Large Fierce Mammal

Izabella with baby Diana.

On the 9th day of February in the year 1982, a baby girl was born in the city of Wroclaw, Poland. She was one of many girls born that day, both in Poland and all over the world, but the birth of this one was special because the event marked kindling of a spark that would grow to be the light of my life. The baby was my incomparable Diana who many of you here know as Mrs. LFM.

Proud parents Izabella and (the regrettably late) Ryszard Kleszczynski.

Normally I don’t let others speak for me in matters of the heart, but today I’m making an exception because this afternoon we received a piece of poetry created in recognition of today’s auspicious date. It was written by Mrs. LFM’s mother Izabella who has quite a talent for poetical self expression when she feels the muse move her.

Well, it did today, and there simply isn’t anything I could write that would encapsulate the feelings she expressed as eloquently as she did in those five simple, heartfelt verses.

My high school English teacher, the esteemed Paul Brison, used to say that a short story or poem is harder to write than a more lengthy piece because they’re like jewelry – the smaller they are the more carefully they need to be crafted. Well, to my mind, this is one elegant and shiny jewel. Ladies and gentlemen, I present …

Diana’s Birthday

by her justifiably proud mother
Izabella Kleszczynski

Today is a very special day
Diana was born far far away-
In gorgeous and courageous land,
I happily held her tiny hand.

Joy filled my eyes with happy tears
When I looked at her so perfect ears,
Baby blue eyes, sweet cheeks and nose,
And perfect mouth, pink as a rose.

And could not fathom for years to come
Why was I chosen to be her mom.
She fills my heart with happiness
And pride, and joy and fierceness.

But to protect her, to take care of her
Has been passed on to a higher care –
Her husband Randy cherishes her now
As she will him, since it was their vow.

She’s still my sweet Baby, my joy and pride
And she was most beautiful and radiant Bride,
So long live Diana and Randy in harmony
And make together most perfect symphony:-)

Thank you Izabella, for this treasured sentiment and, most of all for Diana. If she hadn’t been born, I might as well not have been.

As for you my most beloved Diana, it may be your birthday, but you are the gift. Happy Birthday Baby.

31 October 2008 - The blessed day Diana officially became Mrs. LFM.

This has been annoying me for a while because the way it’s marketed has to be among the top 3 worst concepts in advertising.

Your kid is old enough to be out of diapers but not yet clear of the need for absorptive body armor. He quietly and politely advises you that he needs to go, but do you take him PROMPTLY to a toilet as his small bladder and young age might demand? NO! Instead you pause for a fucking flash mob that portrays desperation gestures as dance moves!

And by the way, if you are too young for elementary school but too old for diapers, and yet still at risk of pissing your pants, nothing you put on your ass will make you “a big kid now”. Only actually becoming a big kid will accomplish that.

Jesus H. Christ this is lame.

Source: www.explodingdog.com

H. L Mencken wrote, “Every decent man is ashamed of the government he lives under.” Every day I get exposed to what oozes into public view from under the rock that is Ottawa I revisit those words.

I sporadically manage to sideline Stephen Harper for varying periods of time. Last summer’s painful foray into Canada’s north in the name of sovereignty brought him back into focus, and I was yet again reminded of how much he reminds me of nothing more than the kid everybody picked on in school, now back to exact revenge.

There was Public Safety Minister Stockwell Day’s ill conceived announcement that Canada needs to build more prisons in response to the crimes that go unreported, no doubt eventually to be followed by an impassioned plea from the Education Minister for more schools to teach the children who were never born. (more…)

“Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it.” ~ Terry Pratchett

Just yesterday I was found by this uplifting little ditty by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds and played it today to Mrs. LFM who, like me, had never heard it before. We both agree, what’s not to love?

I once saw a picture of Wolf Blitzer done up in the style of a motivational poster suggesting he might be a Keebler defector.

Remember Gulf War One, where the army of George the First sallied forth to throw Iraq out of Kuwait? One of the things I remember most about that epoch was the inevitability of the Truth According to Wolf. Yes, I’m talking about Wolf Blitzer, he of the immaculately trimmed beard and seemingly limitless availability on CNN – the official talking head of Operation Desert Storm.

Wolf has such a catchy name that I was surprised how he’d managed to stay off my cluttered radar until he showed up talking about that war. Maybe it was the 24/7 Wolf barrage I got every time I found myself near a television. Anyway, now we come forward to reportage that hits us every morning over coffee as we watch Canada AM, Canada’s mildly annoying morning news source that we all watch out of a sense of duty. The latest talking head, interviewed daily of late by Bev Thompson on the subject of the current unpleasantness in Egypt, is ABC News Africa correspondent Martin Seemungal (pronounced SEE – MUNGLE). He seems a very nice man who is not really annoying at all, and we can’t imagine what he did that was so bad ABC banished him to Africa, but are Mrs. LFM and I the only ones who get this as soon as we hear his name?

This image, and the article that goes with it, are dedicated to Silvia Jay, who probably will never fall for this.

I have always loved olives. Black, green, pit in or stuffed with all kinds of goodies, marinated in the Gods know what, or breaded and deep fried – you name it. Imagine my surprise to learn that my olive passion isn’t shared by everyone!

Way back in my university days, my sister was dating a very easily manipulated man who saw me eating olives at a party my parents were hosting, and asked me how I could stand them.

“Well, it’s an acquired taste,” said I, “But you have to eat seven before you get it.”

At first he was resistant, but my evident relish at their lip smacking goodness finally got the better of him and he counted out seven olives on a napkin. As his Olive Mentor, I cautioned him to chew each one slowly and savour every subtle nuance of its flavour because anything less would render the entire enterprise worthless.

His ordeal was quite interesting to watch as the chewing of each olive resulted in facial contortions that several times came dangerously close to turning his head inside out.

When the last fragment of the fateful seventh olive was gone down his gullet and his shudders had subsided, I told him to take a swig from his beer to cleanse his palate.

“Now, eat another one to prove it worked,” I said, handing him a particularly large and vigorous specimen impaled on a tooth pick.

Looking doubtful, he popped it in his mouth and gagged.

Sitting back, I looked at him over the rim of my beer glass as I said, “Apparently you’re an exception to the rule.”

Every word in the following article is the personal opinion of its author, but every statement made within it can be supported with authenticating documentation. The author regards public safety and security as matters not to be trifled with in these troubled times, and sincerely hopes that the brutal honesty of this article will encourage the Nova Scotia SPCA to improve its business practices and quality of service so the experiences described herein are never repeated.

Laws governing what constitutes “proper care” for animals in Nova Scotia are not unlike those in other parts of Canada – an absolute mess – and anyone given the job of trying to enforce them is going to have their hands full. Finding the path to laying a charge under existing acts can be difficult in the extreme, even in cases of such blatant abuse or neglect that no reasonable person can understand what is staying the righteous hand of justice. The investigator, who has no option but to act within the law, is often criticized and accused of moving too slowly, or worse yet, looking the other way while an animal suffers, when in reality he or she is hampered by the fact that there is no clear template that will speed the job to a successful and happy outcome. It can be forgotten that the investigator is also human and often shares a common sense of outrage with the complainant. For those who haven’t been there, the emotional toll of intimate interaction with the results of cruelty and neglect are hard to fathom, and readily fall within the category of sights you can’t unsee, sounds you can’t unhear, and reeks you can’t unsmell.

At the root of this is the fact that legislation governing animal welfare is archaic and dates from a time when working animals and wild animals were the only ones anybody recognized. Times have changed but the laws have barely moved, leaving much work to be done before society comes to fully realize that an animal is not a piece of animated furniture or an accessory to be disposed of if you get married, have a baby, or buy new drapes that clash with its fur colour. That a dog, for example, feels heat, cold, pain, loneliness, fear, despair, and loss just as people do.

But the law doesn’t see it that way. An animal is simply property with a few added maintenance complications. By that I mean your neighbours won’t call the police if they see you leaving an end table outside in freezing weather, and nobody will care if you don’t provide it with food and water. One hopes they would though, if that end table was a dog instead.

The animal welfare organization that is most visible and vocal in the fields of investigation and enforcement, public education, and working with all levels of government toward improving animal welfare laws to better reflect modern realities, make them less open to vague interpretations, and easier to apply, is the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA). There are branches across Canada, but today I will focus strictly on the Nova Scotia SPCA (SPCANS), and specifically on an incident handled by an investigator working for the branch that operates in Lunenburg County. (more…)

Of the known Icelandic sagas, both Grænlendinga Saga (The Saga of the Greenlanders) and Eiríks Saga Rauða (The Saga of Eirik the Red) speak of the discovery of Vinland – what we call North America – by the Vikings. They also make mention of Freydís Eiríksdóttir.  Freydís was the daughter of Eirik the Red and, depending on which saga you choose to believe, either the sister or half-sister of Leif Eiriksson. Both men involved are well known to everyone with any knowledge at all of the Viking period, but less so Freydís, which is something I am resolved to correct because she was a woman worthy of study.

Freydís portrayed in a picture from a card game. While hot, this is probably not historically accurate.

The sagas tell two tales of Freydís – one that marks her as brave and admirable, the other much less so. But the sagas were written centuries after the events they describe, and as we know from reading incarnations of The Bible, influential literature can be depended upon to contain a healthy dose of axe grinding seasoned with the agenda of whoever wrote it. Add to this the fact that powerful, willful, and intelligent women have a poor record of being appreciated in European history, and you will not be surprised to find that the sagas sent Freydís into history as a conniving, spiteful, greedy, thieving, blood thirsty harpy.

It is said that Freydís came to Vinland twice. On the first occasion, in approximately 1004, she and her husband Thorvard led an expedition during which, at some point, she became pregnant. Obviously Freydís and Thorvard had the same attitude toward camping trips that Mrs. LFM and I do, although the sagas imply that, unlike me, Thorvard was not a stand by your woman kind of man. (more…)

Robert W. Service, Jan. 16, 1874 – Sept. 11, 1958

I’ve always been a fan of Robert W. Service, he known best by the world for such great works of frontier poetry as The Shooting of Dan McGrew and The Cremation of Sam McGee.

Service said, “The only society I like is that which is rough and tough – and the tougher the better. That’s where you get down to bedrock and meet human people.” Much of his work is built from the grit that comes from this, but today I happened on one delightful piece that, while still gritty, is of a subtlety I find most appealing. The story is that this poem caused such a stir that it nearly got him thrown out of his church, and if that’s true, for my own part I think it would have been worth the toss. Gentle readers, I give you …

My Madonna

by Robert W. Service

I haled me a woman from the street,
Shameless, but oh, so fair!
I bade her sit in the model’s seat
And painted her sitting there.

I hid all traces of her heart unclean;
I painted a babe at her breast;
I painted her as she might have been
If the worst had been the best.

She laughed at my picture and went away,
Then came, with a knowing nod,
A connoisseur, and I heard him say;
“’Tis Mary, the Mother of God.”

So I painted a halo round her hair,
And I sold her and took my fee,
And she hangs in the church of Saint Hillaire,
Where you and all may see.

I am both saddened and honoured to bear the news to the world that yesterday, in his own bed and in the company of those who loved him with all their hearts, Alf vom Garreler Esch, also known as Alf, went to sleep for the last time.

Magnificent Alf (Sullivan photo)

Originally brought to Canada from Germany, and coming from a sturdy working line, Alf embodied perfection in a German Shepherd Dog. Big, brave, powerful, robust, beautiful, faithful, intelligent, and completely self-confident, we find joy in that he was not lost to us before passing on his perfection to the world, both in progeny and memories for those of us honoured to have known him. In my mind’s dictionary, a picture of Alf illustrates the word “magnificent”. (more…)