This man's best friend

I got him for Rachel. In a not-too-subtle ploy to encourage her to spend more time with her Dad, I thought a dog which she wanted but couldn't have at her Mom's, was just the ticket. I liked the idea of having an animal in the yard to keep the bad guys away but with plans for a baby in the works and a simultaneous change in careers, a close companion was not what I was looking for. I got it anyway.

We checked out the local SPCA but didn't see the dog we were looking for. I don't remember what our criteria were, probably just "We'll know him when we see him", so we went to another SPCA farther away and strolled the cages. At the end of the row, and just as we were thinking maybe another hamster would do, we saw Shylo. He sat quietly with an imploring stare as if he knew he had an opportunity to sell himself to me. Unlike the other dogs, he was self-composed and patient. As I knelt before his kennel, he came forward , sat again and held his paw to shake my hand. I accepted the handshake and he's been with us ever since. That is, until we left him in someone else's care as we took this year to travel.

There were times when I wanted to kill him. Tearing through my vegetable garden, digging huge holes in my back yard and barking at all hours were challenges we dealt with. A fence 'round the veggies, burying his own feces in his new craters and a spray bottle cured all the above and with bad behaviours in remission, he was a fun, stick-chasing companion. We used to take him to the park and let him run with the other dogs which he loved but he would often pop his head up to make sure he knew where we were, before running off again.

As our lives got busier and Rachel's health deteriorated, we had less time for him and he spent most of his days patrolling our backyard. He spent the majority of his time outdoors in the mild Vancouver weather, coming indoors only in the coldest of weather or when the Hallowe'en fireworks scared him. Then he would curl up on the blanket he had under the stairs or, in his bolder moments, wait 'til we'd gone to bed and sneak upstairs to curl up on the living room rug. When he'd hear us getting up in the morning, he'd sneak back downstairs leaving his telltale fur behind.

In the last few years, his health also deteriorated and arthritis settled into his hips. Stairs became a challenge and I got in the habit of putting some ibuprofen in his food and that helped. The SPCA wasn't really sure how old he was when we got him but estimated about two years; I think he was probably older. He had a good nine years with us and it was plain when we left Vancouver that there was a good chance we wouldn't be seeing him again. But I was still surprised and saddened when Deb told me he'd passed away on December 23rd. He was a good companion of unquestioning loyalty who loved nothing more than to sit on my feet as I read and I was looking forward to seeing him when we returned to Vancouver. I often imagined the first moment when after more than a year away, I would come to the gate and my dog would recognize me and come tearing over to greet me with ecstatic energy. One more connection to the past severed and another piece of the quilt of my life sewn into place.

Miss you, Shylo. Thank you for all the fun and connection and companionship you brought me. I hope if there's an afterlife for dogs that you're up there with Rae and she's throwing sticks for you. Give her a lick for me.

Ireland; Our First Taste

I intended to write about this trip as it happened but several days have flown by and the busyness of traveling has taken precedence. Actually, I’ve fallen in love with a woman named Guinness and she’s a time-consuming, demanding lover who’s made me her willing slave and is responsible for recent unusual behaviours...like climbing through a window and getting lost in the bathroom.


We left Cardiff by train to Bristol where we caught a bus to the airport and a plane to Dublin. The plane was delayed so we didn’t get introduced to Ms Guinness until room service brought our first pints at 2 AM. With all the road construction going on, the ride to our hotel was doubled in time and price; a $75 ticket being the price of admission to the land of leprechauns. Another cab ride at 7:15 got us to the starting point - Paddywagon tours.

Our first stop was the Mecca for beer lovers around the world; the Guiness brewery. It’s always beer o’clock there so after learning the history of the company and teased with the recipe we ascended to the 360 degree viewing/drinking room and savoured Guiness at its best.

Cork (pronounced Cark, heavy on the k) was our second stop and we were told on arrival that it was the Viagra capital of Europe. Ireland’s economy has been booming for years and they attribute that to the long term deal they struck with the unions and their investment in education (free for those that qualify). They produce a lot of the world’s software (2nd to the States) and have attracted major drug companies including Pfizer, manufacturer of Viagra. Perhaps it was the Guinness, maybe there was something in the air but Cork was an arousing experience.

I was hoping Cork would be my introduction to traditional Irish music and as there’s 3 pubs on every block,my chances were good. But it was a Saturday night, the young people were out and rock n’ roll ruled the air. We had some hefty meals at a Jamaican place (go figger) and made our way back to the B n B. I was determined, however, to find the sound I came for and headed out on my own. The tour group was meeting at another pub that looked very much like home, so after a few I headed out on my pilgrimage. Without success. Twenty pubs and a few pointless pointers later I came up empty and disillusioned, I staggered home.

The next day took us to Killarney. We started at a place called the Granary for grub and a few pints with the plan being The Grand for Irish music to be followed by a rock band. The bouncer said nay to Luka so we started our search. O’Connor’s was a tiny, crowded, hold-your-beer-over-your-head place that had a woman with an angel’s voice and a lightening-quick accordion player making music that held us in its palm. They stopped and the search for a cab began. Back in front of the Grand I heard the strains of a fiddle accompanied by a bull massy and Deb said “Oh go, you enjoy and we’ll see you back at the room”. “Fuck yeah”, I’m thinking, “Well if that’s ok”, I’m saying and it’s in to watch the woman’s left fingers dance spider-like across the strings. She leaned into her instrument like it was her lover and the sounds that came forth.... ah it’s tough to describe but here; my chest got tight, the end of my nose hurt and my teeth clenched. It was a sad happy sound that made me want to dance and cry and hug myself. I was happy to be alive while licking my wounds; it was wondrous.

They stopped and the accordion player from O’Connors walked in. Guinness told me to say hi so I did. “O’Connell”, I said. “O’Mara”, he said and we struck up a friendship that included free beer while he sat in with the next (loud) rock/Irish band. My God, they were good. The drummer was older than me and truly loved his job. At one point he motioned me to the stage as he was mid solo and handed me he just-finished beer glass. “Hold tight, but not too tight”, he said and proceeded to tap out his rhythms through the glass, up my arm, my spine and into my brain. Fuck Yeah! OK, I never graduated from being eighteen and I was still so very much open to this, probably always will be.

The band ended, the disco started and time for me to go. I braved the night air and staggered in the general direction of our new B n B. The rain pounded down as only Irish and Vancouverites can attest to and I stumbled down the highway. A passing bus met the puddle I was passing and we became one. I was drunk, cold and wet when I arrived at the door. I knocked, I rang, I kicked and the door remained locked. ‘Twas only 1:30 so I was facing the prospect of 6 hours or more on the doorstep when Ms. Guinness stepped in. “Go knock on a window”, she said and as my room was on the ground floor I figured I had a good chance of knocking on the right one. So down I went. At a distance I figured roughly compared to the distance I walked when I was a key holder I knocked and the window gave way. I pushed it further and pulled the curtain aside. My bleary eyes deciphered the 2 bodies that were probably my family so I hoisted myself up. “Whaa..” Deb’s voice.

They say a good offense is your best defense so I launched; “I’ve been knocking at the door for half an hour! You took the Key! It’s not my fault!” And crashed to the floor. She rolled over and went back to sleep. To prove to myself I wasn’t drunk,I carefully laid out my wet clothes over Luka and crawled in beside Deb. A few hours later the diuretic effect of Ms Guinness took effect and I took to the bathroom. Getting in was no problem. I touch-felt my way to the toilet and on completion of my duty tried to touch-feel my way out. I must have gone the opposite direction because I wound up in the bathtub and even in my drunken state was able to tell myself “I didn’t pass through a tub on the way in here...”. I eventually found my way out and found the solace that only the warm body of your spouse can provide.

It’s now Christmas day. Evening actually and we spent a lovely day drinking the hair of the dog. Last night we pulled into Anniscaul on the Dingle peninsula (next stop Boston) and greeted the latest sunset in Europe. A bowl of Irish stew was offered in place of the breakfast they wouldn’t be offering in the B n not-so-B on Christmas AM. The stew was good, Ms Guinness was better. Luka charmed the twenty somethings (we’re the parent-age of this group) as Mom and Dad celebrated Christmas Eve in the company of strangers and their new found friend. We told Luka, however, that if Santa was going to come we had to return to our room before midnight so we breathed deep the Dingle air and took the ten minute walk home.

Christmas morning was good. As strangers in a strange land there was the compulsion to circle the wagons and pull into ourselves so we did. The intimacy of a Christmas morning in someone else’s home was profound and flavoured with the christmasenergy of a seven year old. Hugs, kisses and cuddles before trekking up to the hostel for instant coffee and bread. OK, not the best Christmas breakfast on record - maybe the worst - but special in its awfulness and a harbinger of what was to come. The brochure had promised a special day with canapés and mulled wine served at the beach and a tour of the Irish countryside. But the weather Gods weren’t on their side. The rain came in torrents and the winds were gale force as we stepped off the bus for pics of pseudo-importance. A pre-druid rock here, an ancient town there, were lost in the dominant weather.

We arrived at the beach for the traditional Irish ocean dip and me and my friend Jack (Daniels) got off the bus. Deb grabbed the video cam as I stripped to my skivvies and ran toward the pounding surf. We’re on the same parallel as Edmonton (52 degrees N) but thanx to the gulf stream the air is reasonably warm. Not balmy but doable so into the ocean I charged. The mulled wine was not so mulled (they couldn’t get the flame to light on the gas stove) and the canapés expired before the lineup but with Jack in my belly and sand on my toes I didn’t give a shit. The rest of the day was supposed to be a scenic tour of the Dingle Peninsula but with the fogged up windows and pounding rain it was mostly a tedious trip of too-loud jingles and a wish-I-was-home tour.

Dinner was shared with 110 fellow travelers/revelers so energy replaced intimacy. We snuck out early allowing me to tap away as I sip the wine I snuck into my overcoat and the more I drink the more want to write because somehow it makes me feel closer to you all. Loving where I am but hating that I’m not there,

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!

John

A Cardiffian Christmas

Quick. What's a pantomime? Nope, I thought it was a play without dialogue too, but no. A "panto" is a raucous fairy tale - Cinderella and Snow White are favourites - in which men dress for some of the female roles and the audience is encouraged to heckle the actors. It's a Christmas tradition in the UK and they think it's common the world over. I haven't scene one yet (ar,ar) but they run til mid January so I'm going to try and make it to one when we get back from our Irish/Scottish tour.

Alcohol is a common feature at Christmas, conspicuous in its abundance, and Wales is no different. What's different is what's not different and that's the drinks themselves. In Canada I'll have a few egg nogs (from the few gallons I whip up) and maybe even some mulled wine. They do have mulled wine but I told it's available year round and not overly popular. They've never heard of egg nog and the common response when I ask and describe is, "you mean Advocaat?" I'm brewing a small batch of the real thing this afternoon just so's Deb 'n I can have a little Canuck warmth in our bellies before we get on the train.

But the pubs are jammin' and there's lots of them; some cozy, some cavernous and all packed. The younger people gravitate to the larger ones where there's a party atmosphere and they can roam about and try to get lucky; the older folks inhabit the smaller ones where they're well-known (a la 'Cheers') and sit quietly sipping their pints. The garlands and loosely strung lights remind the imbibers that 'tis the season to tipple, and they oblige.

In Vancouver you often here the complaint that Christmas is started too early and that as soon as the Halloween decorations come down the Christmas ones go up. Well they don't do Halloween here so can start even sooner. When I first saw them in late September I thought "oh look, there's a few they left up all year" but they were, in fact, the first signs of the changing of the seasons, as recurrent as the changing leaves. I've noticed that while people put a lot of effort into decorating their living rooms (the lounge) they rarely put lights on the exterior of their homes. Kinda miss that.

OK, time to brew the nog and get the bags packed. We'll be in Dublin tonight to start a five day tour that'll include Killarney (Christmas in Killarney with none of the folks from home...).

Merry Christmas!

Moving Back to Move Ahead

I started this blog a few years ago but was too busy to really do anything with it. That's my excuse anyways.

Since leaving Canada for our new life in Wales I've had lots to write about and pictures to show off and used Facebook for that. But I'm getting creeped out by the size and use of it. Constant messages advising how our personal info is being used and abused and now ads everywhere posing as info. And it really bugs me that Facebook is selling our info to companies that target specific people for their products. So fuck 'em.

Withdrawing from Facebook isn't easy. Like the cigars I gave up when I left Canada, there's a withdrawal syndrome in its wake. A craving to connect, anxiety in not knowing and restlessness in not knowing what else to do. I was able to quit the cigars by changing my routine - a necessity when you change countries - and Facebook has been part of my daily routine for six months. My browser is set to go there on startup and checking in on what everyone's doing back home is comforting. It's been my lifeline, my connection to my former life as I drift politely and obscurely in Wales.

A few years in detox (on the nursing side of the counter) taught me that in addition to the withdrawal syndrome, a vacuum is created when drugs are stopped. Most of the clients were there to get away from drugs and the brutal lifestyle they demanded. They weren't moving towards something better which meant there was nothing to fill the hole left by the drugs departure. Recidivism is high. Contrary to the teachings of AA which advised them to just work on today, I encouraged them to make a goal and fill the vacuum with efforts to make the goal happen.

I've got a goal and I'm going to use this blog to fill the vacuum created by Facebook's departure and help me achieve my goal. For the time being you'll have to decide what that goal is but it will become apparent. To date I've written about where I've been and what I've seen and as I'll be travelling for another 8 months, there'll be lots more of that. But I also want to write as honestly as possible about what I've seen and felt in years previous; about losing and gaining children, careers and partners. It's been a fifty-one year roller coaster ride and you're invited along.