TIS THE SEASON – OF CONTROVERSY

We came across the tree of remembrance on a snowy trail deep in Mundy park- a small fir tree festooned with photos -some of humans, but mostly of dogs (Mundy is an off -leash dog park) a small hand lettered sign inviting walkers to hang a photo in remembrance of someone dear, but now departed, that had walked the park with them in days gone by. The memorial was a new creation, since we walk the park frequently and had never encountered it before-doubtless it was done in the sprit of the season, since Christmas was almost upon us.

It seemed a simple, and heartwarming gesture, and judging from the comments of others as they passed, one which was appreciated by the community of dog walkers who inhabit the park. Imagine then, my surprise when our local community Facebook page came alive with a diatribe against Christmas decorations in parks!

Decorating trees along local forest trails with Christmas ornaments has been gaining popularity over the past several year. I’m not sure when I first noticed a decorated tree in one of our local parks,- likely at least five years ago, but they have become common place, with families and groups, like my wife’s walking group, adopting a tree for the season and decorating it.

But alas, the grinchly Facebook post had ignited a fire storm, and incendiary posts poured in – the Ornamentalists pleading for reason- the pastime was innocent, and gave joy to many-a delightful and unexpected enhancement of a stroll through a wintry wood- while the Puritans insisted it was a desecration of nature- an un-needed and unwanted intrusion- surely unadorned nature should be enough!

Many of the Facebook Flame-throwers insisted that Christmas ornaments were simply bad for the environment. I could have saved them the energy of a Facebook post- I know for a fact that argument doesn’t work- I tried to use it a few years ago to get out of hanging the outdoor Christmas lights, and ended up on the top of a stepladder with a flea in my ear and a string of lights around my neck quicker than you can say Merry Christmas.

The social media ‘War in the Woods’ continued to escalate, as one of the most strident puritans, emboldened by the luke-warm support she had received, posted that all Christmas decorations were henceforth deemed “litter” and she was personally forming a work party to clean up the park . The Ornamentalists were put on notice – if they valued their baubles, they had best remove them within 48 hours before a volunteer posse of environmentalists assembled to sweep the park clean of man-made clutter – Christmas be damned!

The litter argument was a curious one, I thought, since the ornaments have been appearing in the park for years around Christmas time, and promptly disappearing, a few days after New Years, leaving no trace in the forest. Whether the work of unseen forest elves, or of conscientious Baublistas, the woodland park has remained pristine, without the intervention of zealots.

Social media being what it is, the challenge did not go unanswered, as the Baublistas replied with fury-how dare others be offended- and who gave the puritans the right to preach, or interfere with the god-given and probably constitutional right to hang ornaments in parks?

Feeling the need to nurture the seasonal myth of goodwill to all mankind, and yearning for the simple pleasure of a tranquil walk in the woods, free of controversy, we elected to avoid encountering the threatened work party and the likely clash of ideology along the trail, by taking an alternate, and unadorned path.

There, to our delight we discovered the work product of that endangered species of the deep forest –

THE MODERATE!

Someone, of obvious diplomatic mien. had taken the time to adorn the path with a seasonal icon- a snowman- BUT- using only natural materials – compacted snow, fir boughs, twigs, and pinecones. Something human crafted- to amuse the passersby, – but no man-made materials to offend.

On a snowy path, deep in the forest, a master class in the art of compromise, taught by an anonymous Moderate.

We tried to follow their tracks, since its so rare to see a Moderate in the wild, but the tracks eventually disappeared into the deep snow, leaving us to muse that, in the Canada of our youth, Moderates were everywhere- their range extending Canada wide- from the great boreal forest, tp the the Canadian Shield and beyond- even occasionally being spotted in Ottawa. What had caused their decline, we wondered ?

So we continued our walk, wistful that we had missed a rare sighting, but gladdened by the knowledge that untamed, free-range Moderates continue to exist in the wilderness at our back door. My wife, always with a soft spot for wildlife, suggested that we should leave some food out for them, but I’m against it-let them live as nature intended, I say.

Then again, to settle the debate, perhaps I should try to solicit some feedback from our friendly neighbourhood Facebook group?

Categories: Environment, Etiquette & manners, Nature, Parks, Reflections | Tags: , , | Leave a comment
 
 

Heard it on the grapevine

Although the BC coast is vast, and paddlers are few; fewer still are sheltered coves with gently sloping sandy beaches suitable to beach a kayak for the night; so we all tend to wash up on the same shores, marking them religiously on our charts, and sharing their location judiciously with fellow initiates.

Tents pitched, and boats secured above high water, we relax and do what kayakers do best – staring into the embers of a driftwood beach fire, we pass the bottle, tell tales of epic paddles – the wave heights increasing with each telling – and we gossip.

Make no mistake, there is an active bush telegraph on the coast, and gossip spreads with the speed of a brushfire along that string of secluded coves. So it is no wonder that when Paddlin’ Bette set off solo from Seattle, bound for Alaska by kayak, news of her passage spread up the coast far faster that the 20 or so nautical miles she paddled daily. It spread almost as fast as the news reverberated that Joselyn had finally gotten fed up with Bare-foot Brian, and had de-camped from their rustic floating B&B in storied Marijuana Cove to the bright lights of Sointula.

Although approaching her sixth decade, the word, from the greybeard fraternity, was that Bette was a very handsome woman- quite a complement when considering how difficult it is to look alluring in a dry suit after 8 days without bathing. Her vital statistics were repeated, campfire to campfire -( you know -boat type, paddle length, and so forth,) as was her pedigree- a solo Vancouver Island circumnavigation, and another of Newfoundland, and many lesser paddles. Bette was clearly a figure to be reckoned with- strong , sexy, and, (of special note to mature batchelor paddlers), single and unattached.

Bare-foot Brian didn’t rate quite so highly amongst the ladies of the campfire- he’s become a mite eccentric after four decades in the bush, but on the plus side, he has long term squatter’s rights on some prime back country real estate, and the collection of unique floating cabins he’s built over the years has become a mecca for wilderness kayakers. He is a man of substance in the backcountry.

Bette, defeated in her attempt to reach Alaska, not by any hardships of the expedition, but by a covid-closed border, had begun re-tracing her steps when she first heard of bare-foot Brian on the bush telegraph. Now, To paraphrase Jane Austen- “it is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a single man, in possession of a backcountry B&B must be in need of a female companion.” Bette, being of forthright nature, immediately professed herself to be in need of a man- and pointed her bow towards Marijuana Cove, Brian locked firmly in her sights.

Bare-foot Brian, via the same telegraph, quickly learned there was a target on his back, and that romance was paddling inexorably his way, at about 20 nautical miles a day. Never one to mince words, he provided his thoughts on the situation at some length to the kayakers held captive as passengers on his semi-regular water taxi service back to the big island. A sanitized precis ? – he didn’t much like being anyone’s target, and a woman was the last thing he needed in his life at the moment.

While the stage was thus set, from the seat of a touring kayak the world floats by walking pace, so it would be weeks of suspense before our protagonists could meet. The gossip mill fairly buzzed with anticipation and the bottle was passed around campfires up and down the coast, with speculation growing intense. As Jane Austen also wryly observed “For what do we live but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?”

Oh to have been a fly on the dock when Bette finally paddled into Marijuana Cove and two strong-willed and fiercely independent individuals at last confronted each other, but alas, the meeting was private. Probably for the best, since gossip functions best when unencumbered by facts.

Was the encounter cordial, or did sparks fly instantly? Was the atmosphere electric with animal magnetism, or rife with the odor of revulsion and unwashed paddling gear? Some pundits delighted in inventing outlandish scenarios- while others offered quotes from a well -thumbed copy of Jane Austen to their fellow kayakers. Was it:

“they had no conversation together, no intercourse but what common civility required”

or , “Is not general incivility the very essence of love ?”

or perhaps “It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy- it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others”

All we know for certain is that a few days later a lone female paddler was spotted headed south, head held high, with a beautiful forward stroke effortlessly eating up the miles towards home.

“adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men to rocks and mountains?”

Categories: fiction, humour, kayaking, relationships, Travel | Tags: , | Leave a comment
 
 

Remembrance

A couple of months before the world turned upside down, I had the rare privilege to observe an elephant herd honouring one of their dead.

All that remained of the fallen elephant was its massive sun bleached skull, lying exposed on the the parched African veldt. Each member of the herd slowly approached in turn, to reverently touch the skull. Some nudged it a bit, while others caressed it in remembrance for long minutes, before moving off to permit the next member of the herd to pay their respects. The matriarch lingered the longest, followed closely by the oldest adults, while at the end of the line came the youngsters, obviously too young to have known the fallen one, and acting much like human kids might at an aged aunt’s funeral, gave the skull a perfunctory pat, before scampering away.

A vivid recollection of that solemn encounter popped, unbidden, into my mind today, and prompted this blog. It seems to be happening to me a lot recently, memories gurgling to the surface, as one day day drifts into another in uninterrupted Covid topor.

Not just memories, but dreams- vivid ones, of people and places far in the past. Nights in self -isolation are filled with intense and action packed dreams. I’ve skied epic lines down slopes that far surpass my waking abilities-taking big air, and floating effortlessly back to earth. I’ve canoed at least a dozen wild rivers in my sleep during Covid, and hiked in deserts, rainforests and jungles, joined in my travels by an ever changing cast of companions, some contemporary, but some only dimly remembered from decades in the past.

Barred from the inside of any courtroom for over a year by the wretched virus, I’ve nonetheless crafted intricate legal arguments, and laid down withering cross examinations in a score of dream courts; amazing myself upon awakening to realize that the cases being litigated were completely new, not a re-hash of old battles or even a rehearsal for anything languishing in the filing cabinet now awaiting the opening of the courts, and often involved areas of the law of which I am innocent of any knowledge, while awake. One night last week found me, in my slumber, parsing fine points of constitutional and jurisdictional caselaw pertaining to a log-jam on a tributary of the Nechacho river, when suddenly the courtroom dissolved and we were all in the water, counsel, judge and court clerk all struggling in a maelstrom of white water.

I am sure that there are those far more learned and erudite than this blogger, who can theorize why, during Covid, our dreams have become so intense, and intricate, and have pried open so many forgotten corners of our subconscious. Some may even be brave enough to attempt an interpretation of their meaning.

For me, I am content to simply savour the experience. You see, amongst the most vivid of my dreams was a youthful walk along a leafy, sun dappled path to a lake where I fished, and talked to my father, just after the fiftieth anniversary of his death. Most recently, I delighted in an animated conversation with a much young version of my mother, a conversation impossible now in the light of day, as she fades away, barricaded, safe but unhuggable, in assisted living.

Nighttime, during Covid, has become a time to pause on the journey across the veldt, to caress old bones- to reflect, and to remember.

Categories: Africa, death and dying, In memoriam, Reflections | Tags: , | 2 Comments

Saving the World – another in a series

Posted on May 9, 2022 by cgreen2012

I’ve recently taken to wiling away rainy afternoons by offering up snappy solutions to some of the pressing problems of the day, in hopes that the relevant politicians may someday stumble upon my humble blog and be galvanized into appropriate action.

The solutions all seem so simple when concocted from the comfort of my favourite armchair – why just last week I took a stab at vanquishing the current housing affordability crisis ttps://gentlemansrelish.ca/2022/04/25/down-to-the-sea-again/, so this week I thought I would offer up a”twofer’ and tackle two burning problems- climate change and indigenous rights, with a single stroke of the pen.

It is time, I suggest, to re-visit the long mothballed Mid Canada Corridor Project, the personal centennial project of Maj. Gen Richard Rohmer, soldier, lawyer, author, public figure, and passionately patriotic Canadian.

Rohmer’s plan was essentially to kickstart the development of the north by creating an infrastructure corridor across boreal Canada, anchored by large planned communities in locations such as Fort Smith, Flin Flon, Whitehorse, Timmins and Labrador City, and linked with road and rail corridors that would open up the ports of Churchill and Inuvik. Back in the sixties, no-one was paying a lot of attention to either climate change , or indigenous rights, so nationalism, and resource extraction were the real driving forces behind the plan. Rohmer was concerned that, in a vast, empty land, we all lived in a thin ribbon of population right along the border with a restless and unpredictable neighbour. Indeed he wrote several novels exploring the theme of the USA annexing Canada.

40 years on, our southern neighbour is even more volatile, climate change is top of mind everywhere, agriculture is creeping northward, and the north is starting to look a lot more hospitable than it did in the sixties when his grand scheme could never get beyond the fact that nobody actually wanted to live in Flin Flon or Labrador City.

If last summer’s heat dome here in the south is the harbinger of future summer weather, a temperate northern summer now seems almost alluring, and as crops wither and bake down here, agricultural opportunities expand to the north, where technology, ample water, and the midnight sun could combine for exciting possibilities.

Presently, most think of the north as a void of endless uninhabited acres of boreal forest, but of course , it isn’t. Not only has our north been inhabited by indigenous people for thousands of years, it remains so today – dotted with many small communities, albeit most on life support. Our First Nations remain anchored to their ancestral homelands, but no longer utilize them as their ancestors did. The result has been to create artificial communities that exist without any economic rationale.

Southerners shake their heads at reports of 90% unemployment rates in indigenous communities, and bridle at the astronomic and ever increasing cost of supplying them with services. Indeed some communities can only be accessed by air, so it is little wonder that they are unable to sustain a viable economy. Even those communities blessed with nearby natural resources can’t benefit from them without the infrastructure to move those resources to market, and those without resources have no economic advantages they can leverage. Who wants to set up shop in a remote location without access to the tools of commerce?

Surely a large part of the solution to “the First Nations Problem” is to integrate indigenous communities into the mainstream economy by providing the infrastructure that would enable them to participate fully in it. The North has the land, the resources, and the potential workforce- but it needs the roads, railway, and power grid that the Mid Canada Corridor envisions, in order to thrive. Welfare or infrastructure – we are going to pay either way, so we have little to lose.

Too glib a solution? probably- but a key component to beginning to address and improve our complex relationship with our indigenous peoples has to be economic empowerment, and that requires a bold vision, and a big plan (the sort of stuff Canada used to be built on). Some have called Rohmer’s vision grandiose and doomed, but serious thinkers, including the Northern Policy Institute, in 2014, and even the Senate of Canada’s Standing Committee on Trade and Commerce, as recently as 2017, have dusted off Rohmer’s detailed report.

Selfishly, I love the wilderness, and would love to keep the north empty and wild, but realistically, is it possible? or fair to our First Nations? It is time to start the conversation, so I can move on to armchair quarterbacking more solutions to the world’s problems.

Balckstone River running through Tombstone Territorial Park, with the Dempster Highway slicing through the landscape
Categories: entrepreneurship, Environment, First Nations, visions of the future | Tags: , , , , | 2 Comments

Whither Esquire?

Posted on May 1, 2022 by cgreen2012

All the fuss recently in the courts and the legal profession generally about modes of address, honorifics, and pronouns has made me somewhat nostalgic for the ‘good ole days’, when a younger person might respectfully address an elder by their surname with a conventional prefix, and when my correspondence and pleadings were always signed with the suffix “Esquire”.

When I was first called to the bar the practice was practically universal, when corresponding with another lawyer, to use the courtesy title of ‘Esquire”, as well as to claim it for oneself. According to Wikipedia “Esquire was historically a title of respect accorded to men of higher social rank, particularly members of the landed gentry above the rank of gentleman and below the rank of knight.” Somehow, in North America the title was co-oped by the legal profession, to signify a fully qualified and licenced lawyer.

Of course, in those days the law was still a male dominated profession, and, as a group, we were supremely unconcerned with the issue of gender inequality, so were untroubled by the fact that ‘Esquire’ from its murky medieval origins onwards, has always been a male title- until the day the first female lawyer rode into our small town.

Kathy Downs ( later Madame Justice Kathleen Downs of the British Columbia Supreme Court,) was Harvard trained, smart as a whip, and puzzled by the conceit of male lawyers appending “Esq.” to their name at every opportunity. (She was also puzzled by the second doorway to the Globe Hotel, the local watering hole for young lawyers, which still bore the “Ladies and Escorts” sign over its portal, but she barged in anyway, unescorted.)

Over beers she posed the question to the assembled brain trust- “”so, if you guys are esquires, what title do I use?” The question sparked much lively debate, fueled by many rounds of draft beer, but in the end, remained unanswered. That is, until the next Chambers day.

In our small town the court held “chambers” once a week, where lawyers would assemble in front of the local judge to process all manner of procedural and interlocutory matters. It was as much a social event as a legal one, as every firm in town had a myriad of mundane matters that required rubber stamping by a judge, so we all attended, and gossiped while awaiting our turn. It was there that we learned that Kathy had answered her question all by herself.

Her case was called, and Kathy rose to address the court, but was cut off before she could begin by a stentorian roar from the bench.

“What, Miss Downs, is the meaning of this!” demanded the judge, staring down over his bi-focals, waving Kathy’s Notice of Motion furiously about.

Feigning ignorance, Kathy demurely inquired what he meant.

“This pleading is signed by “Kathleen Downs, Lady“- you are referring to yourself by the title of “Lady”- now explain yourself!” Whereupon the judge was treated to a feisty, but well researched treatise on the origin of the term “esquire,” and the lack of a feminine equivalent, which ended by Kathy posing to the court the same question she had put to her beer guzzling colleagues.

The judge, evidently disgruntled that the rising tide of feminism had finally breached the sanctity of his court, straightened his back, and proclaimed:

“That will be for others to decide, but madame, I can assure you that, in this court room-

YOU ARE NO LADY!”

Like most of the lawyers who were present in chambers that day, I quietly dropped the habit of using the title esquire thereafter. Its usage seems to have faded out generally, since it must be two decades since I’ve been addressed as a Esq., although I am told that several states in the US cling religiously to its use to designate properly licenced practitioners.

It is one of those anachronisms that dwindle harmlessly away, unmissed in day to day life, but randomly recalled on a rainy afternoon, when reminiscences of younger times and court rooms far away bubble to the surface.

Whither Esquire indeed!

Categories: Etiquette & manners, humour, law, Reflections | Tags: , | Leave a comment

Down to the sea again

Posted on April 25, 2022 by cgreen2012

Vancouver is a maritime city, so, isn’t it time we started incorporating the sea into our thinking when grappling with our municipal problems?

The related problems of homelessness and affordable housing immediately come to mind. In the year 3 BC ( that’s Before Covid) I blogged an elegant solution to the problem of homelessness https://gentlemansrelish.ca/2017/12/09/enough-already/#more-627. Simply buy a used cruise ship, I suggested, park it in an empty patch of ocean in the harbour, and, voila- 2,000 or 3,000 well appointed beds instantly available, together with space for all of the ancillary services you could ever need, for far less money than we are currently throwing at the problem. Well, nobody listened, and here we are five years later, no closer to a solution, but having spent the better part of a billion dollars on band-aids.

OK, so maybe the ‘hard to house’ wouldn’t be the ideal tenants for a permanently parked cruise ship, – they would probably turn the boat into a slum in short order- but I still think its a housing idea with merit- for the right clientele. What about the temporary foreign workers we so desperately need to bolster our workforce? What about the young single working stiffs who are finding it impossible to find respectable, affordable rental accommodation? Or students? Having a micro-apartment aboard a well appointed cruise ship could become an attractive lifestyle.

And lets not forget that the world of work has changed forever, courtesy of Covid. Workers no longer need to live within an endurable daily commuting distance from their office. They now have the theoretical ability to live anywhere, although still tethered to an office that requires them to make regular guest appearances. They are the new commuters, needing a small pied-a-terre in the city for a couple of nights a week for work, with their main residence in a smaller community elsewhere. A cruise ship cabin would seem an ideal solution for the new hybrid work week.

But what of families, you ask? – well the ocean could provide a solution for them as well, in the form of float homes. It is a mystery to me why, in an environment where the land supply is restricted, but water is a so abundant, we don’t make better use of our waterways to host housing of all descriptions. There are indeed small pockets across the lower mainland where float home communities thrive, but truly, the potential for floating communities has barely been scratched.

The answer to our housing problem may truly be right at our doorstep, in the hundreds of miles of protected coastline, and river bank within Metro Vancouver, a priceless resource, should we be bold enough to re-imagine Vancouver as a truly maritime environment, where people live and work and commute on the sea, as well as beside it.

Categories: entrepreneurship, Environment, Reflections | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

A Life Remembered

Posted on April 15, 2022 by cgreen2012

It is a mystery, known only to the Gods

why some lives are so easy,

and others so hard

We have lost our poor sweet Michaela, whose life was never easy, despite all we tried to do.

It was 15 years ago, when, desperate to fill a void in our household created by the loss of another much loved calico cat, we found ourselves in the Pet Food Megastore- directed there by the Petfinder website by the promise of an available calico.

Under the harsh glare of florescent lights, and against the din of heavy metal rock playing loudly on the store’s sound system, we found her, cowering under a cat bed, the only shelter in the sterile container, clearly traumatized by her hostile environment. Heather took one quick look at the situation and swung into action- buttonholing a gum-chewing, purple-haired sales clerk by her nose ring.

“That cat is leaving with us- NOW” and within minutes she was ours, purring in her cat carrier as we sped towards the tranquillity of home.

We are convinced that Kayla had PTSD, as she lived her entire life within a prison of her own making. Bravely, she would reach out, socialize and accept affection, but then abruptly, the mood would be shattered and she would withdraw, turning inward for long periods- obviously wrestling with her own demons. Sometimes she would lie abed for days, staring at the wall. We obliged by creating a fortress for her in a warm corner of Heather’s den, with a pyramid bed she could snuggle into next to the heat vent – a “no-go” sanctuary that was her’s alone.

From what little information we could glean, she had been adopted as a kitten by a large and boisterous family whose children took delight in terrorizing their new pet- poking, prodding and tossing her about. Whether Kayla escaped, or was discarded when no longer fun to torment we also will never know, but thankfully she made her way to a shelter, and eventually to us.

Once we got her safely home we realized that she had no tail- a birth defect perhaps, or, as I have always suspected, a traumatic amputation- the result of her tail being being yanked until it no longer functioned, or slammed in a door. We will never know for sure, but you touched her nether regions at your peril.

She had likely suffered harsh treatment from a man, since, in the early years, I had to but enter the room and she would shriek “Eek, eek, man in the room, man in the room, everybody run – hide” and she would quickly scuttle away. Over time I either won her over, or wore her down, as eventually she would content herself with simply giving me a baleful stare, as it to say “Oh, are you still here?”

In Kayla’s ideal world she would have lived alone in a bubble with Heather, her rescuer, who she adored, but alas it was not to be. Kayla’s new home came with two other resident cats, and a dreaded man, and she always appeared slightly miffed that we hadn’t received the memo as to her preferences.

She was the only cat we have ever had that had absolutely no interest in venturing outdoors. A promenade around the sundeck on a warm summer’s day was the furthest she ever ventured. She knew the wide world beyond was a scary place, and she wanted no part of it. Instead, she had a personal sunbeam that warmed her perch on the dining room window where she could bask for hours, pretending she was an ‘only’ cat.

It takes a generous measure of courage to daily face and daily subdue the dragons of the mind, and more still to stand one’s ground in the society of other cats, so Kayla was a very brave little cat. In all the time we had her she yielded not one inch to Big Ben, our dominant alpha cat, who fancied himself as ‘head of household”. Ben learned that he was master of all he surveyed – except Kayla.

As the years rolled by she did begin to heal- at least, she seemed quieter in her mind and generally content,adding “Auntie Janet”, our long-time house sitter, and Vivien, her favourite vet tech, to her miniscule circle of trusted humans.

It was a pity that the rest of her body wouldn’t co-operate. Michaela’s later years were plagued by bouts of pancreatitis and renal failure, and her life became a medical roller-coaster. Unable to eat, she would receive injections for nausea, and pills to stimulate her appetite. Daily we laid a smorgasbord to try to tempt her to eat- different cat foods, canned salmon, tuna, chicken, steak, you name it, we tried it. Towards the end our own menu orbited around what Kayla would eat from our plate. ( Frankly, I’ll be happy not to have fish for dinner again for awhile).

Administering a pill to an un-co-operative cat is surely one of life’s more difficult tasks, but one which Heather undertook daily. My task, handling the sub-cutaneous injections of medications, was a cake- walk by comparison. The heavy lifting fell to faithful Vivien, making bi-weekly house calls to wield the gigantic syringe that pumped Kayla up with sub-cutaneous fluids and assuredly extended her life by many months

Despite our efforts Michaela gradually wasted away, weighing a scant 6 pounds at her death. The adage is that cat’s have nine lives – I’m not sure about that, but I do know of four trips to the vet with euthanasia in mind. She came home from three of them, thanks only to the careful and compassionate care she received from Dr Melissa and the wonderful staff of Westwood Veterinary, and Kayla’s own incredible spunk.

She is at rest now, and free of pain, but not yet quite gone from our household -her spirit seems to linger, as we still catch, out of a corner of an eye, the occasional flash of movement echoing her distinctive gait, and still feel her eyes following as we pass by any of her favourite haunts. She is welcome to linger, as she was much loved, and is sorely missed.

Categories: death and dying, In memoriam, pets, Reflections | 1 Comment

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