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How Could You - A Dog's Story

HOW COULD YOU? A Dog’s Story

By Jim Willis

When I was a puppy, I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh. You called me your child, and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I was "bad," you'd shake your finger at me and ask "How could you?" - but then you'd relent, and roll me over for a belly rub.

My housebreaking took a little longer than expected, because you were terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of nuzzling you in bed and listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect. We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs," you said), and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day.

Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in love.

She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" - still I welcomed her into our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because you were happy. Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate. Oh, how I wanted to love them, but I became a "prisoner of love."

As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigated my ears, and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them and their touch- because your touch was now so infrequent - and I would have defended them with my life if need be.

I would sneak into their beds and listen to their worries and secret dreams, and together we waited for the sound of your car in the driveway. There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me. These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I had gone from being "your dog" to "just a dog" and you resented every expenditure on my behalf. Now, you have a new career opportunity in another city, and you and they will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You've made the right decision for your "family," but there was a time when I was your only family.

I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter. It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled out the paperwork and said "I know you will find a good home for her." They shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities facing a middle-aged dog, even one with "papers." You had to pry your son's fingers loose from my collar as he screamed "No, Daddy! Please don't let them take my dog!" And I worried for him, and what lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about love and responsibility, and about respect for all life. You gave me a goodbye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar and leash with you. You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too.

After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home. They shook their heads and asked "How could you?"

They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was you - that you had changed your mind - that this was all a bad dream...or I hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who might save me. When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and waited.

I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day, and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet room. She placed me on the table and rubbed my ears, and told me not to worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days. As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she bears weighs heavily on her, and I know that, the same way I knew your every mood.

She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many years ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured "How could you?"

Perhaps because she understood my dog speak, she said "I'm so sorry." She hugged me, and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I went to a better place, where I wouldn't be ignored or abused or abandoned, or have to fend for myself - a place of love and light so very different from this earthly place. And with my last bit of energy, I tried to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my "How could you?" was not directed at her. It was you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking of. I will think of you and wait for you forever. May everyone in your life continue to show you so much loyalty.

How Could You - A Dog's story read earlier on the Corus Radio Network by Charles Adler

HOW COULD YOU? A Dog’s Story

By Jim Willis

When I was a puppy, I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh.
You called me your child, and despite a number of chewed shoes and a
couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I
was "bad," you'd shake your finger at me and ask "How could you?" - but
then you'd relent, and roll me over for a belly rub.

My housebreaking took a little longer than expected, because you were
terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights
of nuzzling you in bed and listening to your confidences and secret
dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect. We went
for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I
only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs," you said), and I
took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the
day.

Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and
more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently,
comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you
about bad decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when
you fell in love.

She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" - still I welcomed her into
our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy
because you were happy. Then the human babies came along and I shared
your excitement. I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled,
and I wanted to mother them, too. Only she and you worried that I might
hurt them, and I spent most of my time banished to another room, or to a
dog crate. Oh, how I wanted to love them, but I became a "prisoner of love."

As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and
pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes,
investigated my ears, and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything
about them and their touch- because your touch was now so infrequent -
and I would have defended them with my life if need be.

I would sneak into their beds and listen to their worries and secret
dreams, and together we waited for the sound of your car in the
driveway. There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog,
that you produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories
about me. These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the
subject. I had gone from being "your dog" to "just a dog" and you
resented every expenditure on my behalf. Now, you have a new career
opportunity in another city, and you and they will be moving to an
apartment that does not allow pets. You've made the right decision for
your "family," but there was a time when I was your only family.

I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter.
It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled out
the paperwork and said "I know you will find a good home for her." They
shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities
facing a middle-aged dog, even one with "papers." You had to pry your
son's fingers loose from my collar as he screamed "No, Daddy! Please
don't let them take my dog!" And I worried for him, and what lessons you
had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about love and
responsibility, and about respect for all life. You gave me a goodbye
pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar
and leash with you. You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too.

After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your
upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good
home. They shook their heads and asked "How could you?"

They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules
allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At
first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it
was you - that you had changed your mind - that this was all a bad
dream...or I hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who
might save me. When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking
for attention of happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated
to a far corner and waited.

I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day, and I
padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet
room. She placed me on the table and rubbed my ears, and told me not to
worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there
was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days. As
is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she bears
weighs heavily on her, and I know that, the same way I knew your every mood.

She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her
cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many
years ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I
felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down
sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured "How could you?"

Perhaps because she understood my dog speak, she said "I'm so sorry."
She hugged me, and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I
went to a better place, where I wouldn't be ignored or abused or
abandoned, or have to fend for myself - a place of love and light so
very different from this earthly place. And with my last bit of energy,
I tried to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my "How could
you?" was not directed at her. It was you, My Beloved Master, I was
thinking of. I will think of you and wait for you forever. May everyone
in your life continue to show you so much loyalty.

Ignatieff's Empty Rhetoric Unimpressive in Quebec--Chantal Hebert

Liberals need more time to refill Iggy's tank

Thu Jul 2 2009
Chantal Hebert

According to a massive CBC rolling poll, Liberal Leader Michael
Ignatieff's threat to set in motion a summer election has cost him the
lead in voting intentions.

The only saving grace for the Liberals was that his threat turned out to
be empty.

It could have been worse if Prime Minister Stephen Harper had gone for
the exposed Liberal jugular. From all the available evidence, Ignatieff
was not ready for prime time.

For 36 crucial hours, no one could provide a coherent script for his
session finale. His MPs were in the dark; his spin doctors were offering
up contradictory explanations. Ignatieff looked like he was making up
his lines as he went along.

If this had been the first act of a campaign, the Liberal leader would
have risked being booed off the stage.

Many past opposition leaders have recuperated from self-inflicted wounds
and gone on to healthy election victories. But many more did not.

Jean Chretien and Brian Mulroney's opposition paths included some very
rocky patches and yet they both secured majority governments.

But neither stumbled his way into his first campaign and both had the
good fortune to enter a battlefield levelled by the presence of
opponents who were as untested as they were.

Ignatieff will not be so fortunate.

In contrast with the Liberal leader, Harper, Gilles Duceppe and Jack
Layton have all earned their stripes the hard way, by winning leadership
campaigns and fighting multiple general elections. On the week
Parliament adjourned, they all sounded more psychologically battle-ready
than he did.

The Liberals cannot expect a rookie politician to turn into a seasoned
leader overnight. The bigger problem is that there could be more at work
in their tepid poll numbers than just a mishandled parliamentary
showdown. In Central Canada, Ignatieff is fast losing the momentum
generated by his successful honeymoon.

On that score, his last visit to Montreal just last month was a triumph
for the Quebec Liberal organization and a bust for the leader.

Presented with a large, mostly francophone business audience, Ignatieff
threw out the economic notes his handlers had prepared (it's nice to
know such a speech actually existed) to serve up what are becoming
familiar bromides.

If there is one place in the country where a savvy audience will not be
fooled by eloquence at the service of empty rhetoric, it is Quebec, the
native home of Pierre Trudeau, Rene Lévesque and Lucien Bouchard. It is
fair to say that particular crowd was largely underwhelmed.

It is a paradox that a party that prides itself on being led by a public
intellectual is coming up with so few genuinely fresh or challenging ideas.

For six months, Ignatieff has been recycling bits and pieces of past
Liberal platforms, many of them conceived in more affluent times. He has
also hammered away at Harper's economic management, but in the absence
of any concrete indication that he would do anything differently, he has
failed to make a decisive dent in the perception that the prime minister
is the better leader of the two.

For the Liberals, there could be a worse scenario than ending a spring
sitting on a poor note and that would be to spend the summer loudly
revving up their election engines only to have to crawl back to the
House of Commons in September because they and their leader are running
on empty in the polls.

Chantal Hebert is a syndicated columnist for the Toronto Star.

Is Social Policy too Boring for Ignatieff-Hepburn-

Is social policy too boring for Ignatieff? TheStar.com - Opinion - Is
social policy too boring for Ignatieff? July 02, 2009 Bob Hepburn

Back in March 2005, when Michael Ignatieff was being courted to return
to Canada and lead the Liberals, he delivered the keynote address to the
party's policy convention.

The Liberal party is "more than a machine for winning elections,"
Ignatieff, then a Harvard University professor, told the delegates.
Rather, its main purpose is to enhance national unity, preserve national
sovereignty and advance the cause of social justice, he said.

The speech that day electrified delegates and thrust Ignatieff onto the
national stage as a possible future Liberal leader.

Today, more than four years later, Ignatieff has achieved the goal of
becoming party leader.

But to date he has disappointed many progressive Liberals who feel he
has failed as leader to live up to his own claim that the party is more
than just a machine for winning elections.

For them, Ignatieff has forsaken the detailed policy work, especially on
social issues, needed to differentiate the Liberals from Prime Minister
Stephen Harper and the Conservatives.

"The next time you see Ignatieff on television talking about Canadian
social policy, hit the mute button and just watch him," a distraught and
well-connected Montreal Liberal said last week.

"He seems bored."

Progressives see social policies, from medicare to old age pensions, as
fundamental to the historic success of the Liberal party.

Such policies are also critical for Ignatieff. Harper is a strong
campaigner and stands to trounce Ignatieff, if an election comes down
just to the issue of leadership. That's because Ignatieff has never been
tested in a national campaign and currently is not offering voters much
other than he's not Harper.

On three of the biggest issues facing Canada today, Ignatieff has yet to
outline in any detail how he would differ from Harper.

First is the future of public health care. Last week in Welland,
Ignatieff told a town-hall meeting that Canada "must never have a system
where your access to health care is dependent on your wallet, ever."

Despite those strong words, Ignatieff failed to explain how he would
stop galloping privatization.

Outside of Ontario, most provinces are allowing more and more
privatization. For example, Vancouver now has a modern, private
multi-speciality hospital, complete with six operating rooms. Five years
ago, such a hospital would have been unimaginable.

He also neglected to explain how he would deal with the sharply rising
cost of health care, which now gobbles up 40 to 50 per cent of
provincial budgets. This is critical because in just a few years Ottawa
must start renegotiating the federal-provincial health accord.

Second, Ignatieff has failed to outline his vision of the role of the
federal government. Clearly, Harper wants to reduce Ottawa's role,
giving away more and more power to the provinces.

Does Ignatieff feel the same way?

Third, our relationship with the U.S. is changing, marked by closer
military ties, tightened borders and the recession and its ensuing Buy
America movement in the U.S.

Allan Gotlieb, a former Canadian ambassador in Washington, wrote this
week that Ottawa has shown "no sign of interest in a strategic review of
our relationship" with the U.S. Gotlieb was speaking about the Harper
government, but he could have just as easily been talking about the
Liberal leader.

Ignatieff's supporters say he will wait until the fall to outline many
of his social and other policies.

But why the delay, ask the progressives, who are disturbed by the
Liberals' lack of preparation for the coming debate on these issues.

Maybe it's true what they say about boredom.

/Bob Hepburn's column appears in the Toronto Star Thursdays.
bhepburn@thestar.ca /

a classic from the spring of 2002 -in a week where we think about the contributions made by Canadians-Kevin Meyers-Irish writer-The Country the World Forgot Again

The country the world forgot - again
By Kevin Myers
The Daily Telegraph, London, April 21, 2002

UNTIL the deaths last week of four Canadian soldiers accidentally killed
by a US warplane in Afghanistan, probably almost no one outside their
home country had been aware that Canadian troops were deployed in the
region. And as always, Canada will now bury its dead, just as the rest
of the world as always will forget its sacrifice, just as it always
forgets nearly everything Canada ever does.

It seems that Canada's historic mission is to come to the selfless aid
both of its friends and of complete strangers, and then, once the crisis
is over, to be well and truly ignored. Canada is the perpetual
wallflower that stands on the edge of the hall, waiting for someone to
come and ask her for a dance. A fire breaks out, she risks life and limb
to rescue her fellow dance-goers, and suffers serious injuries. But when
the hall is repaired and the dancing resumes, there is Canada, the
wallflower still, while those she once helped glamorously cavort across
the floor, blithely neglecting her yet again.

That is the price which Canada pays for sharing the North American
Continent with the US, and for being a selfless friend of Britain in two
global conflicts. For much of the 20th century, Canada was torn in two
different directions: it seemed to be a part of the old world, yet had
an address in the new one, and that divided identity ensured that it
never fully got the gratitude it deserved.

Yet its purely voluntary contribution to the cause of freedom in two
world wars was perhaps the greatest of any democracy. Almost 10 per cent
of Canada's entire population of seven million people served in the
armed forces during the First World War, and nearly 60,000 died. The
great Allied victories of 1918 were spearheaded by Canadian troops,
perhaps the most capable soldiers in the entire British order of battle.

Canada was repaid for its enormous sacrifice by downright neglect, its
unique contribution to victory being absorbed into the popular memory as
somehow or other the work of the "British". The Second World War
provided a re-run. The Canadian navy began the war with a half dozen
vessels, and ended up policing nearly half of the Atlantic against
U-boat attack. More than 120 Canadian warships participated in the
Normandy landings, during which 15,000 Canadian soldiers went ashore on
D-Day alone. Canada finished the war with the third largest navy and the
fourth largest air force in the world. The world thanked Canada with the
same sublime indifference as it had the previous time. Canadian
participation in the war was acknowledged in film only if it was
necessary to give an American actor a part in a campaign which the US
had clearly not participated - a touching scrupulousness which, of
course, Hollywood has since abandoned, as it has any notion of a
separate Canadian identity.

So it is a general rule that actors and film-makers arriving in
Hollywood keep their nationality - unless, that is, they are Canadian.
Thus Mary Pickford, Walter Huston, Donald Sutherland, Michael J Fox,
William Shatner, Norman Jewison, David Cronenberg and Dan Aykroyd have
in the popular perception become American, and Christopher Plummer
British. It is as if in the very act of becoming famous, a Canadian
ceases to be Canadian, unless she is Margaret Atwood, who is as
unshakeably Canadian as a moose, or Celine Dion, for whom Canada has
proved quite unable to find any takers. Moreover, Canada is every bit as
querulously alert to the achievements of its sons and daughters as the
rest of the world is completely unaware of them. The Canadians proudly
say of themselves - and are unheard by anyone else - that 1 per cent of
the world's population has provided 10 per cent of the world's
peace-keeping forces. Canadian soldiers in the past half century have
been the greatest peace-keepers on earth - in 39 missions on UN
mandates, and six on non-UN peace-keeping duties, from Vietnam to East
Timor, from Sinai to Bosnia.

Yet the only foreign engagement which has entered the popular
non-Canadian imagination was the sorry affair in Somalia, in which
out-of-control paratroopers murdered two Somali infiltrators. Their
regiment was then disbanded in disgrace - a uniquely Canadian act of
self-abasement for which, naturally, the Canadians received no
international credit.

So who today in the US knows about the stoic and selfless friendship its
northern neighbour has given it in Afghanistan? Rather like Cyrano de
Bergerac, Canada repeatedly does honourable things for honourable
motives, but instead of being thanked for it, it remains something of a
figure of fun. It is the Canadian way, for which Canadians should be
proud, yet such honour comes at a high cost.

This weekend four shrouds, red with blood and maple leaf, head
homewards; and four more grieving Canadian families know that cost all
too tragically well.