A proud Scotsman succumbs

Dogged and catted: the story of an at-home blogger. My cat, Oedipus, sleeps beside me overseeing the slowly spreading, spraying, blinking, sometimes anchorless words, words, words as I write them. He reads my blog. He has no judgment and makes no comment but sometimes he stretches out and scratches me and off I go to the medicine chest for Ozonol. (I’d ignore little nicks and drops of blood but my girlfriend’s mother wound up in emerg once from a cat bite and I daren’t take chances.)

Twice a day I raise my eyes from the screen to look out the window and watch a neighbour woman and a neighbour man walk their two Scottie dogs past my house. I’ve been watching them for years now, commenting to Eddy about the beatific senior-dom of the grey dog who must be around twelve I guess. Stumbling alongside another pup who might be five, I’m not sure, but a hop skip and a jump in the other direction. Yes, a senior dog but alas, no longer, because I think this dog is dead. The couple just walked by and I’ve noticed them during the past week or so with just the spry young fellow and inside my office we ache for the loss.

Oedipus might not have noticed but I think he probably has. He spends more time looking out the window than I do, a little bit more, and he always has his sniffer out for passing dogs, even if they walk slower than he typically swishes his tail. Yes, I think my cat knows this Scottie is dead.

They’re fat like sausages, these dogs, or rather (now) this dog. Reminds me of growing up with “Walking Baloney” AKA Gerda Muttswinger, our copper-coloured, wire-haired dachshund who was so fat the Indian kids in the village at Christian Island called her this, much to her embarrassment. We’d stand together a clump of kids and dogs at the end of the dock getting ready to dive for beer bottles at the bottom of the Bay where the ferry landed. Walking Baloney would be tilting her belly at the sun. Lovely memories really. We lost Gerda 35 years ago and now, on the street, we’re absent one more dog.

Blogging is sometimes a lonely responsibility. It makes some of us a little batty, especially toward the end of the day when there haven’t been many hits. In fact, it makes many of us a whole lot batty: take a look at all the pet blogs out there. I am determined to not add to the numbers, even for the sake of a community and someone to cry with over the loss of a wee Scottie lad who couldn’t keep up.

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About Nor

I'm a creative non-fiction writer, with a special interest in memoirs and obituaries--life stories, local histories with flesh & blood anecdotal details. I'm also beginning to create podcasts of people's stories and expanding their audiences. I'm a diarist, an editor, and a political activist. I live in Toronto, Ontario, Canada and spend days tapping keys or staining my fingers in ink.
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One Response to A proud Scotsman succumbs

  1. Alison Lawrence says:

    Gerda Muttswinger!!!! I love that!

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