell her stories like this:

"We went to Wal-Mart and picked up a free pet in the parking lot a couple of years ago. Now we don't want it anymore. We're lazier than we thought. We've got no patience either. We're starting to suspect the animal is really smarter than we are, which is giving us self-esteem issues. Clearly, we can't possibly keep it. Plus, it might be getting sick; it's acting kind of funny, and you know what vets cost nowadays.”

"We would like you to take it in eagerly, enthusiastically, and immediately. We hope you'll realize what a deal you're getting and not ask us for a donation to help defray your costs. After all, this is an (almost) pure-bred animal, and we'll send the leftover food along with it. We got it at Wal-Mart too, and boy, it's a really good deal, price wise.

"We are very irritated that you haven't shown pity on us in our great need. We thought you people were supposed to be humane! Come and get it today. No, we couldn't possibly bring it to you; the final episode of "Survivor II" is on tonight."

Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Pet Owner, for your cooperation.

- Author Unknown, but could be any shelter worker or rescue worker.

P.S.: Sadie may been adopted. Keep your fingers crossed for her. And if you need a pal, drop down to the Humane Society. Or look here.

So, I've Been a Little Busy ...

... for the past couple of months. Not too busy to post comments on other peoples' weblogs. Not too busy to read, on a daily basis, dozens of entries from people far more dedicated or industrious than I (many of whom can be found to the right under "Links" - every one a daily read); or to eagerly anticipate, then devour whole any new postings on my favourite site, TelevisionWithoutPity ; or to simply while away time investigating links suggested by other links, weblogs recommended by others, or just Googling old girlfriends' names, for God's sake.

Just too busy to post here.

I don't know why this is. You wouldn't think it's because I've tired of talking about myself. That's never been a problem for me. I'd guess that it HAS been a problem for others - me talking about myself, that is. But I never spend too much time worrying about other peoples' problems - that's one of the joys of being gloriously self-involved.

As self-involved as I am, though, I always drag my feet when it comes to posting on my weblog because it does necessarily (at least, in my mind) involve writing about "me".

(The "real me" as opposed to the slightly altered persona who bumbles through life in my columns and commentaries. That persona shares many characteristics with "the real me" but has some attributes that are magnified or distorted, either for humourous effect or to embrace traits that many men share but which I might not. For example, I love to grocery shop, but that's not the case for most men I know. So, if I do a piece about being in a grocery store, I'll cast myself in the role of the reluctant, dimwitted guy-type shopper, tapping on milk cartons to see if they're ripe. I just think that's funnier.

It also allows me to protect my guy friends who do something very testosteroni-stoopid, and might not want to be identified, but it's so dumb and illustrative of how guys do things that it fairly cries out to be written about. Voila ... all of a sudden it's me who's saying "Here, hold my beer, I wanna try something - BLAM!"

One day when my girls were much younger, we were getting ready to go out somewhere as a family, and one of them said "When we go out tonight, are you going to be Dad or are you going to be Nils Ling?" So, they get it.

I have now done two things: flogged this horse into the grave and stretched a parenthetical aside for four frigging paragraphs. We now return to my point, which is:)

I am uneasy writing about "me".

But we ought to do things that take us out of our comfort zone, which is why I started writing this blog in the first place. And hey, you clicked on it, so here we are.

If you are utterly disinterested in what's kept me busy the past couple of months, please feel free to click on some of the links to the right. The people there are far more interesting than I, and you'll save yourself some tough slogging.

Still here? Okay, then ...

Back in the spring, I looked at my summer touring schedule and realized I'd be spending most of this summer on the Island. And I had, over the winter, flirted with the idea of buying a restaurant/theatre, before abandoning it as economically suicidal. But the theatre remained on the market, and so I decided to take a gamble and lease what was once called "The Carmody Comedy Barn" in beautiful Stanley Bridge, P.E.I. It's a gorgeous, five year old performance space in the most incredibly scenic setting, and I looked on it as a place where I could perform once or twice a week, but also give some other performers a chance to do their great work and - who knows? - maybe make a buck or two.

Which was about how it went, by the way. It was a tough, tough year for tourists, and the re-named (thankfully) Barn Theatre At Stanley Bridge is plonked down right in the heart of the (no-)tourist area.

There were some great shows - Hedgerow performed there, featuring the music of my one-time creative partner and great friend Allan Rankin and the wonderful stories of Alan Buchanan; Richard Wood did an amazing show, and also teamed up with my buddy Gord Belsher and my daughter Allison for a couple of performances; Vishten blew the doors off with an incredible concert featuring Acadian music and dance; and Derek Edwards sold out not only his scheduled performance but also two added concerts.

Artistically, the season was a triumph. Financially ... meh. We did OK. I am not going to calculate my hourly wage on this one. It was worth doing because 1) it was fun; b) I got a chance to showcase some amazing artists who are also good friends; and III.) both my kids got great summer jobs out of the deal, and I got to work with them, which alone made the summer a success for me (if not for them).

Would I do it again? Maybe - in a different setting. More about that in the fullness of time ...

Because my elder daughter Erin essentially ran the Barn for me, it freed me up to do some touring. First up was a series of concerts with Jeff Matheson, Ellen MacPhee, and Allison at the Georgian Theatre Festival, where, in all modesty, I have to say we rocked. Packed houses, encores, everything you dream of when you get into performing. For me, it was a refreshing change from touring solo, which, frankly, can be boring. Especially the cast parties. It was a great group of very funny people, all working hard to pull together a show that audiences would love - and they did.

I also did a series of shows at the Winnipeg Fringe Festival. It was sort of the Canadian farewell tour for "The Truth About Daughters". After more than 450 shows - most in Canada - there's nowhere left to play. I still love doing the show, and I'll continue to perform it in the U.S. and the U.K. But - fittingly, in my home town - I think I've tucked "Daughters" in for a while, at least in this country.

While at the Fringe, I finally concluded that some people just need a dog to be happy, and my wife is among them. So when I got back, I took the girls aside and said "Let's do something nice for your Mom, and get her a dog."

No, that's a lie. What I actually said was "Your mother is driving me batshit. She needs a damn dog. Keep your eyes open for something in the line of a border collie."

The girls' eyes lit up like pinball machines. The very next day, they roared up into the driveway, dashed into the house, stopping to poke their heads into my office to say "Uh, Dad, we're just going to borrow Mom for a few minutes." Then physically wrestled my wife out to the car.

Later that day, I met Roxy

I'd forgotten how much energy puppies have. I know where they get it, of course ... by sucking the energy from everyone around them.

Roxy is bright and dorky and cheerful and a little puppy-nippy, but we expect (hope) she'll grow out of that. She seems eager to play with the cats, who consider her to be a major imposition and want nothing at all to do with her. That, too, will sort itself out over time - no doubt in the cats' favour.

And finally (at least for this over-long post), I've spent some time taking care of me. I've lost about 60 pounds, and now look like this: .
which is ... well, as thin as I've been in over 30 years. I bought a shirt in a size Medium last week. And I have tons of energy, and I can chase the puppy and after 14 holes my legs and knees and wind haven't given out. And people notice, and say nice things.

So that's been my summer, and now I'll post more regularly, so neither of us has to endure one of these epic journeys again ...