If I planted enough Columbine, Coreopsis, Cone, and Cup flowers, could I label our yard an urban butterfly preserve and charge my neighbours admission, thus ensuring a revenue stream to support my ongoing and obsessive native garden fascination?
You know something weird? My dog is allergic to ragweed. Severely allergic. And he’s not the only one. A co-worker’s dog is apparently allergic to grass. Grass!
Granted we were warned by our vet that the immune systems of purebred dogs leave much to be desired. However, I am left with the distinct impression that something is amiss. Is it something in the ground, in the plants that he rolls and nibbles upon, or something in his food?
Last year, ‘round this time Marc and I were engaged in what seemed like an epic battle to find a diagnosis, a reason, an explanation as to why Kieran was suffering so profoundly. Along the way, we learned a great deal about dog and cat food. Regarding this particular topic, it turns out your average vet knows about as much as you do regarding nutrition for Canis lupus familiaris and even less for Felis catus. Add to this the fact that most nutritional textbooks, and seminars, are either written by or sponsored by pet food producers, and it’s enough to give you pause. The cult of nutrionism, so prevalent in the care and feeding of Homo sapiens sapiens, is unchecked and unquestioned in the lives of our companion animals.
But this is only one piece of the puzzle. Once food born allergens are identified and removed from the diet, what do you do if the chewing, licking and misery continue? If you are in a position to fund ongoing tests, you do so. In our case, a VARL test revealed the ultimate source of Kieran’s troubles: Ragweed. Which begs the question, where is this coming from? Is it that previously dogs simply suffered from mysterious ailments which either resolved or did not, and now we have the time, technology and disposable income to figure out the root cause? Or is this yet another sign of the ecological and cultural crisis we find ourselves in? That we -and our companion animals too, apparently – have become so separated from our natural environment that we do not know how to properly care for, and live with the world, around us?
Maybe it’s no so weird after all, Kieran’s allergies. Maybe it’s just one more sign that we need to continue this work we’ve started, chipping away at the nonsensical common sense that is shoved down our throats, to continue down this path that is leading us further and further away from the herd, but hopefully towards greater balance.
I love the flowers that force their way between the pavement and the curb. Tough little tendrils of green, where only grey was before. Next spring, late one night, I’d like to crawl down our curb, rubbing wildflower seeds and mushroom compost into the hidden cracks. Then I’ll sit back, and bask in the neighbourhood consternation that our curb boasts the most glorious weeds of all.
… And stripping off all the unnecessary layers that are floating around me like perverse veils. I think – I hope – this year will be about rooting deeply into the ground, into those things most treasured and valued, and growing from them. Family, a precious commodity. Integrity. Self-respect. Turning loose that inner flame to burn through all the bullshit while in search of the core. What’s important? What’s not? What can be discarded and released, and how to do so with grace and compassion? What is important, right now?
Family.
Art.
Travel.
And the growth and adventures that spring forth from all of these.
As a surprise, for my 30th birthday, Marc flew us to Las Vegas for a weekend. It was shocking and grating and addictive. Even the mundane is outsized and shiny. The escalators are curved, the Canyon in Grand, and the air is still and stifling. I don’t know if well ever go back, but I’m glad of the experience.
Sometimes I forget to do things, like remove tissues and scraps of paper from pockets prior to tossing jeans in the wash, or turn my out-of-office message on at work, or renew my website domain registration. Eventually, though, I remember.
Ah Björk, mad Icelandic pixie. How we love her music, even when we don’t quite get it. And by we, I am of course talking about me. Obviously. I suspect that Marc, with his superior French education, probably does get it, but doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it.
Right-click and save to your own computer, and use for all your personal avatar needs.
Marc is convinced that the neighbours will citizen’s arrest me if I proceed with locating and installing a bat house in our backyard. He may be right.
Strangely enough, it turns out a colleague’s son is currently on Everest. At base camp. Tonight I plan on sitting under my snapping, cracking, frayed and somewhat decayed prayer flags and pondering very high-altitudes.
Oddly perhaps, being from the prairies, I have a closet obsession with tales of mountaineering mishaps and high-altitude tragedies.