Reasons for not writing

No, there hasn’t been any writing for a while, has there? I have my reasons.

Reason 1

Eight years ago, I was writing almost daily about the latest “you couldn’t make it up” nonsense from the Wankmaggot Oval Office. That was then. You simply can’t keep up with Wankmaggot 2.0. The mad executive orders, the insane (and dangerous) cabinet picks that the deplorable, ass-licking Republican senators have confirmed, the havoc Elon Musk and his band of teenage mutant hackers are wreaking on public services and the lives of the people who provide these services.

And then, of course, there was last week’s appalling ambush by the Wankmaggot and his misogynist elected (as opposed to unelected Musk) sidekick (and alleged sofa shagger) Vance of Ukrainian president Volodymyr Zelensky. I’ll leave it to the former Wyoming congresswoman to comment.

Cheney says it better than a lot of what even I’m beginning to refer to as the lamestream media. Imagine my reaction when I read last Saturday’s Globe and Mail coverage of this sideshow which the reporter referred to as a “spat” at the White House. The Globe certainly wasn’t alone in failing to accurately describe what happened as some truly shameful shit.

Then there’s Mitch McConnell. No, no, no, I can’t go there. Engaging with all this is a guaranteed way to make your head explode.

And don’t get me started on the Wankmaggot’s attacks on the Canadian economy in some delusional attempt to get the country where I live to beg him to let us become the 51^st state. (Okay, I did get started, but that’s all I am going to say, other than AIN’T GONNA HAPPEN, ASSHOLE.)

So, I’ve been staying out of it. Which is why there has been a surprising lack of rants.

Reason 2

And then there’s Dexter.

Yes, my friend Jean’s totally adorable wee dog.

Nearly a month ago Jean got up one morning and realised Dexter was having trouble standing on his rear legs. She got him to the vet who suggested he might have somehow sprained his back. Recommendation was to keep him contained so he could rest. Check back in a couple of days. By the next morning, he couldn’t stand on his back legs at all.

“What if it’s permanent?” she asked me. Without hesitation I said, “Wheels.” (My friends Rowan and Matt in the UK had a terrier who lost the use of her back legs, but took to wheels and whizzed around with them.) She rang the vet practice, was told she could rush him down to Victoria for a $1000+ MRI to see if he might be a candidate for a $10k+ operation with quite a low success rate. Back to the practice to see a different vet who confirmed that, yes, Dexter was paralysed. “What now?” Jean asked. With a gob smacking lack of empathy the vet said, “Euthanise him.” What the fuck? Jean asked about wheels. The vet, who confessed knowing little about them, was dismissive.

It’s been an awful month. Every time I thought about writing a post about this terrible turn of events I started crying. Poor, poor little Dexter. Just so fucking unfair.

I’ve helped out as much as I can. She ordered and we tried a harness that would lift his rear legs off the ground to walk with his front legs. He didn’t take to it. Wheels ordered and arrived this week. Despite being ill (viral infection that caused my glands to swell so much it was hard not to scream with pain just swallowing my own saliva0, I donned a mask and went over to help her figure out how to set them up and get him strapped in.

He loves his wheels.

Nothing’s ever going to be easy again. I will never take him for what has been our normal walk (too much up and down and too many tree roots), but you can tell just by looking into his eyes that he’s got some, if not entirely all, of his joie de vivre back.

Reason 3

This is the toughest one.

As of yesterday, it’s been five weeks since I smoked my last cigarette. Some cause for celebration, I know. But…

Every time I sit down at the computer to try to write something, I want a cigarette. I’ve walked away from the desk several times just writing this much because the urge was so strong.

No, I am not going to peel off my patch and go to the store to buy a pack of Camels.

But I am worried. Plays half written, novels begun and waiting to be revisited, ideas for others. Will I ever get the flow back?

In 24 days I will be in France where I will be living in a medieval village with my guy for a month. He’s taking his camera. I’m taking my laptop. I’m hoping that while he’s out taking photos, I will be at the kitchen table writing daily reports on la vie en rosé.

Fingers crossed.