Forty.
This past weekend, I turned forty years old and I have to say that my forty-year-old mind has been having some forty-year-old thoughts. A lot can happen in forty years. Forty 25ths of December. Forty 4ths of July. A lot has happened in my years of life; in the days leading up to my dreaded birthday, I spent a lot of time pondering, thinking and reflecting on being forty.
"I'm not sure I wanna turn forty," I whined on several occasions to my hubby.
"It's just a number...." he offered back kindly.
"Forty....just seems so old," I whined back.
"Well, you'll always be younger than me!" he declared and smiled broadly, wrapping me in a bear hug. He always makes me feel better. I will forever be the younger woman around him and I feel that it is essentially important for me to feel like the younger woman right now.
Because I'm having a little trouble with forty.
In fact, there are forty reasons that I dread being forty! But since you and I don't want to literally age whilst writing or reading this blog-post, allow me to elaborate on the top 10 reasons why I am feuding with forty!
1. Forty seems old. Those of you UNDER forty are whole-heartedly agreeing with me right now and applauding yourself on your youth. Applaud softly, young'uns! Age is a comin' to get you too and Age is a ravenous beast! Those of you OVER forty are scoffing softly to yourself but you know what I'm talking about!
2. Grey hair. Now, I have noticed that grey hair seems to be all the rage and cool and in. I've seen teens with cascading locks coloured smoky grey or softly silver or lusciously lavender-grey. Grey may be the next groovy thing but I just can't jump on that band wagon yet because my hair is doing that going-grey thing all on its own! There was a time when I would angrily yank out any rogue grey hairs that I discovered, but going bald post-chemo has given me a renewed respect for hair. I don't yank out errant hairs anymore but I am planning their ultimate cover-up.
3. At forty, I wonder if the most exciting parts of my life are behind me. Those first forty years were action-packed, I tell you! Rife with romance. Bustling with babies. Scintillating with school stuff. What now? Will the next forty years be filled with decline, despair, disintegration, and drudgery?
4. I have not climbed any mountains yet. Unless, we count the Hamilton Mountain. I HAVE climbed Hamilton Mountain many times. I even ran down it once in a race. That hurt. A lot. I also bounced down it wearing Kangaroo Shoes which were purchased in a moment of weak intellect but let's leave the Kangaroo Shoe Story for another day.
5. Loss of skin elasticity. You may not have noticed, but aging means leaving behind that super stretchy skin of Youth. At forty, gaining weight means stretch marks....greyish marks criss-crossing flesh....losing weight means noticeable wrinkles....deep-etched lines carved in skin.
6. Hearing loss. Please don't whisper, murmur, mumble, mutter or speak in hushed tones around me. I will not hear you. If you have an overwhelming need to do either of the above, please provide sub-titles.
7. Calorie counting. In my teens, I never ever ever ever ever did this. I could eat donuts, grease-splattered burgers and chips and no one would be the wiser unless I had donut-sugar sprinkled like snow down my crop-topped mid-section. Now, I calorie count. As in, "What?! That donut has 570 calories?? Burning those calories will take me 30 minutes on the elliptical plus 20 high intensity burpees and I hate high intensity burpees! Wah!" Eating involves large amounts of mathematical calculations now. If Brigette eats one donut whilst doing 20 squats in 3 intervals, will she have burned up enough calories to cancel out the donut? If we add in seven short sprints, can she have a glass of wine?
8. Lack of Bladder control. This is an awkward one and it's been compounded by birthing babies. Apparently tiny toes trampling on bladder made bladder weak. Bad, bladder! (try saying that five times fast.)
9. I have an overwhelming sense of urgency these days. My time seems like it is speeding past and I am not ready for it to run out just yet. There are so many things I want to do; I want to see my babies grow up, I want see more of the world. In my mind, I have so many miles to go before I sleep. So many miles to go before I sleep.
10. Crop tops. Some things in life are better off left in the dark and that includes vampires and my mid-section. But knowing that I SHOULDN'T wear Crop Tops anymore, makes me rather WANT to. Maybe just one crop top with a catchy phrase - an educational catch-phrase, of course. Like
"i before e except after c and in eigh as in neighbour and weigh". That's it! I've decided that I will NOT wear crop tops for the next forty years, but at 80, I'm pulling them out! Who's with me?
Well, Age - that ravenous beast - has caught up with and aged me. Today, I am forty. But I'm not going down without a fight.
I may be wrinkly and stretch-marked, deaf, grey-headed and needing to pee at all times. I may be doing mental math whenever I see food and sizing up mountains to climb in my Grammar-is-Cool crop top but I am still here.
Still here at forty.
Monday, 22 May 2017
Thursday, 30 March 2017
Return to Innocence
Beneath the twisted limbs of a tree heavily laden with pears, an old man sits. His gnarled hand reaches out and he plucks a plump fruit, contemplates it and then slowly slumps to the ground. We are left to correctly assume that he has died and the camera pans back to take in his laid-out body under the pear tree. But then fallen pears float back up to the tree to reattach themselves and a white unicorn trots backwards across the scene. Thus begins the video that accompanies the song "Return to Innocence" released by the band, Enigma, back in 1994. The rest of the video is a story-line that moves backwards through the life of the man in the opening scene. He grows younger and younger; we observe him laughing with friends, kissing his bride on their wedding day and sitting tearfully while getting his hair cut when he is a child. At the end of the video, he is a squalling infant who has just been baptized.
A return to innocence.
Have you ever had a time when you wished for just that: a return to innocence? A return to a simpler, easier time? Perhaps a return to the ways and days of your youth? Perhaps a return to a time before troubles, trials, disease or destruction snuck into and muddled up your life?
I know that I have.
Let me explain. Last May, I finished up treatments for stage 3 breast cancer. They followed a typical treatment regiment with chemotherapy followed by a single mastectomy and then radiation. Then, my oncologist recommended that a hysterectomy happen sooner rather than later and, last September, I underwent another surgery. Since then I have healed up beautifully. I am able to work out and hike again. I am back and busy with the children's ministries at our church and our homeschool is up and running at top speed. I feel a whole lot more like me again....the woman, the wife, the mom, the daughter and the friend. But what I don't feel is a return to innocence.
I can't go back there no matter how hard I try or want to return. Being told I had cancer changed things and changed me.
Way back at the beginning of this journey with cancer, a friend gifted me a notebook with an inscription inside. She quoted Paul Billheimer and wrote "Don't waste your sorrows"; she quoted Tim Keller and wrote "Don't squander your suffering." When I first read these words, I wasn't sure what to think. I mean, I had just found out I had cancer and felt like life, as I knew it, was unravelling all around me. I didn't know what the future would hold. I didn't know if I would be around to be in that future. I felt fragile and intensely aware of the limits of life. For a whole week, I could not scold my children or get annoyed at my husband because I was worried that our time together was coming to an end. And I wanted to cherish every moment.
But then those words "Don't waste.....don't squander your suffering" kept niggling away at me because I DID want to get rid of these new-found sorrows. I wanted to take them, throw them in a box, duct-tape and chain up that box and mail it to Vanuatu. With no return address included.
I spent a lot of time crying.
I drank a lot of wine so that I could fall into dreamless sleeps that were cancer-free.
Paul and I spent a lot of time holding each other and worrying.
Finally, we took our tears, our sleeplessness, and our worry to God. We cried out from the depths of our troubles and laid them before our God.
"We are worried and we are scared, God," we prayed, "We don't know what is going to happen or how sick I am going to get. We don't know what this is going to mean for our family. We cannot do this on our own. Please please help us."
We cried out in our trouble and felt God lift us out of our distress.
The cancer was there.
The chemo, surgery and radiation was there.
But the distress was gone......or mostly gone. Alleviated, certainly!
And we could feel the load lifted, the trouble transferred, the struggles sustained.
It wasn't something that happened in the blink of an eye but, rather, something that happened as we spent more time with God.
Reading about Him: We were freaked out about what stage cancer I had but worrying only made us fidgety and irritable. We felt hopeless and helpless, so we opened up our Bibles and read, "It is the LORD who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed" (Deut. 31: 8). Okay....that's cool, right? We certainly felt less alone in all this!
Reflecting on God's promises: There's a lot of waiting around in sickness. Waiting for blood-work, waiting for appointments, waiting for doctors to clarify tests.....waiting waiting waiting. Time and space for worry to creep in. Time and space for reflection.... "fear not, for I am with you;" we read in Isaiah, "be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand" (Isaiah 41: 10). We could use some strength and help, we ruminated.
Praying to Him: Being constant in prayer became a thing. I was praying every day over everything. I even found myself beginning my prayers with a "Hey, God...it's me...AGAIN...." ; prayer began to feel like such a natural conversation with God. I even found myself sneaking off to my room through-out the day to converse with God alone. Prayer helped me feel sorted me out.
I wonder if you've had moments like this:
If troubles have dropped you to your knees and all that's left is crying out; ragged ripped raw crying out. Gut-wrenching grief crying out.
Maybe the point is that we have to come to the end of ourselves so that we finally turn and see God.
There. Always right there. Waiting.
Waiting for our cries so that He can lift up, lift out, love, and lead.
Maybe the whole point is not a return to innocence and the way things used to be but, rather, a leaning into the sufferings - as painful as they have been - and learning.
A return to innocence.
Have you ever had a time when you wished for just that: a return to innocence? A return to a simpler, easier time? Perhaps a return to the ways and days of your youth? Perhaps a return to a time before troubles, trials, disease or destruction snuck into and muddled up your life?
I know that I have.
Let me explain. Last May, I finished up treatments for stage 3 breast cancer. They followed a typical treatment regiment with chemotherapy followed by a single mastectomy and then radiation. Then, my oncologist recommended that a hysterectomy happen sooner rather than later and, last September, I underwent another surgery. Since then I have healed up beautifully. I am able to work out and hike again. I am back and busy with the children's ministries at our church and our homeschool is up and running at top speed. I feel a whole lot more like me again....the woman, the wife, the mom, the daughter and the friend. But what I don't feel is a return to innocence.
I can't go back there no matter how hard I try or want to return. Being told I had cancer changed things and changed me.
Way back at the beginning of this journey with cancer, a friend gifted me a notebook with an inscription inside. She quoted Paul Billheimer and wrote "Don't waste your sorrows"; she quoted Tim Keller and wrote "Don't squander your suffering." When I first read these words, I wasn't sure what to think. I mean, I had just found out I had cancer and felt like life, as I knew it, was unravelling all around me. I didn't know what the future would hold. I didn't know if I would be around to be in that future. I felt fragile and intensely aware of the limits of life. For a whole week, I could not scold my children or get annoyed at my husband because I was worried that our time together was coming to an end. And I wanted to cherish every moment.
But then those words "Don't waste.....don't squander your suffering" kept niggling away at me because I DID want to get rid of these new-found sorrows. I wanted to take them, throw them in a box, duct-tape and chain up that box and mail it to Vanuatu. With no return address included.
I spent a lot of time crying.
I drank a lot of wine so that I could fall into dreamless sleeps that were cancer-free.
Paul and I spent a lot of time holding each other and worrying.
Finally, we took our tears, our sleeplessness, and our worry to God. We cried out from the depths of our troubles and laid them before our God.
"We are worried and we are scared, God," we prayed, "We don't know what is going to happen or how sick I am going to get. We don't know what this is going to mean for our family. We cannot do this on our own. Please please help us."
We cried out in our trouble and felt God lift us out of our distress.
The cancer was there.
The chemo, surgery and radiation was there.
But the distress was gone......or mostly gone. Alleviated, certainly!
And we could feel the load lifted, the trouble transferred, the struggles sustained.
It wasn't something that happened in the blink of an eye but, rather, something that happened as we spent more time with God.
Reading about Him: We were freaked out about what stage cancer I had but worrying only made us fidgety and irritable. We felt hopeless and helpless, so we opened up our Bibles and read, "It is the LORD who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed" (Deut. 31: 8). Okay....that's cool, right? We certainly felt less alone in all this!
Reflecting on God's promises: There's a lot of waiting around in sickness. Waiting for blood-work, waiting for appointments, waiting for doctors to clarify tests.....waiting waiting waiting. Time and space for worry to creep in. Time and space for reflection.... "fear not, for I am with you;" we read in Isaiah, "be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand" (Isaiah 41: 10). We could use some strength and help, we ruminated.
Praying to Him: Being constant in prayer became a thing. I was praying every day over everything. I even found myself beginning my prayers with a "Hey, God...it's me...AGAIN...." ; prayer began to feel like such a natural conversation with God. I even found myself sneaking off to my room through-out the day to converse with God alone. Prayer helped me feel sorted me out.
I wonder if you've had moments like this:
If troubles have dropped you to your knees and all that's left is crying out; ragged ripped raw crying out. Gut-wrenching grief crying out.
Maybe the point is that we have to come to the end of ourselves so that we finally turn and see God.
There. Always right there. Waiting.
Waiting for our cries so that He can lift up, lift out, love, and lead.
Maybe the whole point is not a return to innocence and the way things used to be but, rather, a leaning into the sufferings - as painful as they have been - and learning.
Thursday, 2 March 2017
Holey Jeans, Batman!
I just got home from jeans shopping.
My two oldest boys convinced me to go.
Their convincing arguments included, "All my jeans have holes and are falling apart" and "Your jeans are getting old and full of holes too" and "You said we would go and that was weeks ago."
I considered various retaliations like "Jeans with holes are cool now" and "A few holes won't kill ya" and "Why don't we go another day?"
One son arched an eyebrow.
I attempted humour, "Holey jeans, Batman!"
No go.
Distraction: "Hey, is that a new hockey card I see before me?"
Nope.
If even hockey cards were not distracting these boys, it was time.
Time to give in.
To relent.
To see the holes that were standing before me and recognize them for what they were.
Holes.
Space where clothing was meant to be.
It was time to hit the store.
Not literally, of course; I don't condone that sort of violence.
Figurative hitting. More commonly referred to as shopping.
We pulled into the Talize parking lot. I love this place, I tell ya. It's a one-stop-shopping place just jam-packed with jazz-a-ma-razz and all at a discount price! Can you say "SWEET!?"
Think "Value Village".
Then stop thinking about Value Village and think about Talize instead.
Good job!
We enter the store. We grab shopping carts. We scope out the store and strategize our shopping experience. We part ways and begin.
Within 7.2 seconds, Liam has three pairs of jeans, two hockey t-shirts and a Garfield comic book loaded up in his cart. Donovan has added two pairs of jeans, one weird-looking pair of sweatpants and a cap.
I have lifted my foot to take a first step.
This is already an excruciating excursion and I am not sure it has even begun!
After a painful painstaking hour, I have loaded fifteen pairs of jeans into my cart. I am feeling good about this shopping thing and I head to the change-room.
Liam and Donovan have already tried on everything and are restlessly pacing the store.
I glance at them nervously and pray that they don't begin racing the carts, ramming each other with said carts or wrestling in the aisles. These are common-place shopping experiences in my family.
I'm sure your shopping trips are much more placid, organized, and calm.
Good for you!
I am happy for you.
Also a tinge jealous and feeling that maybe you could come over and coach me on all things shopping-efficiently-with-children.
Back to the change room. I peel off the seventeen layers of clothing intended to ward off the winter weather that crept back in after several days of sly spring. Then I begin the arduous task of trying on clothes.
Do you feel my pain here, people?
Okay, let me rephrase that.
Do you feel my pain here, ladies?
You know what I'm talking about.
Change-room challenges.
Wardrobe wars.
The moment where one attempts to stuff one's body - repositioned from birthing human beings, rearranged with age and the gravitational pull that increases exponentially with age, reorganized with surgeries - into the constricting confines of clothing.
Here goes:
First pair of jeans: skin-tight through thighs and calves. Oddly loose around waist. Too short.
Second pair of jeans: Cannot pull up past knees.
Third pair of jeans: Low-riders. Oh goody. Nothing like clothing that accentuates the bubbly parts that I was trying to tuck in.
Fourth pair of jeans: Too big and slouchy.
Fifth pair: Flare jeans. A little too bell-bottomy for my liking.
Sixth pair: I.can.just.button.these.jeans. but.can.not.breathe.
Sigh. I peel off the jeans that fit like a layer of blue skin.
I'm hot and sweaty.
I'm annoyed.
Flushed and flustered.
Glaring at myself in the mirror and making all sorts of false promises to my reflection.
Taking down the seventh pair of jeans and telling myself to lower my standards.
"If these fit," I growl to myself, "you're getting them."
They don't fit.
I crumple them and throw them into a dusty corner of the change room. Take that you, jeans, you!
I grit my teeth. I feel an eye tic coming on.
I reach for another pair.
Eighth pair: Too long.
Ninth pair: Too acid-washed.
Tenth pair: Too jegging.
This goes on for pairs eleven through fifteen. Nope. Nope and nope.
I conclude that my body is obviously too unique for all these common-place pants.
I slide back into my comfortable, holey jeans and walk right on outta that change-room.
I buy boots instead.
My two oldest boys convinced me to go.
Their convincing arguments included, "All my jeans have holes and are falling apart" and "Your jeans are getting old and full of holes too" and "You said we would go and that was weeks ago."
I considered various retaliations like "Jeans with holes are cool now" and "A few holes won't kill ya" and "Why don't we go another day?"
One son arched an eyebrow.
I attempted humour, "Holey jeans, Batman!"
No go.
Distraction: "Hey, is that a new hockey card I see before me?"
Nope.
If even hockey cards were not distracting these boys, it was time.
Time to give in.
To relent.
To see the holes that were standing before me and recognize them for what they were.
Holes.
Space where clothing was meant to be.
It was time to hit the store.
Not literally, of course; I don't condone that sort of violence.
Figurative hitting. More commonly referred to as shopping.
We pulled into the Talize parking lot. I love this place, I tell ya. It's a one-stop-shopping place just jam-packed with jazz-a-ma-razz and all at a discount price! Can you say "SWEET!?"
Think "Value Village".
Then stop thinking about Value Village and think about Talize instead.
Good job!
We enter the store. We grab shopping carts. We scope out the store and strategize our shopping experience. We part ways and begin.
Within 7.2 seconds, Liam has three pairs of jeans, two hockey t-shirts and a Garfield comic book loaded up in his cart. Donovan has added two pairs of jeans, one weird-looking pair of sweatpants and a cap.
I have lifted my foot to take a first step.
This is already an excruciating excursion and I am not sure it has even begun!
After a painful painstaking hour, I have loaded fifteen pairs of jeans into my cart. I am feeling good about this shopping thing and I head to the change-room.
Liam and Donovan have already tried on everything and are restlessly pacing the store.
I glance at them nervously and pray that they don't begin racing the carts, ramming each other with said carts or wrestling in the aisles. These are common-place shopping experiences in my family.
I'm sure your shopping trips are much more placid, organized, and calm.
Good for you!
I am happy for you.
Also a tinge jealous and feeling that maybe you could come over and coach me on all things shopping-efficiently-with-children.
Back to the change room. I peel off the seventeen layers of clothing intended to ward off the winter weather that crept back in after several days of sly spring. Then I begin the arduous task of trying on clothes.
Do you feel my pain here, people?
Okay, let me rephrase that.
Do you feel my pain here, ladies?
You know what I'm talking about.
Change-room challenges.
Wardrobe wars.
The moment where one attempts to stuff one's body - repositioned from birthing human beings, rearranged with age and the gravitational pull that increases exponentially with age, reorganized with surgeries - into the constricting confines of clothing.
Here goes:
First pair of jeans: skin-tight through thighs and calves. Oddly loose around waist. Too short.
Second pair of jeans: Cannot pull up past knees.
Third pair of jeans: Low-riders. Oh goody. Nothing like clothing that accentuates the bubbly parts that I was trying to tuck in.
Fourth pair of jeans: Too big and slouchy.
Fifth pair: Flare jeans. A little too bell-bottomy for my liking.
Sixth pair: I.can.just.button.these.jeans. but.can.not.breathe.
Sigh. I peel off the jeans that fit like a layer of blue skin.
I'm hot and sweaty.
I'm annoyed.
Flushed and flustered.
Glaring at myself in the mirror and making all sorts of false promises to my reflection.
Taking down the seventh pair of jeans and telling myself to lower my standards.
"If these fit," I growl to myself, "you're getting them."
They don't fit.
I crumple them and throw them into a dusty corner of the change room. Take that you, jeans, you!
I grit my teeth. I feel an eye tic coming on.
I reach for another pair.
Eighth pair: Too long.
Ninth pair: Too acid-washed.
Tenth pair: Too jegging.
This goes on for pairs eleven through fifteen. Nope. Nope and nope.
I conclude that my body is obviously too unique for all these common-place pants.
I slide back into my comfortable, holey jeans and walk right on outta that change-room.
I buy boots instead.
Monday, 13 February 2017
When Fudge Met Oreo
Theirs was a love that was doomed from the start.
A mistaken identity, a heart raw with loss, naivete.........these were the fragmented factors that laid the fragile foundation of their relationship. But, once their infatuation was kindled, it burned wildly and furiously out of control. Harmonious blends of squeaks, wheeks, rumbles and staccatoed chutting made up the melody of their life's love song.
For nearly thirty days, their love was hidden from the eyes of this world - eyes that would have extinguished the flames of desire once they realized them for what they were. For nearly thirty days, they could exchange brown-eyed glances filled with longing and contented purring. Cherished days immortalized in memory.
It was in that first moment that Fudge laid eyes on Oreo, that his world shifted. His life had been so bleak, bereft and barren after losing a dear companion; Maple Mutt-Skin the Second had been a friend who was closer than a brother and Fudge's heart ached with his absence. So, when Fudge met Oreo, his tender heart swelled with joy. Suddenly life felt full once again; full of hope and sparkle, effervescence, ecstasy and elation.
Oreo was the kind of creature one was not likely to forget. Her midnight-black fur was artfully tousled about her face, accentuating the fathomless pools that were her eyes. A stripe of white coloured her nose and one rogue, chestnut-brown patch encircled an eye; the rest of her body was a snowy white mass of curls and sweet swirling rosettes. Large, floppy ears framed her face and four delicate paws allowed her to move about with a dainty grace. When she first noticed Fudge staring unabashedly at her, she nervously chutted several times and then let out a tentative squeak. Fudge licked his dry lips, twitched his whiskers once or twice and then let out a low and glorious rumble. Oreo seemed pleased by this reaction and she purred softly, impressed by this marvellous older male before her. Fudge had broad, stocky shoulders and strong masculine paws. His fur was a rich tawny colour that was beautifully broken up with black patches. His eyes were a dark, moody brown and bore within their depths the wisdom of his older years.
To say that is was love at first sight or squeak would have been to cheapen their feelings, Fudge thought. After their initial introduction, Fudge nudged Oreo towards the pellet bowl and shared his meal with her. He showed her around their habitat and indicated his favourite sleeping spot with another rumble and a purr. With Oreo around, Fudge felt that life was infused with blissful possibility. The days began to blend together in an intoxicating blur of love. Feeding time became date nights together. Pellets, Timothy hay and water had never tasted this good. Resting became cuddle time and they would snuffle and snuggle together in a corner of the habitat, their colourful fur intertwined as their two heartbeats thrummed as one.
On one particular day, Fudge professed his feelings; using words that he had only penned that morning. Poetry came naturally to Fudge and he was well versed in the written arts of the greats such as William Muttsphere and Mutter Seuss. In a tone that trembled timidly, he gingerly began:
"Dearest Oreo," he squeaked,
"Your fur is black, brownish and white
Life without you would be a horrific plight.
Your squeaking and chutting fill my days with delight.
I love you with all my might."
Oreo giggled, wheeked and purred with delight. Those were the glorious days of blazing, brash and bold love. These were also the days when it became blatantly obvious that Oreo was not who she was supposed to be. Hers was a case of mistaken identity for, while Oreo was intended to be a replacement companion for Fudge, she was intended to be a male.
Oreo's exotic femininity was conspicuous to all but those who introduced her to Fudge. Her true identity became obvious, however, as her body changed. Oreo was now pregnant. No longer could Fudge and Oreo hide their love from the world. Time passed and her body swelled, now great with pups. Fudge and Oreo still feasted together, still nestled together, still purred and rumbled out their love story together. They knew that their time together was drawing to a close and this was a bittersweet realization.
On a sun-dappled Sunday afternoon, Oreo's body convulsed. The time was here. Fudge fled to a corner of their habitat and watched in horror as the great love of his life doubled over in pain. But his devastation gave way to wonder as she hunched over and pulled out one-two-three-four wet and mewling pups. One black and white, two white and cream-coloured and one whose fur colours blended his tawny-orange with her black and white. Four gorgeous, forever-reminders of a love that would never die.
Fudge felt himself being lifted up, up, up and away into another habitat and he waved his paws in a futile attempt to stay near Oreo and their pups. His heart constricted with pain, loneliness and sorrow at this separation. He crouched in a corner and noticed that if he remained very quiet, he could still hear the tiny squeaks and chuts of his newborn babies and the muffled purring of his beloved Oreo.
Theirs was a love that was doomed from the start. They would not be able to stay together. They would not last. Their love could not overcome the obstacles that they would face by being together. But for a short time, their love blazed brightly.
And that was enough, Fudge thought.
That fierce and short-lived love was enough to last him a lifetime.
A mistaken identity, a heart raw with loss, naivete.........these were the fragmented factors that laid the fragile foundation of their relationship. But, once their infatuation was kindled, it burned wildly and furiously out of control. Harmonious blends of squeaks, wheeks, rumbles and staccatoed chutting made up the melody of their life's love song.
For nearly thirty days, their love was hidden from the eyes of this world - eyes that would have extinguished the flames of desire once they realized them for what they were. For nearly thirty days, they could exchange brown-eyed glances filled with longing and contented purring. Cherished days immortalized in memory.
It was in that first moment that Fudge laid eyes on Oreo, that his world shifted. His life had been so bleak, bereft and barren after losing a dear companion; Maple Mutt-Skin the Second had been a friend who was closer than a brother and Fudge's heart ached with his absence. So, when Fudge met Oreo, his tender heart swelled with joy. Suddenly life felt full once again; full of hope and sparkle, effervescence, ecstasy and elation.
Oreo was the kind of creature one was not likely to forget. Her midnight-black fur was artfully tousled about her face, accentuating the fathomless pools that were her eyes. A stripe of white coloured her nose and one rogue, chestnut-brown patch encircled an eye; the rest of her body was a snowy white mass of curls and sweet swirling rosettes. Large, floppy ears framed her face and four delicate paws allowed her to move about with a dainty grace. When she first noticed Fudge staring unabashedly at her, she nervously chutted several times and then let out a tentative squeak. Fudge licked his dry lips, twitched his whiskers once or twice and then let out a low and glorious rumble. Oreo seemed pleased by this reaction and she purred softly, impressed by this marvellous older male before her. Fudge had broad, stocky shoulders and strong masculine paws. His fur was a rich tawny colour that was beautifully broken up with black patches. His eyes were a dark, moody brown and bore within their depths the wisdom of his older years.
To say that is was love at first sight or squeak would have been to cheapen their feelings, Fudge thought. After their initial introduction, Fudge nudged Oreo towards the pellet bowl and shared his meal with her. He showed her around their habitat and indicated his favourite sleeping spot with another rumble and a purr. With Oreo around, Fudge felt that life was infused with blissful possibility. The days began to blend together in an intoxicating blur of love. Feeding time became date nights together. Pellets, Timothy hay and water had never tasted this good. Resting became cuddle time and they would snuffle and snuggle together in a corner of the habitat, their colourful fur intertwined as their two heartbeats thrummed as one.
On one particular day, Fudge professed his feelings; using words that he had only penned that morning. Poetry came naturally to Fudge and he was well versed in the written arts of the greats such as William Muttsphere and Mutter Seuss. In a tone that trembled timidly, he gingerly began:
"Dearest Oreo," he squeaked,
"Your fur is black, brownish and white
Life without you would be a horrific plight.
Your squeaking and chutting fill my days with delight.
I love you with all my might."
Oreo giggled, wheeked and purred with delight. Those were the glorious days of blazing, brash and bold love. These were also the days when it became blatantly obvious that Oreo was not who she was supposed to be. Hers was a case of mistaken identity for, while Oreo was intended to be a replacement companion for Fudge, she was intended to be a male.
Oreo's exotic femininity was conspicuous to all but those who introduced her to Fudge. Her true identity became obvious, however, as her body changed. Oreo was now pregnant. No longer could Fudge and Oreo hide their love from the world. Time passed and her body swelled, now great with pups. Fudge and Oreo still feasted together, still nestled together, still purred and rumbled out their love story together. They knew that their time together was drawing to a close and this was a bittersweet realization.
On a sun-dappled Sunday afternoon, Oreo's body convulsed. The time was here. Fudge fled to a corner of their habitat and watched in horror as the great love of his life doubled over in pain. But his devastation gave way to wonder as she hunched over and pulled out one-two-three-four wet and mewling pups. One black and white, two white and cream-coloured and one whose fur colours blended his tawny-orange with her black and white. Four gorgeous, forever-reminders of a love that would never die.
Fudge felt himself being lifted up, up, up and away into another habitat and he waved his paws in a futile attempt to stay near Oreo and their pups. His heart constricted with pain, loneliness and sorrow at this separation. He crouched in a corner and noticed that if he remained very quiet, he could still hear the tiny squeaks and chuts of his newborn babies and the muffled purring of his beloved Oreo.
Theirs was a love that was doomed from the start. They would not be able to stay together. They would not last. Their love could not overcome the obstacles that they would face by being together. But for a short time, their love blazed brightly.
And that was enough, Fudge thought.
That fierce and short-lived love was enough to last him a lifetime.
Fudge and Oreo
Shivers, Chestnut, Peanut and Snickers.
Saturday, 7 January 2017
An Abundant Life
On the shortest day and the longest night of the year -
when it seemed that darkness would prevail - a light was snuffed out.
Her name was Julia Bayer.
I knew her through her suffering.
I met her when I watched her 100 Huntley Street interview.
She had cancer too and I felt our connection.
I had just wanted to get ready for my own interview that was coming up soon; I had just wanted to see what an interview looked like; so I clicked on her story.
The Spirit was guiding my hand.
I clicked, I watched, I connected because much of Julia's story was similar to mine.
Hearing the word "cancer" and realizing that this was where God was taking us next.
Going through surgeries, chemotherapy, radiations and appointment after appointment.
Crying out to God and seeking His purpose in all the pain, prodding, poking, and pricking.
Praying constantly.
Shedding tears with loved ones and clinging to one another because we were all feeling a little more uncertain about the length of our days here on this earth.
And yet...
God has written up all the days of our life before even one of them came to be; and all our stories are so different.
Because, tonight, here I type. My heart is heavy, but here I type. Still a part of this world while Julia has passed on to the next.
I never actually got to meet Julia. A friend of mine - another homeschooling mom battling cancer - met Julia at The Nutcracker several weeks ago; she met her and embraced her while I missed out on that privilege. But I did watch Julia's interview, I read her blogs and, tonight, I watched her memorial service. It was a beautiful testimony of a beautiful woman who lived a beautiful life. A bold and abundant life. A life that constantly pointed to her everlasting HOPE: Jesus Christ.
While cancer whittled away at her health and cut short her days, Julia continued to proclaim a steadfast, steady and sure confidence in God's love. When the darkness that is disease and death, trouble and tribulation, sin and suffering crowded in close, Julia pointed to the LIGHT that is JESUS and stated that she had found her unspeakable joy.
Her joy.
Her place and purpose.
Her unshakeable confidence.
Her light.
In Jesus.
Rest in peace, Julia. You have lived well.
May our Heavenly Father abide with, strengthen and uphold your beloved Andy and family.
Thank-you for constantly pointing us to the LIGHT of this world; to Jesus.
love Brigette
Check out Julia's blog: Anchor of My Soul (anchorofmysoulblog.blogspot.ca)
when it seemed that darkness would prevail - a light was snuffed out.
Her name was Julia Bayer.
I knew her through her suffering.
I met her when I watched her 100 Huntley Street interview.
She had cancer too and I felt our connection.
I had just wanted to get ready for my own interview that was coming up soon; I had just wanted to see what an interview looked like; so I clicked on her story.
The Spirit was guiding my hand.
I clicked, I watched, I connected because much of Julia's story was similar to mine.
Hearing the word "cancer" and realizing that this was where God was taking us next.
Going through surgeries, chemotherapy, radiations and appointment after appointment.
Crying out to God and seeking His purpose in all the pain, prodding, poking, and pricking.
Praying constantly.
Shedding tears with loved ones and clinging to one another because we were all feeling a little more uncertain about the length of our days here on this earth.
And yet...
God has written up all the days of our life before even one of them came to be; and all our stories are so different.
Because, tonight, here I type. My heart is heavy, but here I type. Still a part of this world while Julia has passed on to the next.
I never actually got to meet Julia. A friend of mine - another homeschooling mom battling cancer - met Julia at The Nutcracker several weeks ago; she met her and embraced her while I missed out on that privilege. But I did watch Julia's interview, I read her blogs and, tonight, I watched her memorial service. It was a beautiful testimony of a beautiful woman who lived a beautiful life. A bold and abundant life. A life that constantly pointed to her everlasting HOPE: Jesus Christ.
While cancer whittled away at her health and cut short her days, Julia continued to proclaim a steadfast, steady and sure confidence in God's love. When the darkness that is disease and death, trouble and tribulation, sin and suffering crowded in close, Julia pointed to the LIGHT that is JESUS and stated that she had found her unspeakable joy.
Her joy.
Her place and purpose.
Her unshakeable confidence.
Her light.
In Jesus.
Rest in peace, Julia. You have lived well.
May our Heavenly Father abide with, strengthen and uphold your beloved Andy and family.
Thank-you for constantly pointing us to the LIGHT of this world; to Jesus.
love Brigette
Check out Julia's blog: Anchor of My Soul (anchorofmysoulblog.blogspot.ca)
"The LIGHT shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it" (John 1: 4).
"Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer." Romans 12: 12
Thursday, 5 January 2017
The Christmas Ick of 2016
We'd been preparing for seconds, minutes, hours, days and weeks! Twinkling lights were hung with care. The way-too-gigantor tree that I had bought for a great price off of Kijiji several years ago was fluffed up. Fake tree-needles littered the floor. They were a nice addition to the birdie feathers beneath our budgie cage, the cedar chips tossed about artfully by our guinea pig friends and the doggie and kitty hair that gently blanketed the carpet....like a gentle snowfall of pet debris.
We're all about floor decor around here.
Who needs clean floors?
They are so last year, people!
Homemade decorations heavily lined with gloss and glitter fought for tree space with the shiny, store-bought hangings on our tree. There is never any rhyme or reason to what hangs on our tree. Once I found a budgie cheeping cheerfully on a branch beside seven dinky cars. Gwen and Lochlan asked to hang some candy canes, so I had given them four each and they were hung with care. All in a row. A tree bough dipped dangerously low to the floor under the heavy weight of eight sugary canes. I'm sure we could put more care into ensuring the tree decorations were hung with some sort of feng shui thoughts in mind but I like this haphazard look. It's a whole lot like my family. And my life.
Caringly cluttered.
Boisterously busy.
Eclectically engaging.
Besides the heavily laden Christmas tree and the sparkly lights, random festive things were strewn about. Wreath on door. Crayon-coloured nativity scenes taped to windows. Statuette snowmen lined up next to cherub-cheeked glass angels. Various Christmas literature stacked on the kitchen counter to ensure they would be read: "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" where little Gladys Herdman shouts out from the pages, forever commemorated as the skinny girl with angel wings yelling "Hey, unto YOU a child is born".
An Advent calendar count-down complete with foil-wrapped chocolates and daily activities were laid out every night on the kitchen table. Upstairs, tape-slathered gifts were piling up.
Pentatonix had been belting out their harmonizing Christmas tunes from our computer speakers for many days. The setting was set. The days were being counted down. I had even braved Costco for edible supplies and made it out of there relatively unscathed. There was only one incident that got a little crazy and that was when my shopping cart was pulled up short by a woman LOUDLY expressing her RAGE at the fact that two elderly shoppers were greeting each other with a hug.
"The NERVE!" she seethed and hissed and real, live smoke smoldered from her ears, "blocking up the aisles like that!" Because, you know, there's genocide and then there's blocking-the-freaking-aisles-in-Costco. They're on the same plane for some people, I tell ya!
The elderly couple drew apart when they heard the scornful remarks slicing their way. I tried not to make eye contact with the Angry Woman and frantically began humming "Joy to the World" under my breath. Thank goodness for all involved that the aisles were finally unclogged and everyone could continue consuming. Whew! We almost died!
But back to my house: we were all ready for Christmas to come.
And then.....I was out one night and Paul texted me. He wasn't feeling well.
I wasn't sure how to interpret that. Was Paul talking the Man-Cold? Because then I should be speed dialing the Emergency and maybe contacting all our family. Or was he talking about something a little more sinister?
Sinister, it was!
The next day, I woke up with a scratchy throat and a headache. I cancelled the coffee date I had made with a friend and then laid down on the couch.
"Imma just gonna lay here for a minute," I literally slurred and then fell asleep. It felt a little more like passing out. I wasn't even sprawled out in a comfortable position but it was like my body could not stay awake. On the other end of the couch was Paul. The sinister sickness had taken him out as well. When I awoke next, the pounding in my head had amped up, like, a lot!
"Moan moan," I moaned in pain and then noticed through pain-slitted eyes that there were bodies lying everywhere. Lochlan was curled in a ball in front of the patio doors. Paul was nestled under a hand-knit blanket on the couch. Gwen was dozing at my feet and Donovan had one arm slung around the dog's neck while he slumbered on the soft pet-bed beside him. Only Liam seemed okay.
"Oh, hey, mom," he whispered when he noticed I was awake, "I'm kinda bored....." he trailed off and cast a hopeful gaze towards the giant tv screen on our wall.
"You can watch tv...." I murmured waving a hand weakly at him before succumbing to sleep once again.
The next time I awoke, my back ached so I crawled off the couch and slunk to the floor. And passed out again with a dull roar of pain radiating about my head. I felt bodies nestle up next to me and the next time I woke up, Gwen and Donovan were curled up against me, Paul was still on the couch, Lochlan was next to him and Liam was watching cartoon creatures cracking jokes on tv.
"Uuuuuugggg," I moaned clutching my head.
This pattern continued for the rest of the day.
At least we are together, I thought.
At least no one is barfing, I reflected.
At least we have a whole day to get better before the Christmas festivities begin, I mused.
That evening we all felt a little better and our family of six split a banana for dinner.
Sweet deal! I silently celebrated, we could totally save big bucks if we continue eating like this!
But when the sun came up the next day, we were not much improved. It was December 24 and that night we were to celebrate with family.
Gwen was feeling a bit better and she was excited about going out and hanging with her cousins.
Liam was still healthy as a horse and ready to go.
The rest of us gathered weakly together on the couch and......fell asleep.
Hours passed in a feverish haze.
We dozed and slumbered and drowsed.
We nibbled on another banana.
I began to feel nauseous and crawled over to the bathroom. I leaned my head on the toilet seat and bemoaned the fact that I share this house with four males.
"Oooooooh....gross...someone get me lysol wipes...." I moaned and dry-heaved several times for dramatic effect. I fell asleep for several hours leaning up against that porcelain seat.
It was soon time to leave but most of us were too sick to even consider vacating the couch cushions.
We made some phone calls to family and we decided to reschedule our actual Christmas events.
Paul and I sank back relieved. He handed me some advil. I passed around children's tylenol. We nibbled another banana.
"Wait!" Gwen yelled out and we all clutched our throbbing heads in pain, "You mean, we aren't going tonight....?" The realization had just dawned on her.
"No, honey," I responded feebly, "we're all too sick..."
Gwen's eyes widened and filled with tears. "NO!" she howled and stomped to her room to mourn alone.
"Oh, man...we just told her Christmas is cancelled," I whispered to Paul. Both of us fell back, too weak to comfort our baby girl.
This kinda sucks, I thought.
I've never been sick on Christmas before, I ruminated, not even last year when I was just finishing chemotherapy. Even then, I had been healthy enough to celebrate with loved ones.
But this year, it looked like we were all in for a special sort of ick.
And then my sister called.
Like the sister-hero she is.
She asked how she could help.
She suggested picking up the healthy kids and taking them to festivities.
She said she could drive them. She said they could sleep over at her house. She said it was no problem. I'm certain her cape was fluttering in a breeze while she made all these promises to me over the phone.
She completely and totally saved the day.
Gwen and Liam packed up their clothes and made a swift retreat from this plague-plastered-house-of-grossness.
Paul and I were relieved because when you are battling fever, raging headache and sleepy stupor, you are in no shape or form to be entertaining the masses. Us four remaining sickies hunkered down, passed around some medicine and plumped our pillows.
"Merry Christmas," someone muttered, "pass the bananas..."
We're all about floor decor around here.
Who needs clean floors?
They are so last year, people!
Homemade decorations heavily lined with gloss and glitter fought for tree space with the shiny, store-bought hangings on our tree. There is never any rhyme or reason to what hangs on our tree. Once I found a budgie cheeping cheerfully on a branch beside seven dinky cars. Gwen and Lochlan asked to hang some candy canes, so I had given them four each and they were hung with care. All in a row. A tree bough dipped dangerously low to the floor under the heavy weight of eight sugary canes. I'm sure we could put more care into ensuring the tree decorations were hung with some sort of feng shui thoughts in mind but I like this haphazard look. It's a whole lot like my family. And my life.
Caringly cluttered.
Boisterously busy.
Eclectically engaging.
Besides the heavily laden Christmas tree and the sparkly lights, random festive things were strewn about. Wreath on door. Crayon-coloured nativity scenes taped to windows. Statuette snowmen lined up next to cherub-cheeked glass angels. Various Christmas literature stacked on the kitchen counter to ensure they would be read: "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" where little Gladys Herdman shouts out from the pages, forever commemorated as the skinny girl with angel wings yelling "Hey, unto YOU a child is born".
An Advent calendar count-down complete with foil-wrapped chocolates and daily activities were laid out every night on the kitchen table. Upstairs, tape-slathered gifts were piling up.
Pentatonix had been belting out their harmonizing Christmas tunes from our computer speakers for many days. The setting was set. The days were being counted down. I had even braved Costco for edible supplies and made it out of there relatively unscathed. There was only one incident that got a little crazy and that was when my shopping cart was pulled up short by a woman LOUDLY expressing her RAGE at the fact that two elderly shoppers were greeting each other with a hug.
"The NERVE!" she seethed and hissed and real, live smoke smoldered from her ears, "blocking up the aisles like that!" Because, you know, there's genocide and then there's blocking-the-freaking-aisles-in-Costco. They're on the same plane for some people, I tell ya!
The elderly couple drew apart when they heard the scornful remarks slicing their way. I tried not to make eye contact with the Angry Woman and frantically began humming "Joy to the World" under my breath. Thank goodness for all involved that the aisles were finally unclogged and everyone could continue consuming. Whew! We almost died!
But back to my house: we were all ready for Christmas to come.
And then.....I was out one night and Paul texted me. He wasn't feeling well.
I wasn't sure how to interpret that. Was Paul talking the Man-Cold? Because then I should be speed dialing the Emergency and maybe contacting all our family. Or was he talking about something a little more sinister?
Sinister, it was!
The next day, I woke up with a scratchy throat and a headache. I cancelled the coffee date I had made with a friend and then laid down on the couch.
"Imma just gonna lay here for a minute," I literally slurred and then fell asleep. It felt a little more like passing out. I wasn't even sprawled out in a comfortable position but it was like my body could not stay awake. On the other end of the couch was Paul. The sinister sickness had taken him out as well. When I awoke next, the pounding in my head had amped up, like, a lot!
"Moan moan," I moaned in pain and then noticed through pain-slitted eyes that there were bodies lying everywhere. Lochlan was curled in a ball in front of the patio doors. Paul was nestled under a hand-knit blanket on the couch. Gwen was dozing at my feet and Donovan had one arm slung around the dog's neck while he slumbered on the soft pet-bed beside him. Only Liam seemed okay.
"Oh, hey, mom," he whispered when he noticed I was awake, "I'm kinda bored....." he trailed off and cast a hopeful gaze towards the giant tv screen on our wall.
"You can watch tv...." I murmured waving a hand weakly at him before succumbing to sleep once again.
The next time I awoke, my back ached so I crawled off the couch and slunk to the floor. And passed out again with a dull roar of pain radiating about my head. I felt bodies nestle up next to me and the next time I woke up, Gwen and Donovan were curled up against me, Paul was still on the couch, Lochlan was next to him and Liam was watching cartoon creatures cracking jokes on tv.
"Uuuuuugggg," I moaned clutching my head.
This pattern continued for the rest of the day.
At least we are together, I thought.
At least no one is barfing, I reflected.
At least we have a whole day to get better before the Christmas festivities begin, I mused.
That evening we all felt a little better and our family of six split a banana for dinner.
Sweet deal! I silently celebrated, we could totally save big bucks if we continue eating like this!
But when the sun came up the next day, we were not much improved. It was December 24 and that night we were to celebrate with family.
Gwen was feeling a bit better and she was excited about going out and hanging with her cousins.
Liam was still healthy as a horse and ready to go.
The rest of us gathered weakly together on the couch and......fell asleep.
Hours passed in a feverish haze.
We dozed and slumbered and drowsed.
We nibbled on another banana.
I began to feel nauseous and crawled over to the bathroom. I leaned my head on the toilet seat and bemoaned the fact that I share this house with four males.
"Oooooooh....gross...someone get me lysol wipes...." I moaned and dry-heaved several times for dramatic effect. I fell asleep for several hours leaning up against that porcelain seat.
It was soon time to leave but most of us were too sick to even consider vacating the couch cushions.
We made some phone calls to family and we decided to reschedule our actual Christmas events.
Paul and I sank back relieved. He handed me some advil. I passed around children's tylenol. We nibbled another banana.
"Wait!" Gwen yelled out and we all clutched our throbbing heads in pain, "You mean, we aren't going tonight....?" The realization had just dawned on her.
"No, honey," I responded feebly, "we're all too sick..."
Gwen's eyes widened and filled with tears. "NO!" she howled and stomped to her room to mourn alone.
"Oh, man...we just told her Christmas is cancelled," I whispered to Paul. Both of us fell back, too weak to comfort our baby girl.
This kinda sucks, I thought.
I've never been sick on Christmas before, I ruminated, not even last year when I was just finishing chemotherapy. Even then, I had been healthy enough to celebrate with loved ones.
But this year, it looked like we were all in for a special sort of ick.
And then my sister called.
Like the sister-hero she is.
She asked how she could help.
She suggested picking up the healthy kids and taking them to festivities.
She said she could drive them. She said they could sleep over at her house. She said it was no problem. I'm certain her cape was fluttering in a breeze while she made all these promises to me over the phone.
She completely and totally saved the day.
Gwen and Liam packed up their clothes and made a swift retreat from this plague-plastered-house-of-grossness.
Paul and I were relieved because when you are battling fever, raging headache and sleepy stupor, you are in no shape or form to be entertaining the masses. Us four remaining sickies hunkered down, passed around some medicine and plumped our pillows.
"Merry Christmas," someone muttered, "pass the bananas..."
Tuesday, 8 November 2016
Maple Mutt-Skin II
Once upon a time a handsome, cream-and-white coloured guinea pig was born. He had dark, brooding eyes and sharp, white teeth.
He was a member of the "bad hair day" guinea pigs and this did NOT mean he had messy hair. Nor did it mean that he had a propensity for mohawks or other-such rebellious forms of hair-dos. What this DID mean was that he had several rosettes - similar to cowlicks - situated all over his body and these gave the appearance of the poor fella having a bad hair day.
When he was but a few weeks old, he was chosen to be the birthday gift of a lively young boy. This boy welcomed him with tears of joy and a promise of long-abiding love.
"I'm going to call him Maple II!" the young boy declared to his grinning family, "after Maple-the-Hamster who is no longer with us...."
Young Maple II grew to a whopping 2 lbs and his hair swirls could have been the envy of any guinea pig out there. He loved short walks in his cedar-chip lined cage and long runs on the green green grass of the outside world. Carrots and green leafy vegetables were seized from any proffered hand with glee and nibbled and gnawed on to completion. His favourites were snap peas.
Maple II grew to recognize the sound of vegetables being chopped and would squeak shrilly as a means of gaining access to munching on said vegetables.
His family grew stealthier and stealthier about removing vegetables from the fridge, but Maple II was shrewd and clever and could always detect food that he loved!
"Squeak squeak squeak," he would squawk loudly and continuously until the crunchy veggies were jammed into his cage.
Maple II loved food but he also loved to be cuddled. A gentle rub between his large, floppy ears was delightful as was a friendly pet by his rump. Then he would purr and rumble joyfully. If his family would scratch at his nose he would nudge their hands to the top of his head....he preferred a head-scratch, thank-you very much!
Maple II would squeak, purr and rumble but he could also chatter his teeth very loudly. This chattering sound was reserved for when that pesty Fudge - the other bad hair day piggie - would be overly obnoxious. Fudge is decidedly younger and zippier and sometimes Maple II just wants to lie around and consider the meaning of life.
Although Maple II may not be aware of this, his existence has inspired the children in his family. His boy and the siblings love watching him and imagining his life. They have spent hours and hours drawing a cartoon version of Maple II and dreaming up his adventures. The invented character grew more and more alive; he became another living, breathing entity in his family's household and went by the name of Bob Mutt-Skin.
"Bob is Maple's spirit animal!" declared one of the children. No one was exactly sure what he meant by that but the antics of Bob were wildly hilarious and enjoyed by everyone in the family, with the exception of Maple II, who never learned how to read. Literacy is not that highly esteemed among guinea pig clans. Maple II did have one encounter with books but this ended with the book being nibbled and transformed into a massive pile of brown, banana-shaped droppings. After that, his family kept books far far away from him.
Bob - Maple's cartoon character - was most known for his wise sayings that usually went like this: "Mutt mutt." Apparently this was the sound attributed to guinea pigs by his boy.
All the children loved to draw Bob Mutt-Skin and his experiences. He had a friend named Snakey and he loved to dab.....I mean, who doesn't? Right? Isn't dabbing the most normal thing, like, ever?
Bob also had gigantic eyes and wore sunglasses often.
But, alas, yesterday Maple II's family noticed that he was not eating or moving around with any sort of vigor. He seemed lethargic and dull-eyed. His boy tried to hand-feed him and researched what the problem might be. There seemed to be no improvement by this morning, so his family removed him from his cage and wrapped him tightly in a soft towel. He was displaying all the characteristics of a dying guinea pig. His family took turns cuddling him and scratching him in all his favourite spots. They poured on the love.
"You are loved, Maple." they said over and over again. He could feel it emanating off of them in waves. All that love. Their hands caressed him and held him close. He could feel blackness closing in but before he succumbed, he lifted his head up once more and gazed steadily at his family. "You are loved, Maple," they repeated gently.
And then.....he breathed his last breath and grew so so still in their arms.
Dearest Maple Mutt-Skin II,
You were loved. You were precious. You brought laughter, joy and warmth to our home. We loved getting to know your spunky personality. We love that you were so loud when you wanted something. We love that you were always gentle and never bit all the hands that held you. Your passing away was so sudden and we miss you. Especially Fudge. He is sitting quietly in his cage and we all know that Fudge hates to be quiet. He is lonely.
Thank-you for all the years that we could spend together.
Good-bye, Maple II.
Love,
your family.
He was a member of the "bad hair day" guinea pigs and this did NOT mean he had messy hair. Nor did it mean that he had a propensity for mohawks or other-such rebellious forms of hair-dos. What this DID mean was that he had several rosettes - similar to cowlicks - situated all over his body and these gave the appearance of the poor fella having a bad hair day.
When he was but a few weeks old, he was chosen to be the birthday gift of a lively young boy. This boy welcomed him with tears of joy and a promise of long-abiding love.
"I'm going to call him Maple II!" the young boy declared to his grinning family, "after Maple-the-Hamster who is no longer with us...."
Young Maple II grew to a whopping 2 lbs and his hair swirls could have been the envy of any guinea pig out there. He loved short walks in his cedar-chip lined cage and long runs on the green green grass of the outside world. Carrots and green leafy vegetables were seized from any proffered hand with glee and nibbled and gnawed on to completion. His favourites were snap peas.
Maple II grew to recognize the sound of vegetables being chopped and would squeak shrilly as a means of gaining access to munching on said vegetables.
His family grew stealthier and stealthier about removing vegetables from the fridge, but Maple II was shrewd and clever and could always detect food that he loved!
"Squeak squeak squeak," he would squawk loudly and continuously until the crunchy veggies were jammed into his cage.
Maple II loved food but he also loved to be cuddled. A gentle rub between his large, floppy ears was delightful as was a friendly pet by his rump. Then he would purr and rumble joyfully. If his family would scratch at his nose he would nudge their hands to the top of his head....he preferred a head-scratch, thank-you very much!
Maple II would squeak, purr and rumble but he could also chatter his teeth very loudly. This chattering sound was reserved for when that pesty Fudge - the other bad hair day piggie - would be overly obnoxious. Fudge is decidedly younger and zippier and sometimes Maple II just wants to lie around and consider the meaning of life.
Although Maple II may not be aware of this, his existence has inspired the children in his family. His boy and the siblings love watching him and imagining his life. They have spent hours and hours drawing a cartoon version of Maple II and dreaming up his adventures. The invented character grew more and more alive; he became another living, breathing entity in his family's household and went by the name of Bob Mutt-Skin.
"Bob is Maple's spirit animal!" declared one of the children. No one was exactly sure what he meant by that but the antics of Bob were wildly hilarious and enjoyed by everyone in the family, with the exception of Maple II, who never learned how to read. Literacy is not that highly esteemed among guinea pig clans. Maple II did have one encounter with books but this ended with the book being nibbled and transformed into a massive pile of brown, banana-shaped droppings. After that, his family kept books far far away from him.
Bob - Maple's cartoon character - was most known for his wise sayings that usually went like this: "Mutt mutt." Apparently this was the sound attributed to guinea pigs by his boy.
All the children loved to draw Bob Mutt-Skin and his experiences. He had a friend named Snakey and he loved to dab.....I mean, who doesn't? Right? Isn't dabbing the most normal thing, like, ever?
Bob also had gigantic eyes and wore sunglasses often.
But, alas, yesterday Maple II's family noticed that he was not eating or moving around with any sort of vigor. He seemed lethargic and dull-eyed. His boy tried to hand-feed him and researched what the problem might be. There seemed to be no improvement by this morning, so his family removed him from his cage and wrapped him tightly in a soft towel. He was displaying all the characteristics of a dying guinea pig. His family took turns cuddling him and scratching him in all his favourite spots. They poured on the love.
"You are loved, Maple." they said over and over again. He could feel it emanating off of them in waves. All that love. Their hands caressed him and held him close. He could feel blackness closing in but before he succumbed, he lifted his head up once more and gazed steadily at his family. "You are loved, Maple," they repeated gently.
And then.....he breathed his last breath and grew so so still in their arms.
Dearest Maple Mutt-Skin II,
You were loved. You were precious. You brought laughter, joy and warmth to our home. We loved getting to know your spunky personality. We love that you were so loud when you wanted something. We love that you were always gentle and never bit all the hands that held you. Your passing away was so sudden and we miss you. Especially Fudge. He is sitting quietly in his cage and we all know that Fudge hates to be quiet. He is lonely.
Thank-you for all the years that we could spend together.
Good-bye, Maple II.
Love,
your family.
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