Eulogy for a girl's best friend

I loved her from the moment I saw her. Her big brown eyes looking up at me as she cowered in her cage.
I had been walking other dogs at GRA Canada that day. And every time I came back into the barn, I caught her gaze.
"What about that one?" I asked Bill and Freddie, the generous couple who owned this greyhound rescue operation, pointing to the cowering pup.
"You don't want her," Bill replied. "She's been through a lot. She's broken. How about this one?" He pointed to a male greyhound with a big smile and a bigger personality.
I looked back at her, at those big brown eyes, at those shuddering ribs, at her matty coat.
"I will take her!" I proclaimed.
He tried to talk me out of it.
"That dog has been through too much," he said.
So have I, I thought.

Three days later, she was in my car and we were heading home. She farted the whole way.
"Don't poo!" I yelled. "Don't you poo!!!"
It was hysterical and unnerving at the same time.
She was panting and farting.
We were both scared.

Bill and Freddie were right. Beamer (as I began to call her. A short form of her former racing name: PNP's Moonbeam) was indeed broken. She had been through a lot. She was a lost soul.

But so was I.


So together we tried to figure it out.
I showed her how to walk up and down stairs, how to have fun, and how to trust people again.
She showed me how to be selfless, provided an example for humility, and, ironically, taught me how to trust people again too.

She was, by all accounts, my very best friend.
I took her everywhere.
If I was invited to a party, I brought her.
If I was having dinner on a patio, she slept on the floor beneath the table.
If I was going to play sports, she was my number one fan on the sidelines.
If I was going to the pet store, she was by my side.
If I was going for a run, she took the lead.
If I was hiking on a trail, she fearlessly led the way.


She was not my dog. She was my heart.

She was also hysterically neurotic. And quickly forgot the perils of her caged racing life and became a diva (to my own fault, I admit) in her second chance at life with me.
If her bed wasn't fluffy enough, she would huff and storm off.
If her food wasn't in her bowl exactly at 5, she would stare me down.
If I wanted to play with her, she rolled her eyes and lay in the sun.

She was a character in her own right. Neurotic. Loveable. Beautiful. Hilarious. Fun.

She was also a gentle soul.
She taught me so many lessons in our time together, I doubt that I even know all of them.
She was never ungrateful to see me walk through the door. You just can't buy that kind of love.
She was intuitive. Everytime I had a bad day at work, a hard day with a boyfriend, a tough call with family, or a bout of homesickness, she knew. She would tip toe over to me, head down, and put her head on my lap. I'd stroke her head, for hours sometime, deriving calmness and love from every stroke.
She fixed me every time that I felt broken.
And to think, I adopted her so I could fix her.


With her, I was the the biggest kid. Running wildly in the backyard, arms flailing, receiving enormous joy from watching her run circles around me.

With her, I was a desperate parent, rushing her to the vet when she stepped on glass, got nipped by a squirrel, had seizures while throwing up, and eventually broke her back. Begging doctors to do everything and anything to fix her.

With her, I was a baby. I cried when she wasn't feeling well. I welled up when she was broken.

With her, I was the stern bad cop, but never for long. I would scold her for eating her own poo, for nipping at other dogs, for not listening to me when I called. Then I would laugh at her big brown eyes, so apologetic, and invite her for a nap on the bed.

Don't get me wrong, Beams was a terror, too.
Like the time that darn dog opened the refrigerator, carried all of its contents – salad dressing, soya sauce, sesame oil, etc ~ to her bed and had a feast in my absence. I endured 36 hours of "ass-plosions" there after. But the girl did not learn her lesson.

There was the time that we were at Courtney's cottage, and she walked nonchalantly off the deck and into the lake, as if she could walk on water. She plunged to the bottom with a look of "what the heck?" on her face. Diana jumped in and brought her to the surface. I pulled her back on to the deck. Turns out that in addition to a mild case of embarrassment, Beams also picked up a big parasite from the experience. And 6 hours later on the drive back to Toronto, her second case of "ass-plosions" ensued.


When my brother and sister bought their new farm, Beams and I went to visit. We toured the empty farmhouse gleefully, so excited to see this dream become a reality. And then Beamer marked her territory in each room. "Your dog is peeing on the carpet!" Geoff said angrily. "She doesn't pee on carpets," I said. Standoffish. Insulted that he would accuse MY dog of such bad dog behaviour. And then Beams came into the living room and peed in front of us. Proving Geoff right.

There was that time that she actually reverted back to her dog heritage and out of the blue started chasing a stick with her friend Milo in the park. Matt (Milo's owner) and I looked on stunned. "I think she is playing" Matt said, dumbfounded. I had never seen it before. And then, three hours later when Matt and Milo came over for dinner, it was evident that what happened in the park earlier that day, the sudden burst of dog-like playfulness, should stay in the park. Milo came directly over to Beamer to plant a big kiss. Beamer growled. Nipped. And reminded him that under no certain circumstances were they friends.
And so, the park incident was forgotten. Just another notch in her belt of obscure and unpredictable behaviour.

"She's the best dog ever" I said to my friend Bernadette as I tried to sell her on looking after Beamer for me for a week. "She's perfect." I may have oversold. Three days later, Bern called me from Vancouver "Something is wrong with Beamer. She is peeing everywhere!". Turns out, a friend of hers had moved into the apartment, and had kicked Beamer out of the bed and back on to the floor. You know, like where a dog should be? Well, Beamer was mad. And peed on her bag. Her clothes. Everything. "I swear she's never done anything like that before!" I said embarrassed. Damn dog.

She came with me to work almost every day for 3 years and won over the hearts of many colleagues. She also won over their uneaten lunches, the office party cake, and the jeans of a few delivery guys that she didn't like.


She ate a pigeon in the courtyard of our apartment complex once.
She also nabbed a squirrel by the tail.
She had a stand off with a skunk in which she actually survived unscathed.
She had a nipping match with her cousin Mocha.
She got lost in Goderich once and had the whole extended family on the lookout.
She ate a woodchip and ended up in the ER.
She spooned every friend who ever slept over on the couch.
She demanded belly rubs.
She ate her food without chewing.
She barfed on the carpets so many times that the steamcleaner has paid for itself 10 times over.
She camped.
She ate centipedes from the shower.
She turned her nose up at store-bought kibble.
She won the love of strangers instantly with a glance.
She was called "a dear" more often than Bambi
She convinced her dogsitters Matt and Ruth to get her a Big Mac meal through the McDonald's drive thru. "It was her eyes!" Ruth said in her defence "I couldn't say no to those eyes. So we biggie-sized her fries!" Ass-plosions soon followed.
She helped our guy friends pick up girls.
She smiled with the wag of her tail.
She crossed the country with me crammed into the back seat among picture frames, mirrors, and bags and never complained once.
She became the "family dog" in Kitsilano. Everyone loved her.
She was invited to more parties than me. If I said, "I don't think I can come tonight." the next question would inevitably be "Can Beamer?"

She was cunning and conniving, a brilliant food thief who left no stone unturned, no plate unlicked, and no countertop uncleaned.
She sat with me, atop many a cliff, soaking in the sunlight, the fresh air and the view. And it was heaven on earth.
She was a role model for being alive. She did what she wanted, when she wanted to, without a care in the world. And then she came home and gave all of her love to me. She was the most selfless being I have ever met.
She was faithful and loyal and loving to me to the very last beat of her heart. I only hope that I was worthy of such devotion.

Her only fault, really, was that her life was too short.

She was my running buddy. My pal. My family. My sounding board. My business partner. My shoulder to cry on. My therapist. My comedian. My confidant. My diary. My life. My heart.

She was an angel, and now she walks among them.

I love you Beamer.
Thank you for saving me from myself.

I bought a new bike

I bought a new bike. It's a piece of shit.
I got it off of Craigslist for $10.
It was posted for $40.
I arrived at the seller's apartment this morning at 7:30.
She was outside beside her new shiny bike tinkering with the old piece-of-crap bike.
I kind of wanted to snatch her cool new bike before she knew what happened. But I'm not that kind of girl and the dog isn't so good at riding doubles.

"Hi!" I said.

She was crouching down. Her thong was six inches out of her pants. Her entire butt was basically exposed.
Too much crack for 7:30.

Anyway, I looked at the bike.
It was obviously crappy. Old. Well-ridden. Rusty. Ripped seat.

Should I actually purchase this piece-of-crap bike, I thought to myself, it would build character (plus some serious quad muscles!). I mean, it's no secret: I like my "stuff" new. And I like it expensive. And I buy things on instinct, not really on value for my money, prior research, etc.

Some may recall the 1992 Plymouth Sundance (another infamous piece of crap in my life) that I bought solely because it was blue. When the tranny dropped six months later, dad's face had "I told you so" written all over it. Sadly, rightfully so.

But I digress. This piece of crap purchase shows how my buying habits have matured.
Let me break it down:

1. I Immediately recognized that the bike was a piece of crap.
Example of improved purchasing maturity: 10 years ago, I thought the Sundance was a super car.

2. I also immediately started asking questions about small things I was noticing (low seat, stripped bolt, rusty handle bars, quirky gears, flat tire).
Example of improved purchasing maturity: 10 years ago, dad asked me to ask the salesman questions. I didn't. I mean, the car was blue. I wanted a blue car. Case closed, right?

3. I recognized, after my stealth recognizance, that the bike was indeed a piece of crap and that I would have to put a few dollars into it to restore it to a less piece-of-crap state. Which meant, there was no way I was paying 40 bucks!
Example of improved purchasing maturity: 10 years ago, even after dad mentioned the possible crappiness of the car and the need to wheel n' deal, I stood my ground firmly and paid the FULL asking price for that hunk o' junk.

So, I am the proud owner of a crappy bike that cost me next to nothing.
And, should I succeed in fixing it up (or paying someone more handy than I to do so), I will consider this wee purchasing adventure a huge success!

Now, for some of you that already know that I own an insanely expensive racing bike, let me explain why this pice-of-crap purchase makes sense: My Specialized Allez Comp is my baby. It is too good for riding to the market and picking up groceries. One small pebble could send me into a tizzie. And the parts are crazy expensive to replace. It's a racing bike and a racing bike only. It's like china in the cabinet in the dining room. Reserved for special occasions.

And, with my little Hyundai guzzling $80 in gas just for a 60L fill up and with the environment on a downward spiral into utter chaos, the least I can do is buy a $20 piece-of-crap bike and have a fun time riding it for all my daily errands!
(Assuming, of course, that I fix the seat and pump up the tire!)
Else it'll just stay locked to the railing on the back porch, like another metaphorical Plymouth Sundance.

Happy riding!

Capilano River

Just across the Lion's gate bridge on the North Shore is Capilano River Park. There are 26 kilometers of well-groomed trails through old growth forests, a man-made dam, and a salmon hatchery. I had explored the famed Capilano Canyon a few times before, teetering on the suspension bridge high above the river, but had never ventured onto any of the trails below.

Last Friday, with nary a cloud to be seen and 24-degree weather, Paul, our pal Mike, and I decided it was a perfect day to play hookey and to see what these trails were all about.

As with all of our hikes, we had a moment of insecurity at first -- there are 26kms of trails, yes, but we didn't know which one to take. Some of them looped. Some of them went on and on and on and never came back. We had 2 hours to kill before a Sushi Date with another pal so we were eager to have fun and not get lost (for once).

Our first loop was a short kilometre-long trail that ended up at a lookout onto the dam-created falls. It was wet. it was cold. It was breathtaking.


We marched back to our starting point and took another trail that gained substantial elevation. Before we new it, we were above the river at Capilano lake and looking down over the falls below. It was devastatingly beautiful. We paused, took it all in, carried forth.


Next stop: the Salmon Hatchery. We worked out way back down in elevation via a windy path, ridden with gnarly tree roots and breaks of sunshine through the canopy. At the bottom was a Salmon Hatchery with thousands upon thousands of Pacific, Chinook, and Wild Red salmon ... from minnow stage to just before release. The Hatchery releases approximately 600,000 salmon into our water system every year, to ensure a healthy population of fish to hunt, eat, and admire in our lakes and oceans. An admirable feat.


Eventually, we found our way back to the car, and our mini exploration of just a few of Capilano River's trails was prematurely over. (After all, there was sushi to be had! We couldn't be late!)

Beamer was sufficiently exhausted, and the boys were sufficiently sweaty. I got my fill of nature for the day. (And my fill of sushi later!)

Ah... summer in BC. Let the fun times begin!

1 girl + 1 boy + 2 cats + 1 neurotic greyhound = hilarity of the very best kind

After years of seeking adventure outdoors and across the country, adventure showed up at my doorstep. In the form of my boyfriend and his two cats, who moved in with me and my crazy greyhound in May.

There were plenty of naysayers (ourselves included), who were cautiously optimistic, but more often dreadfully pessimistic about the possibility of successfully merging our two lives and three pets together in a 1,000-square-foot apartment.

We pawned the dog off on a friend so that when the kitties arrived after a long flight, they could explore the house dog-free.
They were a little rattled, but quickly took to their new home. ... sniffing, scratching, rolling, purring, and leaving their hair everywhere.

"They like it here" said Paul.

"I'm going to get the dog," I replied.

We both shrugged our shoulders and exchanged grimaces.

As I walked Beamer home, we (I) talked extensively. "Listen," I said. "I'm sorry. You're not going to be happy. The house is different now. More people. More animals. Please forgive me. I'll buy you some treats. Whatever you want. Please don't hate me."

After the 5 block walk home, I was pretty much groveling at the poor dog's lanky paws.

"Ready?" I asked through the apartment door to Paul who replied with trepidation "I guess."

I clutched Beamer's leash tight, having seen her growl and run after many an outdoor cat.

I opened the door.
"I'm sorry" I whispered to her.

We came in.

Iris and Myra, her new sisters, were perched on the couch. Their eyes met. The cats sized up the dog. The dog sized up the cats. Then Beamer went to her bed, sighed dramatically (if she could speak, I believe what she meant to say was "what the heck is going on here, Kim?"), and lay down.

Myra sought asylum under the bed.
Iris backed herself into a corner and growled.

At least no one lost a limb.

And then, something miraculous happened.
Over the next few hours, the cats slowly came out of hiding and became more and more bold with approaching the dog. Each time, Paul and I held our breath. ("Someone's going to lose an eye. I know it" said Paul)
And each time, our furry companions surprised us with their general comfort and disinterest in each other.

In fact, by day 2 the five of us piled onto the bed for "group nap".
Here is a picture of Iris and Beamer sleeping with Paul.

Of course, although we are overwhlemingly surprised by the uneventfulness of their meeting, our pets have certainly managed to instill chaos in other aspects. For instance:

1.
Feeding time is nuts. When I call the cats to eat, I say "Come here, kitties."
They come. Then Beamer comes (because she knows "come here".) then the cats stop in their tracks, not wanting to eat near the dog.
So I shoo Beamer away and say "not you. the cats."
"Ok, it's fine kitties, come on" i say when the dog is settled in her bed.
And they come.
And so does Beamer.
"No wait, not you, the cats!"

Paul looks on from the other room laughing.
The dog, cats, and me are all standing, looking confused, wondering how the heck this eating thing is going to go down.
Finally, after 5 back and forth "Come heres" and "No, waits!", I give in, put the cat food in the bedroom, corral the cats, and close the door.

I fell on to the couch exhausted.

2.
My workout pants will never be black again.
I went to bootcamp this morning, and during the morning run warm-up, a friend in class said, "Hey! Paul moved in didn't he? How'd it go?"
I proceeded to tell her a few funny stories and generally how much laughing we've been doing.
Then, as I edged in front of her on a hill, she shouted ahead: "So does Paul have cats or something?"
I looked back, and gasped out "yah. why?"
"Because your ass is so hairy the cat might actually be on it!"

Remind me to pick up some pet hair rollers!

So the adventure at home continues.
And the outdoor adventures will soon too.
The weather is looking more like summer, the mountain snow is melting, and it's time to get my hairy butt (ha!) into the great outdoors!

You haven't raced until you've raced alongside 59,000 other runners!

On Sunday, APril 20, I embarked on a 10k run held locally here in Vancouver: The Sun Run. The fantastic thing about the Sun Run is that it is the WORLD's (Yes, the world's) second largest race in terms of number of participants. As of 9:00 AM on race day, 59,179 runners registered for the race. By the end of the day, more than 56,000 of them had crossed the finish line.
It was a site to behold.

Expecting mayhem, I arrived at the start line (or the vicinity of the start line) early. We started on West Georgia, a 6-lane road on the north-end of downtown. The entire street, naturally, was blocked off. The "start line" was more than a block. When I arrived, there were 10 city blocks, 6 lanes wide, of runners. It was a literal sea of people. Young and old. Fat and thin. Pro athletes and couch potatoes with ambition. It was inspiring to say the least.

Especially because, for a race called the Sun Run, it was a particularly cold and blustery day in Vancouver. The temperature was hovering around zero. It had snowed the day before. And the sun was fighting with some on-coming clouds to make an appearance later.

Because of the massive onslaught of runners of every ability, the race is organized to start in waves. Over each city block was an arch of balloons. Each colour designated an ability level. I was white. Smack dab in the middle!

The Blues went first (the wheelchair racers), then a few minutes later, the yellows (the pros), then the greens, then the whites (me), and eventually the purples, reds, and pinks. I officially crossed the start line 30 minutes after the race had begun. So as the crowd thinned out (only slightly... just enough for elbow room), it was uplifting and down-right amazing to see a sea of runners as far as I could see in front of me. And an equal sea of runners as far as I could see behind.

I usually don't smile mid race unless I see someone I know, am high-fiving, or am crossing the finish line, but I was pretty darn happy.

The pace, of course, is pretty slow for the first few kilometres. The more I tried to find a pace, the more I found myself stuck behind slow runners, skipping over people who stopped to tie their shoes, etc. Eventually, I just resigned myself to enjoying the experience of the run and not worrying so much about the time.

As a result, the time flew by.
So much to look at, so many people to befriend, so many landmarks to pass, so many bands to listen to. It was a frenzy and a feast for my eyes and my mind. So much so that I forgot about the running.

At precisely 1 hr, 1 minute and 4 seconds since the start line, I crossed the finished line. Slightly off my usual pace, my time wasn't terrible. I placed 14,018 out of 59,000 runners (and walkers). Wow! A top 1/3 finish! I placed 1059 out of 3814 women in the 25-29 category , and 4762 out of ALL women racers.

And, aside from a chilly northwest wind, it was actually a beautiful day for a run with 59,000 athletic comrades.

Even as I headed home, 30 minutes post race, I looked back at Cambie Bridge, a 6 lane bridge that crosses English Bay from False Creek to downtown and the bridge was barrier-to-barrier filled with runners, walkers, and cheerleaders on the sidelines.
It seemed that the whole city woke up and went running that morning.
It warmed my soul.
(and tired my legs!)

The sun finally shines. Naturally, I go for a hike.

All week there had been rumblings ... with colleagues, from friends, through the waitress at the sushi restaurant I frequent. Even Yahoo Weather was teasing me. Rumour had it that Saturday was going to be 21 degrees, blue skies, and paradise. The rumous spread like wildfire. I was among a slew on Vancouverites who were preparing for the onslaught of great weather by wearing sandals three days prior, getting the "summer clothes" tub out of the closet, and venturing outside jacketless.

Saturday morning arrived.

I woke up at 6. I had to be a work for 7:30. I groggily threw on some jeans, a tee, and some sandals. Threw on my vest, leashed up the dog, and opened the door to head out on our morning walk.

I opened the door. Forgetting, in my a.m. grogginess, about the good weather hype all week. I breathed in the fresh air. I looked east at the purple-red sunrise. I stopped. Dead in my tracks. The dog started whining. "Man alive," I thought. "I haven't seen the sun rise in months!" Not because I can't get up early. But because even on nice days, winter in Vancouver is fraught with thick cloud coverage.

I smiled.

"What a day!" I said outloud.

The paperboy (man) passed by, heard me and smiled. "''Bout time we saw some sun" he said with a smirk.
I wanted to high five him to seal our collective love for this morning. But I opted to head to the beach instead.

Now here's the irony of waiting waiting waiting for a day like this to show up: I had to work. from 7:30 until 2 or 3. I knew I would have a few hours to play post-work, but I was dreadfully disappointed to have to miss the peak of it for a few measely dollars and the opportunity to smell like grilled sausage and pancakes all day long.

I called Paul on the way to work: "Baby, cross your fingers for me that no one comes into the restaurant and I can leave early"
He obliged.

Sure enough, our usually buzzing breakfast joint was a ghost town. And by noon, I high-tailed it out of there, suited up for a nice hike, coaxed Beamer into the car, and headed to Lighthouse Park in West Vancouver, on the Southwest shore of Burrard Inlet and English Bay.

I had never been. But knew that the elevation was low (which is key for Spring-time hiking here. The mountain tops are still neck-deep in snow) and that the plants were abloom.

Lighthouse Park features a far more frequented set of hiking trails. Some are well carved and laid with gravel for the Sunday strollers seeking a dose of nature without the possibility of twisted ankles or tree-stump tripping. These trails were busy today with families, tourists, older couples, dogs, and more out to enjoy the day. Beamer and I, however, went in search of some more rugged terrain so we could feel far away. We like to escape.

The trails, even the less groomed ones, throughout the park are easy to moderate for hiking. It's more like moderate walking, which was actually perfect for my aging dog and for our first exploration of this park. After a half hour or so of interior hiking we came upon our first lookout. 15 minutes later, another one, Then another. Then another. We were hiking cliffside and the views were striking! Like an impressionist painting, the sky, ocean, and mountains were all shades of pastel blues and pinks. I was expecting a Degas ballerina to enter Stage Left at any time.


It was extraordinary. The sky melted into the mountains which melted into the ocean. It was breath-taking, quite literally. By the third lookout, we sat down and stared for a while. Burrard Inlet was buzzing with sailboats, full sail. The million-dollar yachts were cruising close to shore. The seagulls were chirping over head and the water was still like glass.

There is something so therapeutic about the West Coast. About this perfect combination of earth, wind, fire, and water. It's like I live in a kaleidascope. All the pieces, day in and day out, are the same: Montains, Ocean, Sky, Trees. But everyday they are sewn together in a new light. And every day it's another thing of beauty. It's really quite incredible.


It makes me feel so alive!

Sunshine and lollipops!

After some schizophrenic weather episodes including 3-minute hail storms, slushy rain fall, and thunder and lightening over the past two weeks in Vancouver, the newspaper has brought some good news: Sunshine. All week.
And where there is sun, there is hiking and biking and frisbee and running and climbing and barbeques and beach volleyball.
Stay tuned. It looks like the adventure in my life is about to be kick-started – full throttle!!

Bring on the sun!