Road Kill

Since being laid off from my job at the Case-New Holland manufacturing plant, three years ago, this month, I've been struggling to find gainful employment.  Over the three years, I've bounced from one menial job to another, never really finding anything that I loved.  I really liked and was even proud when I worked for the city, last summer, but alas, when summer ended, so did the job and any prospects of being hired on a permanent basis, died with the turning of the leaves.

After that, I had a couple more terrible jobs, one working nights replenishing shelves at a local grocer, for minimum wage and only three shifts per week.  The other was full time hours for not much more money, but it was quite unfulfilling.  Pride in my work there, never ever entered the picture.  So when I lost that job, while it was a shock, it was sort of a blessing.  It was an alignment of the stars and the planets.  It was almost as if every bit of shitty bad luck I'd had in the previous three years, was all for helping me secure the new job that I have now.

Initially, when I got let go from the hotel gig, I'd hoped to get a day job, so as to avoid being away at night, but this job has me starting in the wee early mornings.  3am, to be exact, but it doesn't really matter, as my day usually ends in the late morning so I still have the rest of the day to spend with my "boy" (Monkey) or attend movie matinees or go to doctor appointments.  Whatever I want to do, I can and will.

My job is described as a "Line Driver".  Essentially, I work for a new courier company and I run parcels and packages up to the delivery personnel in three distinctive markets.  Prince Albert, Melfort and Humboldt, Saskatchewan.  Each day, I depart at 3am and drive a route that reaches about four hundred and fifty-plus kilometers.  That's about 280 miles for my American readers.  The early morning affords me the luxury of little or no traffic on the highways.  I work alone so I can crank up the tunes and sing as loud as I want.  Or as of Thursday, I (finally) figured out how to download podcasts to my phone and I've listened to podcasts for the last two days.

I really really love this job and my enthusiasm about it seems to have impressed my boss, too, so unless I do something really (REALLY) stupid, I don't see (fingers crossed) ever losing this job.  However, as much as I love it, it does have a drawback.  It's not the hours, nor is it the fact that I'm away from my "boy" for several hours.  It's not even the constant driving.  As I said, I love the job and except for being away from Monkey, everything is fine.  It's just the road kill that I see laying at the roadside every day.

Living where I did growing up, I was used to seeing the odd skunk or badger or (tons) of gophers bite the big one on our highways.  Even travels you'd see the odd deer.  Years ago, I even managed to accidentally hit an owl on the highway as it swooped to grab a recently deceased carcass, just as my vehicle intersected the same point on the highway.  There was a tremendous crushing sound and the little car that I was driving, bounced a couple times.  I was horrified, but continued on my way.  With no other choice, that is what I do nowadays when I drive past the menagerie of different animals sprawled out at the side of the highway, their lives long disappeared from their bodies.

I never realized that there were raccoons in Saskatchewan until last week when I saw six lifeless raccoons along my route.  I've also seen baby deer and I can't help but imagine the sorrow that the mother must be feeling when their young offspring is lost so tragically.  I've also seen a beaver and a couple foxes.  The saddest thing I'd seen, up until today, was a cat that had been hit trying to cross the road.

I only started this job, officially, last Tuesday.  Wednesday, went fine, but Thursday, I hit a poor bird that flew in front of the van I was driving.  If the van hadn't had an antenna, I'm convinced that it would've escaped, unscathed, but because there was an antenna, it was caught and it's neck was snapped.  I know this because it was stuck on the van, forcing me to stop to remove it.  I was beside myself, with grief.  I pulled it off the van and I'm not ashamed to admit that I was borderline in tears.  I've never been an hunter.  I don't enjoy fishing.  And, as much as I enjoy the taste of steak and bacon and meat, in general, I don't ever want to see how it goes from a living entity to my plate.  So seeing this lifeless bird and knowing that I had a hand in it's demise, I was devastated.  I pulled the bird off the van repeatedly saying how sorry I was.  I knelt over it for a moment, admiring it's beauty and the vibrant colours of it's feathers, but mortified that I'd killed it.  After a few minutes of silence, looking at the small bird, I continued on my way.  I was thankful, in part... No.  I was completely thankful that the bird had died instantly.  I don't know what I would've been prepared to do had it been alive.  The next day, however, it happened again.

The next morning, I was driving the big cube van when I hit a duck just south of Prince Albert.  Again, if I would've had the van I'd used the day before, I'm convinced the duck would've made it, however, I had the cube van whose box extended over the cab by, at least, two feet.  This duck looked panicked as I hit it.  I say panicked, because our eyes met just as it hit the windshield.  There was a heavy thud and the roof of the van shook as it bounced over the cab and against the cube.  I never stopped for that one, but saw it in the mirror, bouncing along the road.  I never saw a carcass in the days that followed and have speculated that perhaps it had lived.  That relief was short-lived as I then pictured it with a broken leg, causing it to not being able to swim.  Or a broken wing, which meant no flying south for the winter or escaping predators.

This is the kind of shit that plagues my mind.

The other morning it was quite foggy.  In the misty air, I passed three deer and a moose.  I tried to honk my horn as I passed them, in hopes of scaring them away from the highway that was growing more busy as the sun began to rise in the east.

Three paragraphs ago, I wrote that the saddest thing up until today, was a cat that had been clipped crossing the highway.  The number one saddest thing I've seen now and it'll be hard pressed to find anything more sad and depressing than this.  I saw in the ditch this morning two dogs.  One black and one white and shaggy.  It appeared that the white shaggy dog had been hit and managed to pull itself to safety in the ditch, where it had died, leaving it's companion, the black dog to sit quietly at it's side.  I was speeding past when I noticed the duo, but time seemed to slow right down, feeling like several minutes as I passed by.  I can't get that image out of my mind.  I can't imagine the sorrow that animal must be experiencing having lost it's best friend.

All the sadness that I witness along the highways, makes me all the more thankful to return home, where my cat, Monkey, meets me at the door, greeting me with kitty hugs and kisses.  I say I can't imagine the sorrow that these animals must endure when they lose their mate or offspring, but perhaps I can.  If I lost Monkey, it would destroy me.  Even now, knowing that he will live another ten years or more, I'm horrified to know that one day I'll come home from work and I won't be met at the door with kitty hugs and kisses.  This is a fact of life and it depresses me.

A Ballistic Projectile Explodes

Every second Tuesday, I try to meet up with friends to go see a movie and tonight was no different.  I followed my usual route, which has become almost routine, always without incident, however, tonight I had me a small fright.

There was a good song on the radio, to which I had the volume turned up and I was singing along with the singer.  Images of what the words meant were scrolling across my imagination, but as vivid as my imagination tends to get, I never take my focus off the road in front of me, nor the streams of traffic around me.

Apparently, the woman in the car next to me, must've been deep in thought, too, only her mind and attention were miles away, as she signaled and turned into my lane, almost striking my front quarter-panel.  I laid on the horn quite heavily, and she slammed hard on the brakes, avoiding an inevitable collision.  At the same time, I noticed a small dog in the back seat, an innocent victim in all this, whose face struck her head rest quite firmly, before his little head disappeared behind the door.

I was upset at this woman's ignorance and failure to shoulder check, but I was more concerned for the little dog.  Happy-go-lucky, one moment, looking out the window at a strange and wondrous world, then hurt, maybe even injured or concussed, the next moment.  I have an affinity for animals, as most do, I'm sure, so my concern was on that dog.

For the remainder of my trek down this street before I had to turn off, took less than twenty seconds, but my thoughts of the pooch lasted long than that, stretching over the hours since, to this very moment.  The image of that dog's face being smooshed into the seat back, keeps replaying in my head, in slow motion.  The poor puppy.

I bet the stupid woman blamed me for her ignorance, which is fine, but worse yet, probably hasn't even acknowledged that her dog became a ballistic projectile, exploding behind her.  I hope he's okay.

Fur Babies

As I flipped through my Facebook this afternoon, I came across a posting from Kevin Smith announcing the passing of his beloved pet, his "son", Mulder after 17 years of unconditional love and companionship.  My heart goes out to him in this time of sadness.  Not only because I'm a fan of Kevin's, but as an animal lover and a pet owner myself.  In the backs of our minds, as pet owners, we all know that we'll eventually have to bid farewell to our "fur babies", but somehow we tuck it away until it eventually comes to fruition, becoming overwhelmed with sadness, instead of preparing for it.

When I chose to adopt my boy, Monkey, I had to mentally prepare myself for that inevitable end.  I thought I could handle it, but since he came to live with me, nearly five years ago, I've come to realize that when that day comes, I'm going to be a complete wreck.  I love that cat more than I do anyone or anything else in the entire world.  I can only hope that he lives to be seventeen or eighteen years young, if not longer.

I recall as a young boy, my cousin getting himself an Irish Setter.  He named it "Sarge", which is a name he'd chosen years before and though (in my opinion) the name never suited the brownish red dog, his name was Sarge and that was that.  Sarge was "technically" my cousin's dog, but Sarge took to my uncle more.  All about the small town, my uncle could be seen driving his pick-up truck and there was Sarge, stoically riding shotgun.  That pick-up truck belonged to my uncle, but it also belonged to Sarge.  So much so, in fact, that no one could approach the truck when my uncle wasn't around.  No one including my cousin, the dog's rightful owner.

Eventually, my cousin grew older and left home, pursuing life's ambitions outside that small northern Saskatchewan town, leaving Sarge behind with my uncle.  They were virtually inseparable for his remaining years and eventually Sarge would pass away, leaving my uncle heartbroken.  The years since his passing, the subject of getting another dog has come up only to be stifled by my uncle, on the basis that he did not wish to go through the experience of losing another beloved pet.  I never fully understood that thought process until my boy came into my life.  Now I'm not sure I could ever replace him when he shuffles off this mortal coil.

My cat drives me nuts some days, from his nonsensical bawling to repeatedly leaving morsels of food scattered around the house or streams of projected vomit.  I've got an assortment of stains in my carpet that vaguely resemble the spots on a leopard's hide and deep scratches stretched across all my leather furniture and oak banisters, but truth be known, I would not trade a single annoyance for anything.  Every facet that drives me nuts, is also endearing to me.  Like I said before, I love that boy more than I do anything or anyone in my life.  Gun to my head, if I had to choose between my cat and the life of a (human) loved one, I can honestly say I don't know.  I'd probably choose my cat, as he's never deserted me, shunned me, judged me or given up on me.  The love of a pet is unconditional.  That means no matter what, they love you, where as I've found with my human counterparts, there's ALWAYS a condition.

For now, I'm going to enjoy every minute of every day of every week, month, year and (hopefully) decades of my time with that cat.  And if you're a pet owner, might I suggest you do the same.  I know that's what Kevin Smith has done with his pets and though his loss today seems insurmountable, he'll survive.  He's a strong fellow, who inspires me everyday in ways that I'm, consciously, not even fully aware of.  My heart goes out to him today.  CREDITS!

*The picture above is of Kevin Smith embracing Mulder.*
I dedicate this blog to them and to all pet owners who embrace the love of a pet.