Jones and I are standing on the sidewalk and I am asking him about his dream from the previous night.

What was it about, Jones? 
Santa.
What was he doing?
He was bringing presents.
Did you get to open any?
Yes! There were chocolate eggs, and inside of them was apple juice!

The other day while perusing the products of an online weed dispensary, a chat box opened and a support agent asked me if I needed any help. This is our conversation:

****************************************

Stacey: Hey there, if you have any questions regarding our products please let me know!

Me: I’m interested in knowing how you folks come up with the names for all the different strains. I always thought I’d be really, really good at that. Is there any chance I might be able to apply for such a position within your organization?

Stacey: The growers name the strains, so I’m afraid we’re not accepting any applications for that position.

Me: Nuts.

Stacey: Sorry.

Me: I had some really good ones.

Stacey: I bet you did.

Me: You know it! Listen to these… Mystic Space Owl! Howling Cheesie Attack! Electric Light Orchestra!

Stacey: Those are pretty good, but I’m pretty sure the last one is the name of a band from the 70’s.

Me: Really? That doesn’t sound right.

Stacey: Google it.

Me: Sweet Jesus, you’re right! They must have been an amazing band, look at that hair! And the satin, too! Just stunning. I would give it all up if I could look like that. I really would.

Stacey: And speaking as a person who’s spending time chatting on a weed web site in the middle of the afternoon about job opportunities, what would giving it all up mean to you?

Me: I’m not sure. But it wouldn’t be weed. I would not give up the weed.

Stacey: We’re happy to hear that.

Me: I have a cat.

Stacey: Just one?

Me: Yes, his name is Admiral.

Stacey: Is that your duvet?

Me: No, it’s my mother’s.

Stacey: I see. Well, Admiral looks very cute.

Me: He’s a great cat, but make no mistake, I would give him up him for the ability to look like I was in ELO.

Stacey: Well, we must all walk our own path, I guess.

Me: That’s for sure! And let me tell you, I do walk my own path. Always have. I have to be me. Just the way I am.

Stacey: I’m sure you have lots of friends!

Me: And just because one of them might say you’re on the spectrum, that doesn’t mean it’s true.

Stacey: Are you high right now?

Me: No. You?

Stacey: No.

Me: Just a regular Wednesday afternoon then?

Stacey: Yep.

Me: Do you get sent a lot of dick pics?

Stacey: What do you think?

Me: I think that you probably do.

Stacey: Good guess. So, is there anything else I can help you with today?

Me: Have you ever seen a ghost?

( Stacey ends chat)

***********************************************

Notice what you feel:

I am walking back from daycare and I have my eyes closed. It is the morning, still fresh, and I am noticing the fine, barely perceptible sparks of rain that fall on my face. It feels like something mysterious and alive, something benevolent. I am noticing my breathing, how I labour with it and have to consciously inhale through the prongs in my nose. I feel the oxygen tank on my back, how it pulls against my body, my muscles tightening, growing tense. I open my eyes, now concerned that I may be veering blindly toward someone on the sidewalk, and I see my street, a ribbon separating the red, brick homes on either side, and the impossible leaves all around them, jewels spilling from a treasure chest, wet and almost shining.

Notice movement:

I am in motion. All of me, everything contained within and without, and all the world around swirling like mists. Everything in constant motion, even the rocks, everything in the process of degrading and reforming, everything sightlessly churning. I push Jones down the street in his stroller and an airplane passes loudly overhead, contrails streaming behind. Jones yells and points, his pupils expanding in the wonder of recognition. A cat slinks out of a bush and looks at us, considers things, and then begins a cautious journey across the street, each step the brushstroke of a great artist. We pass by a woman walking two dogs who pause to rummage through the rubble of some broken jack-o-lanterns on a lawn. They look up at us like the shadows we are, and then we arrive at daycare and a bird, unseen, chirps smally from a tree before emerging and rising beyond us in flight.

These are the text messages I sent my wife Rachelle on Monday:

*******************************

Me: Yep.

Me: Dropped Jones off at daycare and am now at the polling station getting ready to cast my vote for mayor!

Me: No.

Me: Mayor McCheese is not on the ballot.

Me: It is a shame. Not only is he VERY experienced, but he’s also delicious.

Me: I agree, we do underestimate taste when it comes to appraising our candidates.

Me: I think Doug Ford would have been a buttery mayor, like wagyu beef.

Me: John Tory? The current mayor? Beef jerky.

Me: He looks creepy. Desiccated and plastic, like if you bred a dry roasted peanut with a Ken doll. Looks like somebody from Blue Rodeo who suddenly got really, really old!

Me: No.

Me: No, that’s not a “dig” at Jim Cuddy.

Me: All I’m saying is that his opponent, Jennifer Keesmaat, has aged pretty well.

Me: What?

Me: Look, all I mean is that she looks as good now as she did 15 years ago. Let’s smash the patriarchy and vote for her!!

Me: Oh.

Me: Well, when you put it like that I guess it does sound a bit like I’m going to smash the patriarchy by voting for a woman I think has aged well.

Me: And you think that’s wrong?

Me: Okay.

Me: Well, in my defence I knew JK back in the day.

Me: Didn’t I tell you?

Me: But look, I also like her transit plan. Very smart. And let me assure you, she’s more than just another pretty face! You should vote for The Keezer!

Me: A nickname I had for her.

Me: Oh, that was so long ago.

Me: Lava Life, I think.

Me: We only went out on one date.

Me: Went to Maine for a long weekend.

Me: Yeah, I guess it was a three day date.

Me: What did we do?

Me: Well, she’s a HUGE Stephen King fan so we went on a tour of his house in Bangor.

Otherwise, we just drank some wine, walked the beaches, talked policy. Stuff like that.

Me: Hunh!

Me: Hadn’t thought about that, but yeah, Stephen King’s house is my screen saver.

Me: Look, I hadn’t even met you yet!

Me: Rest assured, if you were running for mayor I would vote for you!

Me: You would organize the hell out of this city!

Me: You really would.

Me: And I LOVE the idea of making Toronto a Sanctuary City for all the lost animals of the world.

Me: You would be a way better mayor than JK.

Me: I would be a Russian bot for you.

Me: I would lie to congress for you.

Me: You wouldn’t believe how many laws I would break for you political ambition!!

Me: People would be screaming at me every  goddamn time I tried to eat out. You can bet your bottom dollar on that.

Me: It’s true. You are the fire with which I burn. You have all of me, my love, you always have and always will.

Me: Yes.

Me: Absolutely. You have my word.

Me: I will change my screen saver.

As many of you will have heard, I have started a weekly Podcast with Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund.

This is an excerpt from our most recent episode:

**************************************************

Me: Before we start today’s Podcast I have an announcement to make. On our last broadcast Heidi made some remarks that were very hurtful to some beloved members of our community.

The appalling statements she made might even be considered an act of violence in and of themselves, and let me say unequivocally that we here at The Breakfast Club have always, and will always be, great allies to all of our friends in the SCBDB community. Your struggle is our struggle, and we will not tolerate any sort of hate speech, calls to violence or prejudice against you and those that you love. You are our family. We love you and stand beside you. I want to take this time now to formally apologize to all Squirrels, Cats, Birds and Dumb Birds who were wounded by Heidi’s words. We are profoundly sorry.

Although Heidi has been a mostly loyal dog to my family for nearly a dozen years, I simply cannot excuse her behaviour, and so she has been removed from the Podcast, effective immediately, and sent to live up in the country with my wife’s parents where she will undergo prolonged sensitivity training.

Taking her place will be Margaret Atwood, one of the supporting actresses from the hit TV show The Hand Made Tale.

Atwood: The title of the show is the Handmaids Tale, and I was the author of the novel upon which the successful TV show was based, not a supporting actress in it.

Me: Please don’t interrupt.

Atwood: You have more important things to say, do you?

Me: Nuts! Now I’ve lost my place!

Atwood: Yes, of course you have. A straight, middle-aged white man with no discernible talents suddenly adrift in a changing world. One day you wake up to discover that you’re not one of the good guys at all, but are actually an enemy of the people, an enemy to all those you never heard, saw or even thought about in all the decades you stomped so blindly through this world. Now that the shell of your status has been cracked open to reveal your mediocrity and fear, it must be so very difficult for you! And how have you responded to this sea change, Michael, to being revealed so nakedly to all whom you ignored? With hostility and defensiveness, of course, with a desperate attempt to portray yourself as a victim rather than a victimizer. So yes, I can see how you might feel that you “lost your place.”

Me: I WAS PATROL OF THE WEEK IN GRADE SIX!! I WAS AT THE BARRICADES KEEPING THE WORLD SAFE FROM TYRANNY, GODDAMNIT!! NOBODY CAN TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME!!

I have no idea why the guy brought it to me, other than to remove it from his sphere of responsibility, but it felt like a test. Here, I present you with suffering, what will you now do?

The squirrel lay in a blue recycling bin, ontop of some gravel and a piece of tarp. It’s body no longer worked the way it always had, and whenever it tried to heave itself into an upright position, it could not. Imagine the effort– the desperate and complete effort– it must have taken to do that, again and again and again. The eyes of the animal were terrified and dull, and it seemed obvious that it was dying.

I placed the recycling bin in a shaded place, and then brought out some water and nuts, hoping that over the course of the night it might somehow recover, or die as nature had ordained.

I woke up the next day to see that the animal had lifted itself from the box, travelled perhaps 25 feet, and collapsed on the street. It rose to 40 degrees that day. The situation had become worse, and I could see that my actions had been a feckless half measure, designed to make me feel better more than actually help the squirrel. If I had more courage, I would have killed the squirrel. Or I would have picked him up with my hands, wrapped him in a blanket and carried him into the cool of the apartment. I would have done more than the bare minimum necessary to excuse myself of moral repsonsibility.

It’s funny, when we’re on social media we appear so responsive to suffering, so brave. We stand in solidarity. We sign petitions. We boycott and shame. We make bold proclamations, as if calling troops forth to battle, our virtue and sensitivity shining like fires. But in the real world? When we’re actually called to suffering?

Well, I didn’t do much. My efforts were just enough to make me feel better, you know? I got the squirrel onto the grass, tried to shield it from the sun, and once again set out nuts and water.

As I sat at my desk I could see the squirrel through the window as it lay immobile, occasionaly spasming as it tried to right itself. Other squirrels were arriving, not to help, of course, but to take the nuts I had laid out. It was unbearable to watch, and so I called Animal Services.

They arrived, plucked the squirrel up off the ground with an elongated grabber, swiftly put it into a cage, thanked me for my, I don’t know, participation, and then left. And that was that. The animal’s suffering, the animal’s death, was no longer my responsibility.

Whatever the test was that I was given in the form of this injured squirrel, I am sure I failed. And I cannot help but think of myself online, up to my neck in this absracted reality where we’re all so certain we know what the good is, and how to accomplish it. But when I was literally handed a small opportunity to alleviate another creature’s suffering, my intercession was insufficient, and the unintended consequences of my actions had made matters worse.

I will try to remember this as I move through my days.

As many of you will have heard, I have started a Podcast with Heidi, our Miniature Dachshund.

This is an excerpt from our second episode:

*************************************************************************

Me: Hey! Welcome back to The Breakfast Club with Heidi and Mike!!

Heidi: Heidi hungry! Where Heidi breakfast?

Me: We talked about this. You’re supposed to say, “We’re all bark AND all bite!” after I introduce the show.

Heidi: Heidi no say lame catch-phrase, Heidi never say lame catch-phrase! If Heidi in Breakfast Club, Heidi want breakfast!!

Me: Whatever.

Heidi: ( Growling sounds)

Me: Here’s a liver treat, okay? Now let’s just do this, dammit. Alright! Well, that sure was nice of Madonna to stop by to chat with us on her 60^th birthday! She’s quite the woman!

Heidi: Madonna big influence on Heidi. Very big.

Me: What do you mean?

Heidi: Madonna help Heidi discover her feminine power. Help Heidi be sexually liberated.

Me: I have to say, I was really suprised to find out you’ve had more sexual partners that she has.

Heidi: Heidi very cute. Heidi always very cute, but Madonna help Heidi understand power of cuteness and unleash sex beast within. She gave Heidi Big Dick Energy.

Me: How many partners did you say you had?

Heidi: Heidi no say, but Heidi not finished. Heidi still counting.

Me: You have to respect that.

Heidi: Heidi Alpha. Pack always respect Alpha. Madonna understand. Pitiful four-eyed two-legger like you never know feeling of Alpha, never understand.

Me: Well, maybe we should move on.

Heidi: Heidi not saying Vanilla Ice. Not saying not Vanilla Ice.

Me: You had sex with Vanilla Ice???

Heidi: Heidi no say that.

Me: What are you saying?

Heidi: Heidi mysterious. Only see Heidi through glass darkly.

Me: Whatever.

Heidi: You stupid face.

Me: Personally, I thought Madonna was kind of dull and I was really suprised by how weak her handshake was! That’s what struck me the most. It was creepy.

Heidi: You creepy fart head!

Me: Moving on.

Heidi: Creepy fart face!!

Me: Moving on.

Heidi: Creepy fart brain!

Me: Bad dog!! Bad, bad dog!!!

Heidi: Ha! Heidi good dog! Heidi Alpha dog! You bad dog! You very bad dog!

Me: Whatever.

Heidi: You like when Heidi talk to you like this. Heidi know. She see history on laptop.

Me: I was researching Madonna for this interview.

Heidi: Not naked interview.

Me: ( Sigh)

Heidi: You no have Big Dick Energy. You have stinky fart face energy!

Me: ( More sighing, a few seconds pass) So, what’s your favourite Madonna song?

Heidi: Heidi like “Don’t Tell Me.”

Me: “Just Like A Prayer,” for me.

Heidi : Should be “Like A Virgin.”

Me: Okay, well it looks like we’ve run out of time, thank you all for tuning in to The Breakfast Club with Heidi and Mike!!

This is an excerpt from our debut episode:

********************************************************

Me: Hey! Welcome back to The Breakfast Club with Heidi and Mike!!

Heidi: We all bark and all bite!!

Me: We sure are, Heidi, we sure are, and I have to say, that was a fascinating interview we just did with Muffin the cat! I mean, WOW, what an interesting cat!

Heidi: Heidi want to barf.

Me: What do you mean?

Heidi: HORRIBLE interview. Heidi no care what Muffin think about immigration or Kim Kardashian getting mom-shamed for straightening daughter’s hair.

Me: Well, you have to admit, Muffin did have some pretty interesting and unique ideas about how to solve the global immigration crisis.

Heidi: You want crisis? Heidi give you crisis. Name Muffin is crisis. So stupid! Why moron cat named after food? Why after crappy food? Why not Steak?! Why not Cheeseburger! Why not Twizzler?

Me: Twizzler is a good name!

Heidi: Heidi like Twizzlers.

Me: Me, too.

Heidi: Twizzlers a uniter.

Stupid Muffin don’t deserve name Twizzler. Such a fat, lazy animal! Muffin never hunt, just lie there! Make society hunt for her! Heidi hate that!

Me: Well, Muffin is an indoor cat.

Heidi: Heidi have no time for Muffin excuses! Muffin staring at diabetes, Heidi tell you.

Me: And hey, for those of you who have to commute today, you should know that traffic along the DVP is slow, so you might want to explore some other routes…

Heidi: Look. Heidi know this controversial, but Heidi think it wrong to normalize cats. Cats evil.

Either you against evil cats or you for evil cats. Not complicated. Not nuanced. You have cat on show, you cat apologist. You part of problem.

Me: The Heidi Hot Take! I was wondering when that was going to happen, so tell us, how can you be certain that all cats are evil?

Heidi: You got to break some eggs to make omelette. Way of the world. Dog eat cat eat other dog eat it all.

Me: Okay, well, maybe now would be a good time to open up the show to callers! Anybody out there have an opinion on whether it’s wrong to normalize cats or not?

Heidi: Ha! Heidi laugh!

Me: Why?

Me: No way you have callers! Also, Muffin really stink. Heidi almost faint from stench. Heidi need danger pay! You think cats clean because always licking paw and brushing self, but just OCD. Cats mental in the head! Cat hygiene fake news!

Me: While we wait to get connected to our first caller, it’s time to provide you with a message from one of our sponsors. Support for The Breakfast Club with Heidi and Mike comes form MailChimp…

Heidi: More than 7 million businesses around the world uses MailChimp…

Me: To send newsletters, messages and deliver high fives…

Me: Heidi?

Me: Heidi, it’s your turn now.

Heidi: Oh! Heidi sorry. Licking herself. What words?

Me: You say, “MailChimp, sends better email!”

Heidi: MailChimp, sends better email!

Me: And now you bark, Heidi.

Heidi: Heidi no bark. No chance. Heidi have self-respect.

Me: Okay, still trying to connect with our caller, just be a sec.’

Heidi: Ha! Heidi marry Muffin if actual caller. No way caller. Heidi can smell your lie sweat. Heidi know.

Last weekend Rachelle and I took our nearly three year-old son Jones to soccer.

He’s too young for soccer, as are all the other toddlers in the class, but it still felt like a virtuous way to spend the morning. And so all the parents sat on the picnic tables scattered about the unmowed patch of green that was the field, while rosy-cheeked Coach Nancy, all of 13 years-old, benevolently led our children through their “drills.” This, a summer job she would surely look back upon as amongst the best of her life.

Above us turrets set against an easy, deep blue, and in front of us about a dozen children either ignoring or doing some improbable variant of the stretching exercises Coach Nancy was encouraging them to follow. Jones was in the totally ignoring her camp. Putting the tiny, orange pylons on each of his arms he declared himself Iron Man, and after acting like a robot for a minute or two, carefully placed one of the pylons on my head.

And then he ran away and across the field to the perimeter where beds of stones lay waiting for his curiosity. He marvelled at them like the precious jewels they were.

He then climbed a tree. Saw a bear. Heard a plane. Did a somersault. And as he was riding a horse back across the field to the rest of the Little Kickers, he stopped very suddenly and pointed up at the sky shouting, “The moon!” And there it was, a barely visible silver edge up there in the morning sky–classical music drifting over from a nearby estate that just sort of hung there, as if a cloud, as if the most natural thing in the world.

Jones then found another bed of rocks, this one directly in front of a fenced gate. He started to throw the rocks, playing a game in which the point was to hit one of the metal bars of the fence and make a “ping” sound.

Unknown to him, a small crowd of Asian tourists walking down the street to Casa Loma had stopped and were watching him as he went about his joyful labour. When he came close, they would all lean to the side, softly exhaling an “Ooooh,” and then when he made the “ping,” they all shouted and applauded,  and Jones spun around, utterly amazed at this encouraging surprise, and so happy– happy, like this was and always would be the world.

A beautiful woman in a sundress,  her hair still wet from the morning shower, was trying to unlock a door. The sun was falling upon her, the wooden porch, the entire red brick face of the home. She didn’t have the right key and was struggling with the lock, with how her morning was assembling itself, and she tossed her head back in frustration. Tiny, almost imagined droplets of water were cast from her hair and caught in the sunlight, and everything seemed to stop for a moment. 

And then a raccoon, having slipped from night into day, emerged from behind a tree. With his detached animal knowingness he stared directly at us. Jones, astonished, squealed at the miracle, while the raccoon, keeping to the shadows, disappeared back into the night of some protective greenery. Up at the corner, at the mulberry tree and raspberry bushes,  so many berries had been crushed on the sidewalk that they looked like paintball splatters. There were berries hanging above us and growing from the earth beneath us, and it was like we’d passed into a different realm and were now moving through a fertile, green tunnel. As I was picking a raspberry for Jones, a woman sprinted by us toward the subway. Plugged into her iPhone, with a knapsack on her back and a briefcase in one hand, she was ready for the big meeting, ready to present the best version of herself to the world. She was moving fast, like an athlete who still retained her running form from college, days that had recently started to feel further and further away. 

An older man, immaculately dressed in wardrobe that looked from another century, ambled up the street coming to pass a college-aged woman wearing a bright yellow dress. Her face was still new, and she carried with her a pronounced, heaving limp that was mysterious and beautiful and sad, and when she smiled past us, there was the unexpected scent of clove cigarettes and skin cream. A butterfly then appeared and it was a sign. Perhaps a spirit guide, and Jones declared that we must follow it, and so we did– everything around us like still lingering dreams from the previous night, only now beginning to fade into the waking day.