very very random bits

Well, I guess that puts me right in NaNoWriMo-land: typing randomly just to up my word count :) On the other hand, my "Effective Communications" professor would call this the computer equivalent of freewriting, I presume. I have to admit, it was a totally fun class, even though it implied dragging myself up MacTavish for thirteen weeks. It did get me writing, including some character descriptions of random people who caught my eye on the train. Like the fifty-something year-old drunk who got caught sipping his beer from a paper bag (I'm not sure where he was going - he seemed like such a downtown core type of hobo) and had to call his mom to come pick him up at...oh what the hell is it called, it used to be Val-Royal...whatever. Or inversely, the very upper-crust lady executive with the pearl necklace, tapping anxiously on her blackberry the entire ride from Central Station to Roxboro.

I don't really miss the train, particularly a) at rush hour b) running for it c) missing it by thirty seconds and having to wait for an hour. I will make an effort in coming weeks, though, as I must remember to make it downtown for the NaNoWriMo get-together/write-in in the Second Cup at Central Station. I keep remembering it's on Wednesdays...usually on Thursdays. Oh well.

In other news, if anyone out there was reading my canine worries from yesterday, it appears that whatever was ailing old Droz has been, uh, cleared. In the middle of the night, my boyfriend went to get him two cheeseburgers from McDonald's, which he promptly gobbled up. This evening, he partook in the (canine) family meal, returning a little later to polish off any leftovers. In orther words, he seems back to his old self. With any luck, he will have learned from his experience and not keep putting odd things in his mouth...oh, but who am I kidding? The big goof will never learn, and that's half of his charm.

In other news, I discovered OneNote this evening, after someone on the NaNo forums raved about using Google documents to organize his/her notes and outline. It also reminds me of Evernote, freeware that I picked up along the way but whose organizing functions I never quite mastered to my satisfaction. Is it procrastinating when I'm actually doing something useful? Sure, because there's a freelance contract I just haven't really gotten into. There is time yet.
Isn't there always, in the end? Well, yeah, except in November ;p

It's Cyber Sunday this weekend, and I really couldn't care less. This is the one PPV I've just never gotten into, and this year's lineup is so-so at best. The people's "choices" don't really feel like choices at all, and there is no way in H-E-double-hockey-sticks that I would pay for a selection that is only marginally better than "none of the above." Will I buy it? Probably, just in case Orton returns, and because Stone Cold is gonna show up. Otherwise, if recent shows are any indication, both major champs will retain, I don't care about ECW (sorry!) and the divas' costume contest or whatever? *yawn* That reminds me, I need some sleep. 'Night all.

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developing a habit

Writing every day. Seems simple, but to a professional procrastinator like myself, it amounts to a far more insidious task than in originally appears.

OK, here we go with excuse number one. I've also been getting these wild bursts of crazy energy in the evenings, which I've been using to propel my NaNoWriMo outline. It also means I've rarely been getting into bed before midnight; while that seems almost meek by my old standards, it really is an hour or so later than my usual over the past year. Add a little bit of freelance work on the side and the NaNoWriMo forums, and you've got the makings of a not terribly productive, or even prolific, writer. Oh, and wars to increase our value on facebook's Friends For Sale application receive far more attention than they should. I'm beginning to think that the best way for me to reach 50,000 words come November 30 is to turn off the internet as a whole. Luckily, on my laptop, that's just a flick of the switch away.

To add to the various things floating around in my head, my best office buddy has quit, and will be leaving on Halloween. I'm surprised she's lasted this long; lord knows a number of us have been asking how she manages to cope with her boss for a while now. She has this beautiful zen-like quality I admire tremendously, but it would appear even it has run out of steam. I can only wish her the best and insist on keeping in touch. This is one of those times when you actually say those words and mean them. She's planning on taking a good break from work, and she's aware I'm doing NaNoWriMo (in fact, she may be one of the maybe three people who might get to read my novel), so we know contact will be sparse at first. I am sincere in saying that I will not let her fade away into that "yeah, we used to be close coworkers" category: I think of her as a friend, and where she works, if she works, should have no bearing whatsoever on that fact. It is only as I wrote this last paragraph that I realize her last day will be All Hallows' Eve; I wonder if she realizes the marvelous symbolism behind it all. Note to self: discuss Celtic mythology with her. The only upside I can see is that it will free up most of my lunch breaks: if I bring my laptop to work, or even just a flash key, I can eat at my desk and type with my free hand! 50,000, here I come.

So what's my excuse this evening? Don't have one really, unless you consider my eldest dog (a seven year-old pug, or should I say simply Droz from my previous post) looked really lethargic this evening, not even bothering to fight with his sons for food. So that's been on my mind for the past few hours, although now it looks like he's had some sleep and feels a little better; he lapped up kibble from my hand without being asked twice. That's my boy. Dudley pulled the same kind of stunt a few months back; I'm thinking they may have picked something up the floor that wasn't entirely edible, much to the dismay of their digestive systems. It's certainly a trait that runs in the family. We'll see what tomorrow brings, I guess.

Man, it's past midnight again, and I have to wash my hair tomorrow; although it's nowhere near as long as it once was, it's still thick enough that it takes forever to dry, and by that time, I've lost all feeling in my fingers. Off to bed, where I will probably look at the drawing I purchased as part of the Art Montreal Tattoo convention and think it could be an incredible starting point for some funky pirate story. I gotta take a picture of it (oh shoot, I still haven't taken the pictures for the Trois choses blog, for the prompt that I put up. Nice going, there, champ.) and post it here. Then I'll have to write about it. But not tonight. My dreams beckon.

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word prompt: sick puppy

I owe a sincere debt of gratitude to a sick puppy, one without whom my life would be significantly different, and I wouldn't have experienced one of the most dramatic events of my life.

Back in early September 2001, I worked at an independent pet store, one in a chain of two. The owner arranged to have a litter of eight-week pug puppies delivered half to one store and half to the other. When they finally arrived, the last one in the back of the carrier had been ill and looked really miserable. He was quickly swept away for a clean-up, then set up in his own cage to recuperate a little bit. By the end of the day, he had slept almost non-stop, and refused any canned food, which is usually a hit with the most stressed-out new arrivals. Given the non-refundable investment the puppy represented, my boss asked me to take him home for the evening to watch over him and hopefully, get him to eat a little something.

It should be mentioned that I had been pestering my boyfriend for a Boston terrier for a while, to no avail. I called ahead to let him know we would be having company for the evening, and the grumbling commenced. Since I have a cat, and my house wasn't particularly puppy-proof, I decided to set up a crate in the bathroom, which in my house is usually warm and cozy.

When I got home, I st down the crate by the door and went to the bathroom to set up a newspaper floor mat, scoop out a little moist food and pour a bowl of tepid water. I returned to the living room to find my boyfriend on the sofa, cradling the puppy on his arm as he would a baby, and cooing at it gently. OK, so the boys hit it off well. We relocated as a unit to the bathroom, where pup promptly sniffed at the moist food, shifted to the water bowl, took one lick and walked back to us. He certainly seemed more lively than he had just a few hours before, so what could it be? Out of sheer scientific curiosity, and because it was the only thing we hadn't tried, I pulled out a little bit of kibble. He watched me intently as I offered a dry morsel, and pounced the second I set it down before him. Turns out the little bugger just didn't care for moist food! After a good meal and the subsequent puppy mess, he lazily retreated to his crate, circled once or twice, and promptly fell into a deep, snory puppy sleep.

At this point, most people assume that the puppy never returned to the store, and that this is how the story of my first dog ends. Except it isn't. And in hindsight, I can't explain why on earth things unfolded as they did, considering that my boyfriend announced as pup and I headed out the door the next morning that we could have a dog, as long as it was a pug. Nonetheless, the two of us returned to the store, where pup rejoined his sibling in the front window. I remember selling him a day or so later, to a young couple who, upon learning that his birthday was June 24, named him Baptiste. His sibling having been sold a little earlier, we were out of puppies in the window. We called the other store, who had plenty to share, including two more puppies from the pug litter.

Shortly thereafter, the puppies arrived. I picked up the crate with Baptiste's sibling, and pulled out a chubby male, probably the largest of the litter. The folds of his skin shifted under my fingers, his velvety ears flopping, and he looked at me for the longest time with his chocolate eyes - feisty little dominant fellow, this one. Then he snarfed, that thing that pugs do, halfway between a sigh and a sneeze. Stick a fork in me, I was done. My manager negotiated a better price with the boss, and he came home with me. It took a little while to decide on his name; we were at Jardino's in Laval when we settled on Droz. But that's a whole 'nother story.

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writing prompt: 10-minute stroll

Dudley bolts out the door, as always, in full defiance of my authority and anything Cesar Millan may think. He barely pauses to look before bounding down the first three steps, even though he steadfastly refuses to go down stairs inside the house. Into the grass for a quick sniff n’ pee, then off again to street level. The crabgrass and other various weeds that make up the greater part of my lawn (I use the word reluctantly) get a copious amount of testosterone-induced canine fertilizer; the rocks in front of the hydrangeas are a popular spot. After a few minutes of frantic circling and close inspection of the yard, we can proceed.

The walk to the corner of the street is often inelegant, with Dudley pulling left and right. But by the time we reach 20th Avenue, exactly one house over from mine, he settles down into a civilized walk by my side. I try to keep myself between him and the road traffic, but sometimes he gets confused; other times he just gets distracted by an appealing smell. On the other hand, he’s really good at not going around the wrong side of telephone poles and the like, and at circling me and tripping me up in the leash. He’s by no means perfect, but then, neither am I.

Street corners are notorious message boards for neighbourhood dogs, and I do allow him some leeway to partake in communication activities, but not too much. We turn right on Blvd. du Lac, down to Lakebreeze. That particular corner is always the height of sniffing interest. I wonder whether there a bitch in heat nearby; other times, I catch myself wondering whether he smells his mom. I know, I know, he wouldn’t recognize her as such – but I would. Around the curve we go, passing the house where my lost cat was found when I was seven. The house has undergone so many renovations since, it’s almost unrecognizable; I doubt it’s the same owners, but I still silently send my gratitude to the lady who called on that fateful day in 1980. Losing Lita was one of the hardest events of my adult life. Would it have been simpler back then if Dixie had never been found after wandering off?

We cross Sunnyside and pass the house of a lady who also owns pugs. Once upon a time, we met on the corner as I was walking Dave; we talked about dogs until Dave got bored and peed on my foot. Once in a while, we’ll duck in to the little lot dressed up as a park and go to the water’s edge. Dudley has learned that dead fish that wash ashore are not for him to stick his nose in. Does he enjoy the sensation of sand between his toes as much as I do? I so often wish we spoke the same language, to share what goes on behind those big brown eyes. I feel the love, that much is clear, as are the messages he conveys with his tail, his mouth and his ears. But they are but pictograms: I long to understand the subtleties of his experience.

Lakebreeze ends right across the street from the house where my best friend lived when I was a child. Her parents still live there, and I sometimes see her brothers too. We turn back towards home. This part of the walk is contained by a sidewalk and Dudley’s growing fatigue, so it’s fairly straight and narrow, except for the crab-apple tree that provides new olfactory sensations in late summer. The sidewalk ends at 18th Avenue. Just beyond, there are a number of cracks along the edge of the pavement that radiate out into the street. Last year, a city worker spray painted circles around the areas to be repaired; the paint has faded, and still the cracks endure. One day, the perfect profile of a pug appeared to me in these cracks. I told Pat about it, and he thought I was crazy. I even took a picture; as soon as I get my camera, I will try to take a picture of Dudley in the same pose (it may be difficult to convince him to look away, though.)

We round the corner of 20th Avenue and he sniffs urgently at all the same places as when we first walked by here in the other direction. Soon, we’re turning onto our street, and he recognizes home; all civilization once again escapes him as he storms up the stairs. His brothers and father are most often barking at the window by this time. Walking them all together is impossible. Walking certain combinations works well, but sometimes, it’s nice to have some one-on-one time. No competing for dominance or for mom’s attention. Back in the house, off comes the leash, and Dudley heads straight to the water bowl for a drink before settling down for a well-deserved nap.

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Darren in my dreams

Another dream, from a few nights ago.

Late afternoon but not yet dark, I’m returning home from someplace, someone’s home, and I’m transferring all my stuff from their car (at least three people in it, couldn’t say who though) to my own with Pat’s help. We’re in the parking lot in front of the dry cleaners at the corner of my street. Why such a switch would occur there is beyond me, since it’s less than a quarter mile to my house…Anyway, one white plastic shopping bag falls to the ground, in the slushy snow. Its contents are bulky, but soft. I nudge it with my foot, to figure out what it is, when Lil' Darren (aka Moumoune) bolts out of the bag and darts onto Oka Road. It’s been snowing a little, roads are slippery, and cars are braking and stopping at odd angles to avoid the speeding little black dog. I keep thinking he’s going to get hit but cars seem to rolling in slow motion compared to Darren, darting and weaving through traffic. I don’t know whether he’s running from fright, or whether he’s enjoying himself.

I’ve never seen a Pug run so fast; I wonder if he’s that fast in his own dreams.

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joy to the world

Today, spring came back. For real. My heart soared.

Pat woke me up with the marvellous idea of going to the flea market. For those who don't know, there's an indoor flea market integrated into the drive-in. When the weather is nice, it expands and people set up throughout the drive-in parking lot. Today, it was packed as if it was July. Subconsciously, everyone, and I mean everyone, came out for a stroll and some bargain hunting. Teenagers in huddles, toddlers howling in strollers, slow-walking seniors...and a lot of dogs. And the canines seemed to be appreciating the walk as much as their masters, if not more. Bernese Mountain Dogs, Dachshunds, Pomeranians, a gorgeous blue-merle Shetland Sheepdog, a couple of Pugs, of course...and sadly, vendors of puppies. I won't get started, if only because I'm tired, and I feel I've said it so many times (although not in this forum). The guys today were hawking particularly big boys - Cane Corso and Neapolitan Mastiffs. The pups were about eight weeks, I'd say, and already they could take on even my Droz (or Papa, topping out at maybe 22 or so pounds.) Goddess bless those pups; may they land in good homes (hoping against hope) and live out long, happy, healthy lives.

Pat stopped the guy with the black pug, just to pet the dog and chat; I know he stops to pet almost every pug we cross, but he makes it a point to stop the black ones, just in case...Sometimes, when he sees someone walking down a side street with a small black dog, as he's driving by, he'll turn around to go check. Just in case. Sometimes I wonder if he does that for me, or for himself; either way, I love him all the more for it.

But enough with the darkness, today was a marvellous day. I came out of hibernation, and it was wonderful. We crossed paths with half of everyone we knew, bumping into someone new every couple of steps. Of course, this is standard for Pat, but heck, even I met someone I used to work with, and that's something else. (come to think of it, I bumped into another coworker on Tuesday, too...now I won't see anyone I know for a year or so!)

Friday in six: Brothers of Destruction are back, baby.

Saturday: A little bit of spring cleaning.

Sunday: Sunshine, melting snow; it's about time.

it's been three years now

but when I stop to think about you, the hurt is as raw as the first night. I usually have plenty of words, but they all fail me when I try to explain how your leaving changed me.

I read miracle stories of reunions years later, and deep down I pray one day I'll have my own miracle. No one else believes it's possible, except maybe Pat. And probably Droz, but we haven't discussed the issue, really.

Did you even survive that night? Did you try to go onto the lake, or fall into someone's pool? Were you dognapped? Are you alive? Are you OK? Do you even remember me? I mourned you, and still mourn you, as much as I've ever mourned anyone. For a little while, I understood parents who kill their children to avoid losing them. If I can't have you, no one will. I truly wished you were dead, rather than with strangers who could never love you like I do. And that is such a scary thought, and a bad place to be.

Pat put your picture up all over town, and I called everyone I could. The guy who delivers the paper looked for you, too; mind you, he was just thinking of the reward. I promised God so many good deeds if he would just send you back my way...

Curiosity killed the cat, but what did it do to my pug? To think that if I had a single question to ask God, that's what it would be...because not knowing really is the worst.

...je t'aime, tite-pute, pis je m'ennuie toujours de toi...je t'envoie des bisous, pis des Greenies...