Notes from a bemused canuck
Went to take Byron for a walk. The wind was blowing something fierce, broken branches everywhere. Byron had the wind in his ears and was loving it. We went to the beach and he got his paws wet in the lake. On the way back, we walked along the waterfront. The noise of the boats jangling around didn’t bother him, but he definitely took serious offence with a kite in the Parc. Full-on growling, barking, ears back, babines showing teeth. But then we went home and all was well.
Byron helped me to vacuum and mop the floors this morning, in his own inimitable way.
There is a greater darkness than the one we fight.
It is the darkness of the soul that has lost its way.
The war we fight is not against powers and principalities,
it is against chaos and despair.
Greater than the death of flesh is the death of hope,
the death of dreams.
Against this peril we can never surrender.
The future is all around us,
waiting in moments of transition,
to be born in moments of revelation.
No one knows the shape of that future,
or where it will take us.
We know only that it is always born in pain.
Everyone always coming to Zathras with problems. Great responsibilities. But Zathras does not mind. Zathras trained in crisis management. But only Zathras have no one to talk to. No one manages poor Zathras, you see. So Zathras talks to dirt. Sometimes talks to walls, or talks to ceilings. But dirt is closer. Dirt is used, through everyone walking on it. Just like Zathras, but we’ve come to like it. It is our role. It is our destiny in the universe.
The chonk’s head isn’t that big (yet).
The pig is no more. We’ve taken the hard decision to put her to sleep. Between the anemia and the potential nasal tumour, things were not going to improve, and she was starting to sneeze huge clots of congealed blood, while having a persistent nose bleed. She passed quietly, while her human was whispering nothings of encouragement in her ear.
I tried to take the chonk out for a walk to the post office. He didn’t really want to, so he melted into the sofa to protest.
The pig’s nose and fur look like a Jackson Pollock painting. Unfortunately, that’s blood, and it doesn’t seem to want to get better.