They are outstanding at tearing things apart and leaving poops everywhere. I’d prefer if they did this in my massive compost pile.

I hatched a plan. Step one: Get a couple of chickens and put them in the compost. Step two: Create a bunch of little stairs and ramps up to the edge of the compost so the chickens can find their way in. Step three: Wait for the chickens to escape their enclosure. Step 4: Direct the chickens to the stairs, ramps and other apparatus. Step 5: Omelet.

I began by cornering Salmon and Ella one at a time and carrying them over to the compost heap. They purred and clucked happily as they ripped and tore into the layers of horse manure, hay and kitchen scraps. They ate wasps, pepper seeds, watermelon bits and egg shells.

The others watched jealously from their enclosure. Chickens have a short attention span. They also have a short decision making process. One look at how busy their sisters were was enough to convince the other three to hop the fence and enjoy the greener grass on the other side of it.

The chickens could see that their sisters knew better. They surrounded the heap. They circled and they looked, but they couldn’t get in. Their sisters had better.

For a moment, the other chickens wanted better too.

For a moment, they strained their necks and gawked, looking for their way in. I set up steps and ramps and all sorts of ways for the chickens to find their way up into the delicious, insect rich compost.

I tried to ‘teach’ the chickens to ‘use’ the stairs and ramps that I created.

Most of the time they were confused then got distracted. Food was everywhere. Though their sisters in the compost had ‘better’, these ladies still had plenty.

In fact, food was so abundant it was easy for the chickens to get distracted by good enough while they were on their way to better.

People get described as sheep really frequently. Apparently that has something to do with being easy to lead.

Having spent the last while attempting to get people to pay for a spot on an epic bike ride, I gotta say, things would be much easier with sheep. Buy a crook and borrow a dog to scare them and I’m pretty certain that I could get them moving in one direction or the other.

But people are more like chickens. Sure we might know that there’s better out there. We might even see our siblings enjoying bounties beyond our wildest dreams.

It’s easy to set goals. We set them all of the time - goals and plans that we hope will get us to better.

And?

If you scratch the ground and find a worm where you are?

Maybe better isn’t where you need to go.

Maybe you can find abundance right here and right now.

Get scratching, you clucking fools!

The vast majority of those were spent within ten miles from where she was born.

She’d always give me that stunner of a smile as she said it was a whole ‘nuther world back then.

When I first wrote this, she was a marvel, heroic even:

She’s ninety three and still in her house living pretty independently.

Mostly independently… A homecare worker stopped by daily. They give her a LOT of support.

More importantly though?

My aunt and uncle lived next door.

My other aunt and uncle are living up the hill.

And my mom and dad?

They have their own place up the hill too.

Nanny was the centre of gravity.

She kept us all together.

Her dark clouded pessimism always drew us in.

Pessimism?

She lived through the depression, mumps and the war.

She watched her mother slowly die.

Expectations were best kept in check like a fully nutted pitbull.

When she couldn’t do the stairs, her laundry was moved to her spare room. When she couldn’t keep the woodstove running, she got an oil furnace. Just recently, her roof was reshingled, she had a window and doors replaced.

Her big yellow 50 year old house was updated and ready for another fifty years.

Changes and improvements that would be there long after her ashes mixed with the sands of Clam Harbour beach.

Years ago, everyone thought I oughta be in an apartment, where someone can take care of me. I like it here just fine. When I go, they’ll wheel me outta here feet first.

I smiled and shook my head: That’ll happen when you wake up dead some day?

My nanny didn’t have her partial in. I could tell. She tried hard not to smile. I could clearly see the place where her teeth could have been.

We live in the best part of the best part of the world. And I’m lucky to have so much family around. I can’t imagine what people do who don’t have anyone to take care of all these little things.

I'm going to go out of here feet first - that was always her wish.

In reality? Her last days were in a nursing home.

I thought it would be more of a cursing home but it turned out to be a blessing.

We had her 95th birthday there. She cried and cried again - 'I'm so lucky. I just feel so loved' we were all drenched in tears of joy.

And maybe a few in anticipation of what we all knew was lurking around the corner.

She didn’t leave that house feet first. She left us with the child beside her who was always there, another child walking away while a third was rushing home just a moment too late for a final goodbye.

It was perfect.

There were no cell phones. No one ‘sent a text. As far as we knew, email hadn’t even been invented yet. But the worst thing was the absence of call display.

Back then, when the phone rang, someone picked it up. It was important to know who was calling and what for. These days, unless I’m expecting a call or I recognize the number or the name, I don’t answer.

The reason for my reticence? The world is full of thieves. It’s not only the phone / online grifters and con hacks attempting to steal money from pensioners to worry about. There are the time and attention vampires who promise that what they say will only take a moment. The reality is much different.

All theft isn’t terrible.

I’ve enjoyed some wonderful stolen moments, stolen glances leading to stolen dances.

These have been some of my most pleasure filled experiences.

This brings me to the most insidious type of thief: Pleasure bandits.

The idea of pleasure bandits was a footnote in yesterdays post. I was asked about it by a couple of people in direct messages.

A warning against this kind of theft is necessary. Pleasure bandits are a product of emotional and spiritual poverty. I have a lot of tolerance for a lot of people. Pleasure bandits? Not so much.

Pity?

Sure.

Tolerance?

Meh.

If you hear yourself saying any of the following phrases to someone:

• I hate to rain on this parade but…

• Not to be a wet blanket but..

Here is a simple step by step guide on how to address your issues:

1. Remove your shoes

2. Dredge them thoroughly through the warm, sulfurous, slurry-like discharge of a local hound suffering from acute, garden-variety dysentery.

3. Place them directly in your mouth.

4. Ingest them slowly, swirling the notes around the palate with the solemn, contemplative focus of a master sommelier attending to a magnificent new vintage.

Unless the person you’re talking to is an immediate physical threat to you (not a threat to your belief system), a direct report at work, or a child in your care, disrupting the pleasure of another adult is the most duplicitous, wormlike form of dominance under the sun.

Common fools think their dominance ‘comes from a good place’.

Common fools believe that for one reason or another that they ‘know better’.

Common fools are as appealing as vacuum sealed bread.

(oh dear reader, my wife once tried to vacuum seal bread. It did not go well)

Are you a common fool dear reader or do you aspire to be a remarkable one

Remarkable fools know that they don’t know any better than another person and that we’ll arrive where we’re heading one way or another.

If you want to convince someone to change a behaviour they appear to be enjoying, let it go. It’s not your job to show them the way.

So, run away from the pleasure bandits. If it’s their pleasure to advise, dominate and critique, stare at them blankly without saying anything until they go away.

You are not obligated to sacrifice your pleasure for theirs.

Stay stinky, you fools!

And?

I gotta say, all y’all are pretty damn nice.

Really.

The ‘Mericans I’ve met this summer have been really great - across the board.

I think for a long time the notion that ‘Mericans were rude, pushy and entitled may have been deserved.

These days though, most of y’all I’ve met here in the best part of the best part of the world, have sounded a lot more like Canadians than many Canadians.

The first thing I’m hearing from so many ‘Merican guests?

We’re so sorry…

Colour me a forgiving man, but as my nanny once said there’s only ever been one perfect person. He was here so you don’t have to be. Just do your best.

And all these ‘Merican visitors I meet?

They’re all just doing their best - their best to be loved, their best to stay curious and their best to be gracious and generous guests up here in the Great White North.

Who knew, eh?

So thank you Prime Minister T-rump for making ‘Mericans act so much more like us Canucks.

I kinda knew that all y’all had it in ya.

Today was not unlike other days, riding the buses and giving the tours.

I had at least two ‘Merican ladies in tears. We’re so sorry. I voted for him. I had no idea…

This fool’s response? Shhhh. It’s ok. You’re loved.

Big hugs, my dear reader, my kindness was repaid in big hugs.

But also?

Prime Minister T-rump’s actions have been lovely, truly beautiful in their indirect impacts on Canada.

Whether it’s the violent rhetoric of us becoming the 51st state or the absurdity of Lake America, Canadians are united - BIGLY!

I keep meeting people from across Canada who greet me with the following message - We’ve always wanted to come East. We used to go down south, but now, we just want to see all of Canada.

It’s not merely about the investment of Canadian dollars in Canadian tourism. We’re experiencing something bigger than this. People are discovering our country and taking pride in what it means to be Canadian.

The people from Quebec that I’ve had the pleasure of conversing with all summer have spoken glowingly about Canada with the kind of pride that was unheard of thirty years ago.

If George Grant were alive today he’d smirk at how Canadian culture is flourishing in the face of this existential threat.

At the same time, he’d also likely roll his eyes at the technocrat we’ve been blessed with. Lord Protector, Mark Carney is a brilliant man. Shrewd, cunning and apparently, a real motherfucker to work for.

Even better, he’s finally found the cure for ‘the Canadian disease’. Blessed with resources that are beyond comprehension, we’ve never had either the political will to fully develop them nor the inclination to do anything more than dig them and sell them to ‘Merica. The ‘Mericans would then add value and sell them back to us at five times the cost.

Though there are aspects of the ‘Building Canada Act’ which may be seen as unconstitutional. We’re centralizing the review process and spending less time consulting indigenous people. This stops eco reviews litigating every inch of development into the next decade. Provincial rights are being trod upon.

The kind of dicks who love meetings for the sake of meetings and delays for the sake of delay?

They’re having their bratty little NGO fiefdoms destroyed.

And because of this?

Shit might actually get done.

It’s all well and good to have a bunch of principles about carbon footprint and duty to consult, but if you’re faced with being America’s little bitch, principles don’t keep our arseholes clear of buggery from the White House.

In the face of an existential threat to Canada where our ability to make deals with other countries and protect our culture is on the line, our Prime Minister is getting the kind of cover with the Supreme Court that will likely make them look away.

So, to my ‘Merican friends who might act Canadian and say ‘sorry’?

There’s no need.

We will rise up from this much stronger than we ever have been.

Canada is currently poised to move from being a commodity based nation to a leader in supplying the materials that the WORLD needs.

Through insults and tariffs, Prime Minister T-rump has insulted us?

Sure.

But those insults, those cheap chirps from the penalty box have carried across centre ice and become the kind of ‘bulletin board material’ that has united our country and stiffened our resolve.

Instead of having an economy fully integrated with the US, we’ll diversify our trading partners and can likely have only 60% of our business dealings with the US.

This will result in better prices for Canadian goods on the world stage. And for my dear American friends, all y’all will face higher prices because you won’t be our only customer.

So, to my ‘Merican friends who might act Canadian and say sorry?

There’s no need.

Seriously. We’ve got this. We’re kicking asses, taking names and potting clappers bar down in the top corner where Granma keeps the cookies.

You came up here as guests. You were kind, curious and gracious. Some of you cried on my shoulder and told me how sorry you were.

And then you hugged me.

What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

Canada is discovering itself again. We’re finding some backbone, some pride, and maybe even the confidence to decide for ourselves what kind of country we want to be.

The insults and tariffs and cheap chirps from the penalty box have become bulletin-board material.

They’ve united us.

So thank you.

All this has reminded me how much I love Canada.

And how much I like Americans.

And how, despite our differences, we’re family.

Best of luck, all y’all.

Thank you, Prime Minister T-Rump.

Who knew, eh?

Today, was the day.

I wrote this post as a draft on October first of last year.

On Saturday, we made a choice.

In ten minutes the vet is arriving and my first dog will be no more.

It’s so strange. He’s failing quickly now. He’s little more than skin and bones.

Even so, his tail goes up and despite the pain, the little guy just wants to live.

He just wants to please us and to do his job.

He’s a good boy and always will be.

It’s an odd responsibility, knowing when to let go, knowing when keeping an animal alive is more for us than for him.

But?

When he had lepto 8 years ago, Dr. Bev told us we’d be lucky to get five years out of him.

We’ve been lucky.

And so has he.

Farewell Ronin, our bravest little warrior.

Go chase bunnies in the forest just beyond the edge of what we can see.

I always wanted a dog.

As a young boy, I loved them.

When my dad’s mom - big Nanny Too was gifted Alice - a miniature Schnauzer, I fell in love.

My Aunt and Uncle Jane and Ross always had dogs.

Whenever I fell in love with someone, she typically had a dog.

Laura was no different. When we first met, her dog was a great big Great Pyrenees named Hoss. Hoss would follow Laura’s bunnies and eat rabbit turds off the floor as soon as they came out. The bunnies were filled with earthy bounty that was always hot n’ ready.

Given my constant love of and desire to have a dog, it’s difficult to say why it took until I was 41 to finally have a dog of my own.

Even then, I resisted.

Even then I blamed Laura and her friend with a brain tumour.

I’m dying and I want dogs. All he thinks about is the future. Mine is now.

It was a pretty fucking convincing argument eh?

That day I was on Kijiji searching for puppies.

I found one that I fell in love with instantly.

He was white and fluffy.

A mix of poodle, jack russell, Pomeranian and shitz you with all of the worst qualities of each.

His name?

Ronin.

He’s an odd beast.

Long noodle legs and a skinny, skinny body.

He just turned eleven.

He will not make it to be twelve.

In fact, I’m looking at my calendar for a day off - or even a half day to drive down to the cottage to dig a hole.

Work is busy.

That’s great. I love the work.

And?

It’s so busy now that I won’t be able to take the day to be around when Ronin goes.

Eight years ago he had Lepto.

We spent a LOT of money keeping him alive.

But over the last eighteen months, he hasn’t really been pooping.

More just bleeding from his asshole.

That and we can feel a mass in his belly.

I walked him last night. It was late and he was struggling.

His time is almost up.

As we got home I told him that he was a good boy and that his job was done.

He kept each of us alive with his love in some way shape or form.

He’s fierce in his love for us.

But this Ronin, this warrior puppy?

His strides are getting short, his curly tail is hanging low.

He’s less a puppy and now an old dog.

All I ever wanted was a dog to love.

And he was my first.

Now?

Now I know why I put of having a dog so long.

The little fucker.

That little fucker who puked on the bed and has shat on the floor and caused every calamity that his nine pounds could cause?

That little fucker stole my heart.

And now?

Now he’s going to break it.

It might not be today.

It might not be tomorrow.

But time runs out for all of us.

And Ronin?

He’s going soon.

Not likely tomorrow but his time here is short.

I’m grateful that I had the chance to share time here with him.

I was looking into his eyes tonight, crying and I can’t help but wonder if he knows or if he’s afraid.

It was thirty five years ago today that my granddad left us, my nanny’s husband.

Did he know?

Was he afraid?

(edit - now that Nanny’s past, was she afraid?)

As much as dogs are here to teach us about love and loss and grief, there’s one thing they can’t teach us - it’s how to die.

But I guess that’s asking a lot from a little white ball of fluff.

Git boy! Git! Go chase those rabbits in the sky!

I’ve not been able to write.

The next piece had to come out first.

Here’s the text from my Nanny’s eulogy that I delivered yesterday in the little white church on the hill in the best part of the best part of the world:

I’m Jimmy - Ruby’s oldest grandson.

Ruby?

Nanny.

She took that name when she was still young.

I was born when she was only 42.

She said, I’m too young to be called ‘granny’. Call me ‘nanny’.

That name stuck for decades, until Mya arrived.

Ruby was born a Russell in family home at the end of the Russell Road in Clam Harbour.

She was a special woman, a gem really.

In a lot of ways he life is like her namesake: precious, brilliant and timeless.

Her life is a bridge to a different time.

Or as she put it, “It was a different world back then.”

As a youngster, she grew up poor.

Her summers were spent running around barefoot.

They couldn’t afford to waste money on summer shoes in those days.

Ruby no shoes - as no one ever called her, helped her mother around the house with chores and eventually collected and delivered mail for a nickel a week.

Most summers, she’d travel with her mother to visit her mother’s family in Upper Lakeville.

They’d pile into one of the three cars in the whole community - likely the cab driven by old Bob Cook.

Nanny would say: ”You could walk darn near faster than he’d drive”.

It was a different world.

Electricity never arrived at the family home until she was nine.

She spoke with a wide eyed wonder at the miracle of getting an electric pump in the house.

“Before then, the boys would have to put a stone in the bucket to break the ice out of the well in the winter”.

To use her words, and join in if you know them - the cow was in the barn, the pig was in the pen and the chickens were in the henhouse.

Outback, was the outhouse - pretty deluxe for its time - a two seater - the original Eastern Shore side by side.

When the war came, Nanny moved to Eastern Passage. Those were golden years.

She’d say ”There was a rec hall and there were kids everywhere to play with.”

Nanny loved it there. She was none too pleased to move back to Clam Harbour.

It is what it is.

It wasn’t long though before Ruby outgrown that little village.

The school there only went to grade ten. She wanted her grade eleven.

So off she moved to live with Mrs Jennex in Oyster Pond through the week.

Around then when her brother introduced her to a fella a few years her senior.

Ellis was home from serving in Newfoundland and he had himself a car.

He’d frequently drive her from home in Clam Harbour to Mrs. Jennex’s place in Oyster Pond.

I’m not going to speculate what happened on those long car rides.

I’ll leave that to your imagination.

But to light a fire under your imaination, I will say that Granddad had a girlfriend when he first met Nanny.

She didn’t last long after they met though.

They dated for three years then were married.

Six months after the wedding, my mother was born.

When I teased Nanny about her gestational efficiency, she gave me a wink and said: “You don’t think it was your generation that invented parking do ya?”

It is what it is.

Ruby and Ellis moved to town and ran an oil business.

Ellis delivered the oil.

Ruby kept everything running on time.

Supper hit the table every night at five - whether the potatoes were cooked or not.

In town, they lived on Farquarson Street.

At first, they lived in the basement while the rest of the house was built.

Nanny, Grandad, my mom, Al on one side of the basement and Sheila, Percy and the boys living on the other.

Robin seemed to have the good sense to wait until the rest of the house was built before he showed up.

Smart man.

It was a different world.

Nanny loved life in Woodlawn. She made lifelong friends there including the Weeks’.

Bernice was like a sister, Denise and Debbie - she loved you like daughters.

Nanny loved living in town. She even went and got her drivers license all on her own.

That was a big deal back then.

Grandad was not impressed:

”You mean they’re going to let you drive?”

She told this story regularly, bubbling with pride.

Ruby was a woman of fire and an independent spirit.

And that made it even more outrageous when Grandad sold the house out from under her.

“We’re moving home. Building a campground.”

That was that.

Luckily, they led and a lot of their friends from town followed.

Eventually they moved into the big yellow house on the hill.

That’s where I always picture Nanny.

When I spoke to my cousins about this eu goog ley, they talked about the food - the creamed corn in particular.

But mostly?

They describe her as a constant presence.

She’s just always been there in that big yellow house at the end of the road.

Keeping watch,

A silent sentinel peering down from her big bay window.

Her steady presence has always been a comfort.

I lived with her for two summers after Grandad died.

While I flailed with early adulthood, she seemed amused by my antics.

When Laura was sick and no one was sure how long she’d be around, Nanny and I talked about cancer, loss, living, dying and ‘what comes next’.

She seemed to be the only one who could ‘get me’.

Her presence was the ultimate comfort.

And now?

It is what it is.

One thing was always true: She loved her family.

She would always tell me how lucky she was to have such a wonderful family.

Wonderful children, grandchildren and great grandchildren.

With God as my witness, she told me regularly how proud she was of each and every one of us.

Ruby no shoes was a woman with a hell of a soul.

And though she grew up with no shoes, her eldest great granddaughter - Mya - gave her the moniker that I think she loved the most:

Two shoes.

In one of our last conversations, Nanny was expressing doubt.

“What does it matter? What is this all for?”

I told her the truth.

”While Grandad was up the lake drinking whisky, you were the glue that kept everything going. He may of started it, but without you, it have fallen apart.

You made a place of joy that’s touched thousands of lives.

I keep meeting people whose best memories are of the campground.

You have no idea of just how impactful and important you’ve been.”

She may be gone, but her steady, enduring presence continues.

So as we gather here in the best part of the best part of the world to celebrate that gem of a woman - Ruby

Nanny

Mother

Sis

Two shoes

She’s always got eyes on all of us.

She’s looking down from her swing on the porch of the big yellow house in the sky

So remember,

Be good.

And if you can’t be good, be careful.

Thank you.

This is a love letter and a rage letter and touches on some of the most sacred cows of our current society - the sexual revolution.

Interested?

Read on.

Scared?

Close this message meow.

One of the smartest people I know is also one of the bravest people I know.

And I must be pretty damn smart too because I chose to marry this woman.

That’s right - Laura.

Laura has a PhD in Education. She’s run an English department in inner city Toronto Schools.

She’s pretty frickin’ amazing.

And?

She quit. She walked away.

And that was a defiant act of bravery.

Women these days are subjected to more pressure than ever before, so much so that the biggest job, the best job and what I believe the most important job has been replaced with wage earning.

That job?

Being a mom.

That’s right.

Being a mom and loving and nurturing your offspring is more important than being President, more impactful than leading an HR department and more influential than teaching other peoples children.

And it’s been undervalued since the 1960’s.

These days, the statements above are likely seen as foolish, heretical even.

Because, hell, natural, biological abilities to feed and millennia of hard wired nurturing can easily be disrupted by pills, choice and bra burning.

And for whom?

Instead of loyalty to the family and for the benefit of the tribe, a woman’s super powers get turned away from the family and towards the functioning of the state and for the benefit of the corporations.

Yay progress?

Laura, facing cancer, had the bravery to walk away from the machine and the insurance support to turn her efforts towards supporting her family.

At work?

She was under incredible pressure to care for a nurture a lot of other people - other parents, other teachers and other peoples children. Hundreds of them per year!

And when middle class women walk away from a career that could have / would have /should have led to even more social status and pressure with a university career, they are silently judged and seen as a failure.

She’s had these unawares judgements passed on her for over a decade and a half now.

And?

She has the bravery to ignore and withstand the girl bullying in our culture that pushes women to perfectionism - Lioness at work, mamma bear at home and a minx in the bedroom.

I’m not sure that the revolution of the 60’s made things easier for women.

I hear the ordinary fools clucking in the media all the time

Men need to be better. Men need to do more.

Why?

We did’t ask for this.

We didn’t lead the revolution.

It used to be such that a two income household could get ahead.

These days?

It takes two and a half incomes to keep a family going.

So, with the revolution, who won, men, women, or the corporations who continue to extract more wealth from our efforts?

Family first is the core of community and shouldn’t be seen as a reactionary point of view.

But that’s the machine for ya, it simplifies narratives, creates good and evils in the world and finds someone to blame for the inadequacies of progressive culture

The biggest person Laura had to battle though was herself.

If I’m not there, they’ll miss me. What will happen to ______

We learned quite soon after she quit that she wasn’t missed.

She was disposable.

She was replaced.

Sure for a while they spoke about her.

These days though, there are few teachers at her old school who even remember she was there.

You are disposable.

You don’t matter.

One day you will be gone.

You will be replaced.

You don’t matter to the system nearly as much as you think.

Family first.

I’m back.

It’s been a couple of days.

Have you missed me?

I have too.

I’ve been stuck.

Not stuck with writing, but stuck figuring out what to say.

Things are a bit cold here lately. The heat pump has been broken for weeks.

We’ve been heating the house with our little wood burner in the living room.

In our cold house, I’ve been numb to a lot.

With Nanny now in a home that you generally walk in then roll out feet first, I think I’m blocking a bunch of anticipatory sadness.

People aren’t dying.

Time is just an arsehole.

It’s limited.

And these days, I can see how precious our time together truly is.

My mother in law reminds me of Nanny.

She’s starting to get really old and she lives really far away - for now.

That’s something we’re working on changing.

I hope she’s much closer soon.

I’m noticing more and more how my parents are aging..

They’re getting older.

They love me so much they’ve put up with so much arrogance, rage and just down right flailing on my behalf, that they’ve never given up entirely on me and for that gift, I’m deeply grateful.

I just wish I would have figured this out sooner.

I guess that’s the gift, the sick and twisted gift of being caught between generations.

My own kids are pushing me away.

They’re rejecting both of their parents.

It’s natural, but it hurts.

Now I know how much I had to push and hurt my own folks.

These days, I really appreciate caring for those older than me - my mother in law and likely in the future my parents, while at the same time caring for my children and helping them become adults.

It’s an odd place that I’m in, it’s a kind of holding on and letting go at the same time.

Holding on to who they are and letting go of what they were.

Life lately feels like eating 70% cacao bars at sunset.

It’s bitter sweet, entirely spectacular and all in all, good for the heart.

We have a little white dog. He had lepto about eight years ago. Dr. Bev told us we’d be lucky to keep him alive for five.

i guess we’re really a lot luckier than we think sometimes.

I was going through my drafts here.

One of the posts I wrote nine months ago.

It’s called My dog is dying.

Only, he’s not.

He’s living.

Sure he’s incontinent.

Sure, he shits blood on puppy pads and sometimes on the floor every day.

And?

He’s been kept alive by his sheer desire to love my wife.

When we weren’t sure about her, he was with her.

Now that he’s coming to the end, she and my daughter are with him - carrying him outside to poop and cleaning up when he doesn’t make it.

The vet told us as long as he wags his tail and shows interest in being alive, the inconvenience of his incontinence is the only reason to put him down.

Many people, we’re told, most people would likely do this.

But?

One day I’ll likely shit all over the place and be a big inconvenience for the world.

And I won’t accept being put down because of a few bloody little shits.

When it’s time, we’ll know.