You can take the boy out of the city

Earlier this year Keith and I were talking about selling the house and moving. Naturally I wanted to stay in Cabbagetown; there wasn't even a hint in my mind of not being in Toronto. 

Many of the things I love about Canada are those that are so different to South Africa. There should be a Facebook or Huffington post called "Things I love about Canada that are different to South Africa:"

- not having a car for the first 4 and a half years of our local life,

- walking to the movies,

- crackheads and a weird, very tall lady with fishnets and short shorts (you can really see everything),

- buying milk from Domingo at the corner convenience store,

- buying meat from Mark the butcher,

- Bulldog coffee,

- riding my bike to gym and pretty much everywhere else because Toronto is a flat city,

- high speed internet,

- the sense of community in Cabbagetown,

- the dog park,

- the friends we've made at the dog park,

- noise,

- lots of other things. 

The above mentioned post could also be named "Things I love about Toronto that are different to the County".

Keith has often been found surfing the net for properties on the water; it's always been his dream. 

I've often spoken about the desire to "give it all up" and leave a job that has, over the past few years, become more frustrating than stimulating. I've dreamed of the doggy daycare, the coffee shop and becoming a dive instructor in Thailand. We all do it, few of us try it and even fewer succeed at it. 

So I wasn't surprised when Keith suggested we look at homes in the Prince Edward County area, a beautiful half-island two hours east of Toronto that is much like Stellenbosch in the Cape. I happened to be going to Kingston, a city close to the County, and Keith decided to go with me and check things out. And he fell in love. And I didn't pay much attention to it.

Keith and I rarely fight. In the beginning of our relationship I avoided fighting because I thought that it would lead to a breakup which is not optimal in my mind as that would mean having to train a new partner. Keith would say that the opposite holds more truth but I could argue that my training is yet to be completed. There he would undoubtedly agree (reference this morning's interaction when I was told once again, for the trillionth time, that there was mud everywhere from the dogs' feet). Over time we have learned to fight and that has lead to very constructive communication except when we sell a house. And that happens often enough because Keith gets bored and change is fun. Changing house is one of the most stressful times because we don't seem to convey our messages appropriately and so there is a lot of scorpion snide remarking and sagittarian cloud-living. This time seems to have been worse than any others because suddenly I was faced with a move out of Toronto and I didn't like it. I love Toronto, my soul resonates with the city; I have felt a belonging here since the day I first arrived and I'm not talking about the day I emigrated, I am talking about December 1991. 

I couldn't decide if I wanted to move to the County, I was drawn to its beauty and the idea of the idyllic life and yet tied to the city. That lack of ability to make a decision caused more friction. We spent a few more weekends driving back and forth looking at homes. I remember when I started telling people that we were moving to Canada, the first thing they would say was "but what about the weather?". Similarly when I told people about a possible move to the County I would be told "oh, you will be so lonely, wait till winter (the weather is very important in Canada)" and it hit me that people are often very quick to warn you, from their perspective, about the mistakes you are about to make instead of supporting you in a decision irrespective that it may or may not be the best one. I realise that people want the best for us, and it's not that I didn't feel supported, and that our friend's were sad that we would be far away, but sometimes the wishes seemed to be accompanied by a caveat. 

I always tell my friends that I would support any decision even those that I didn't necessarily agree with because I truly understand that how their decisions are not mine and so who am I to not be supportive? I can say without a shadow of a doubt that even with the warnings, I felt the support. I am surrounded by incredible friends. Keith was getting more and more frustrated with me, and I know that he really wanted to try this out, and finally I sat down and made a list of pro's and con's and decided that we would make the move. The pro's list was long, the con's short and I thought to myself that this may just be the closest I would ever get to that coffee shop or dive instructor gig in Thailand. We agreed that the worst that could happen would be a "shit, let's move back". And knowing that we've taken bigger risks than this, and are lucky enough to do it, we did. And people were saying "you're living the dream". Within 24 hours of that decision the deal was done.

We move to the County in August. We were supposed to send the dogs to the kennels and spend a night at a hotel nearby but Tyson developed an eye infection and I wanted to keep a (healthy) eye on him so Keith stayed at the hotel and the dogs and I spent the night in an empty house on the floor. The house is beautiful, it's no bigger or smaller than any home we've lived in but the property is huge. We have rolling green lawn, a vegetable garden and we walk right down to the water that is often more ocean-like than the fresh water lake it is. The water is like glass in the mornings, crystal clear and flat and waves crash against the rocks during a storm. Tyson and Troy spend their hours wandering around a fence-less property, rolling and running but always staying within the invisible boundary. Friends come and go, instead of a lunch here or a dinner there we have sleepovers, and dogs visit too. The internet sucks. I will say no more on this issue.

In the few months since we moved I have hated living here and I have loved living here. "Things I don't like about living in the County":
- the need to drive anywhere to get anything,
- driving to the gym,
- internet (or lack thereof - I lied about saying no more),
- not being able to wander down the street,
- (the lack of) people.

A huge part of my life is still in Toronto; work, doctors, dentist, friends, restaurants and these all keep me going back and forth. A huge part of my life is in the County; Keith, Tyson and Troy.

I have learned that the grass is not greener on the other side. I have learned that the grass was green in Toronto. I have learned that only a select few of us will ever become successful at "the dream" but that we will always continue to dream. I've learned that pro's and con's lists are theoretical until experienced for real.

Today I realised that I was actually pretty happy here. And I realised that I was happy because the house is full of people. I went to the gym, got myself a coffee and came home to contractors doing work. They are a sociable, fun bunch of guys. They sing (badly) to the radio, they accept Tyson's supervisory activities, they stop to chat and they fill the house and our space. It is this that makes the difference. It is this that makes my day. I miss living in Toronto. I miss living in Cabbagetown. But if I had never left South Africa I would not have had Cabbagetown in Toronto. And if we had not moved to the County I would not have known how amazing that is. In 8 short years I have lived on 4 different streets and in two different cities. I have met people and made friends. I have experienced more than I could have, had we have stayed in one spot. There are never regrets; I know I will always look back and enjoy the memories of each experience.

I don't know if we will stay or not. I don't think it really matters. My #fwp (first world problems) may seem dire to me, but I know that as long as I am surrounded by people I will be OK. And I know for sure that I am surrounded by incredible people. I know that as long as Keith, Tyson and Troy are nearby we will always be OK.

And I know that one day I will look back and know for sure that I did live the dream.

42.3

The day I watched my father die

Often when I log on to Facebook I get the "Lawrence, we care about you and the memories you share here. We thought you'd like to look back on this post from 4 years ago." message. Generally it's something that makes me smile and thankfully not some rant about how awful my life is. It could be worse, it could be one of these 21 Annoying Facebook Status Updates that Need to STOP.  

We didn't have Facebook 30 years ago, we didn't have cell phones and if I remember correctly we had only recently started using ATM cards in South Africa. I was insanely jealous of my friends Janine, Elian and Mandy who had a cordless phone like the one they had on Dallas. Our phone numbers consisted of 4 to 6 digits. We lived in a small town in the Far Northern Transvaal in South Africa, called Pietersburg. My family had moved there from Johannesburg; my mother worked at the local hospital which in those days had a "white side" and a "black side" and my dad was involved in various businesses. I don't think that we had much money but we had a big house with a garden, pool and tree house. The tree house was a wooden floor at the top of a ladder in a tree. There were no walls. We routinely climbed up there dragging blankets, food, books and anything else our hands could carry and often left everything there. My parents would likely be accused of child endangerment in today's world and we would probably be discussed on HLN's Nancy Grace or dissected by Dr. Drew. We had a miniature Poodle named Snoopy and a Boxer, of course, and I rode my bike around most afternoons, went on treasure hunts designed by Janine's mom and walked to school and back. Our parents were at work while we roamed around freely and without any worries. 

The 1st of December 1985 fell on a Sunday, 2 days after my 12th birthday. My sister was 10 years old. My mom was 39, my dad was 54. It was summer and we had one week left at school; in fact I think I was going in to my last year at Primary school. My mother was on call and had to stay at home, close to a telephone so my dad took my sister and me to the grocery store to buy chips (crisps) to take to school that week for the end of the year parties. We drove to Checkers, parked and went inside. True to my nature (Keith will attest to this) I ran ahead and off down one of the aisles. I remember being one aisle over from my father and wanting to ask or tell him something and so I ran over to where he was, next to the flour, and as I approached him I watched him fall to the side and then to the ground. His face had a funny gray/bluish tinge to it and I started screaming. A lady ran over and started doing something to him that I didn't recognise at that time as CPR. Pietersburg was a relatively small town so it was no coincidence that someone there knew us, and my sister and I were quickly taken away by Aunty Bessie. I remember walking out of the store and noticing someone that I knew from school laughing at me because I was screaming and crying so hysterically. We were driven home; there was no option to quickly call my mom on her cellphone, and I ran up the driveway shouting to my mom that my dad had fallen down. 

A few hours later my mom came home with the news that my dad had died. I was later sitting in a chair in the living room and someone was looking at me sorrowfully, shaking her head, telling me that I had to now be the man of the family. People started arriving, food appeared and my sister and I played outside with our friends oblivious to the 360 degree change that had just hit our lives. A few days later Bessie and her husband drove us to Johannesburg to bury my father. My mother claims that he had some kind of premonition a few months earlier when he had woken up in the middle of the night and made my mother promise him that if anything happened she would bury him in Johannesburg. My sister and I didn't go to his funeral; we were apparently too young and so we stayed at home with my Grandmother. More people, more food and then back to Pietersburg. 

I often tell people that I have little to no memories of my childhood which is in stark contrast to those friends who can remember doing something at 3 years old. My mind is blank, what I see are photographs in albums or picture made up from stories that my mother has told me. Life went on after my father died, we went back to school and my mother sometimes went to work. Her major depressions started around then, or at least that's when I noticed them. I remember her crying one night when I mistakenly set the table for four instead of three. For some reason my sister and I were sent to a therapist and I remember lying in his chair, listening to him speak and feeling an intense floating sensation. Today I assume that he was putting me into some state of suggested relaxation and I suspect that in an attempt to help me deal with the horror of watching my father die in front of me in a grocery store he somehow wiped away my memories. It's the only explanation other than me doing it to myself as a coping mechanism or result of the experience. I have since undergone hypnotherapy to try and find those memories but they aren't there. And that's OK. But my life is shaped by everything that happened after my father died, because I know no life before. 

I have suffered great losses in my life, certainly no more or less than many people, but it is these that have shaped in a significant (and positive) way who I am as a person today. I am by no means the only one. Anderson Cooper said "I think that anytime you experience traumatic loss early on it changes who you are and drastically affects your view of the world". You can read about it here.

@andersoncooper gr8 show re girls abandoned. Yr comment on being defined by loss resonated - I lost my father & sister too at a young age.

— Lawrence Reiter (@LawrenceReiter) September 18, 2011

While I may not have the memories, I have some stories but it's taken me to my forties to understand the importance of knowing where I come from. My father was born in Romania, fought in the Israeli 6-Day war, lived in Spain, married in Rhodesia, lost a spouse and a child during childbirth and re-married (my mom) in South Africa. The younger me didn't take the time to ask questions and when I think to some stories my mother has told me I realise that they are often frightfully fabricated. My mother is a story-teller, my previous posts have alluded to her manic and depressive episodes, and she pretty much alienated whatever family we had. Despite all that I remember everyone on her side, I know their story, I picture their faces. My father's sister lives in Israel where there exists a huge family of children, grandchildren, cousins and friends of whom I know none. This is partly due to my mother and partly due to my younger self that didn't think it important to keep the connection. Till now. Suddenly I want to know about my father, I want to know what he was like, what he liked and hated, where he went to school and who his friends were. A few months ago I googled his name for the fun of it and happened across a family tree that included me! It was being maintained by my family in Israel and I made some updates and reached out to my father's sister. I received an incredible response not only from her, but from a cousin and a niece that resulted in trading emails and photos and a promise to visit Israel. I am planning to go next year. 

30 long and very quick years have passed. Today I honour the man that I know I resemble, who I hope I am somewhat like, who I wish I could have known, who I accept could not be here, who I plan to learn more about, who is remembered. 

42.2

Untitled

I realized today that I am the age my father was when I was born. Tomorrow is 30 years since my father died. Today is the first day of my year-long blog. Trump is blabbering away on TV about something; he started off with a meager loan of $1mil from his father.  We are bound by time and measurement. 

I'd like my blog to become something of a diary but in order for this to happen I will need to write with a certain degree of truth and that is not always practical in a public setting. When I was growing up people would keep secret diaries that were locked away in a box or under the bed. My sister kept one that I would break into every now and then and read about her elaborate plots to kill me. My sister suffered from no lack of imagination but her private thoughts were just that. Some diaries have been published (remember Adrian Mole and Spud?) and some blogs have become diaries. My friend Jodi kept diaries and also thousands of photographs that were in albums, labelled and cataloged and cross-referenced to their negatives. They were a diary too.

In a way I want you to become familiar with the people in my life, like characters in a novel or a movie. Yet at the same time there is no reason for you to know my private thoughts and stretches of imagination. And should I be ranting about the client that annoys me or the colleague that my colleagues hate or the friend that lies or the neighbour who doesn't pick up his dogs shit? (disclaimer: only some of these examples are real). I don't want to only write the good flowery stuff because Facebook does a pretty decent job of making my life appear to be way more glamorous than it is (my life is pretty good; I just don't post about annoying clients, colleagues that hate colleagues or non-picking-up-dog-shit-neighbours). 

Consider this the ramblings of someone attempting to set the scene. Luckily I only have a few followers so slim chance of losing interest; hang around though. I'm sure I'll come up with something interesting.

42.1

Happy Birthday to me

It is the eve of my 42nd birthday and more than a year since I last posted on my blog. When I started this blog I intended it to be a way to record my emigration experience and for that purpose it served me well. I never wanted to be that person who felt the need to post something every day for the sake of writing and so my subsequent posts appeared only when I felt that I had something relevant to say that was worth (in my mind) reading.

Or remembering.

We live in an online world; Keith was browsing through YouTube today looking at videos of some revolution and marveled at how much there is out there. Often I sit staring at my computer thinking of a something to add to the www and draw a blank, because there is so much out there, and also so little.

A lot has changed this year but it's been a great year and every now and then I remember something I forgot. So I've decided that this year I'll join the community of over-sharers and (attempt to) write something every day until the eve of my 43rd. Maybe this will be my own personal challenge and maybe this in itself will challenge me.

And maybe I will fulfill my wish so often described in my previous posts; to be remembered.

More to come. I hope.

Being one dimensional amidst an existential crisis

Whether I can truly put into words what I want to say remains to be seen (or read). I have written before about the mind-fuck that I call Surfing the Timeline and my slight obsession with the past, present and future from the perspective that I am now existing where an entirely different world was, yet on the same soil, and no doubt where another will be. 

I think about these things constantly, and more so when I am questioning where I am, and where I want to be. Right now I am wondering what the next step is, feeling pretty unfulfilled and unchallenged in my routine day-to-day, totally fulfilled in my social day-to-day and with the knowledge that it could change in a heartbeat as it has so many times before. 

Social media binds us. We criticize it and yet can't stay away from it. We wonder to ourselves how we existed without the ability to immediately contact anyone and yet we did. As did our parents who likely looked at us rushing to the telephone straight after school to call the friends we had just spent the day with, wondering how they coped with even less ability to connect. We feel a need to share information immediately and often things that are quite trivial. We "check in" EVERYWHERE, we upload pictures of EVERYTHING, we HASH-FUCKING-TAG without any thought as to why #'s were created in the first place. We blog.....thinking that the world truly is interested in what we have to say. We read articles about how one-dimensional this all is, that it creates depression and is an indication of how lonely people are, how self-centred we have become, and how the world we see online is so very far from the one we live in. 

But what if we just forgot about all of that for one moment? What if we let the self-indulgence be that, the instant gratification be instant. What if the "like"s of the instant uploads aren't that different to the joy we felt when we went to collect our spool of photos that took 1-hour to be developed? 

Imagine if we could surf someones timeline, who lived 500 years ago, and see what they posted? What a gift it may be to get an insight into their life. I can't do it for my dad, or anyone before him. I sure would like to. I can't do it for my sister, but given the notion that once it's out there, it's out there means that in 500 years someone may just surf mine. And they may get a glimpse into my one-dimensional (and pretty kinda happy) life. And because I won't have children, or grandchildren or great-grandchildren I may just be remembered. I often take my dogs through the cemetery and there are really old tombstones, some with the writing so weathered that you have no idea who they belong to. I read the names and the dates, and calculate how old they were in my head, and I wonder what their life was like; whether someone thinks about them today. Imagine if I could surf their timeline.

Pappa, can you hear me?

My father would have been 83 years old today. I wonder what it would would feel like to have an 83 year old parent at 40. I wonder what he would think of me now?

My sister and I used to laugh hysterically at the horrified reactions when we told people that inflation killed him. I come from a family that laughs; inappropriately; at everything. My father had a fatal heart attack two days after my 12th birthday while doing the grocery shopping. My mom was on call and at home because in those days all you had was a beeper and needed to be near the telephone in case there was an emergency at the hospital. It was the final week of the school year and my dad took my sister and me to get food for our respective end of year parties. He collapsed somewhere between the chips and flour and by the time I stopped screaming he was dead. In later years we would tell people that he took one look at the prices and, well here I am wondering about that 83 year old.

I remember little about the 12 years and 1 day that we spent together. Unlike many I have almost no memories at all before my father died, reasons for which shall be left to another blog post. It's like he didn't exist at all and what I do remember are because of a photo or something my mother told me. Essentially I grew up in a single parent household though those that know me well could argue even that point. But for all the craziness of my life, I am OK with this fact. I often say that given the choice I would have things no different. I say this from a spiritual belief that it was agreed to contractually in an earlier existence (yet more to be left to another blog post) and from a place of acceptance that this specific incident shaped me into the person that I am today.

I often wonder though what he would think of the choices I have made, my successes and failings. What kind of relationship would we have had? What would he think of cell phones and the internet? He loved Hill Street Blues, what would he like today? He grew up with Boxers and introduced me to my first of 5. Would he still be married to my mother? 

I like to think that despite not truly knowing him these thoughts still connect me to him and through me a piece of him still exists. One would agree just by looking at his photos. 

Happy Birthday Iosy (Joss); wherever you are. 

The two photos behind my dad hang in my office today!

Oh Canada!

 

This week marked the culmination of a part of our journey and a start to life as Canadian citizens. People have often asked "Why Canada?", and the answer is simple and yet difficult to explain. I visited Canada for the first time in 1992 on a trip around North America. I landed at Pearson in Toronto and felt like I had come home; it is truly unexplainable. I immediately felt like I belonged here and decided that one day I would. For the next 15 years I visited often, almost annually, and constantly spoke about one day moving to Canada. In the late 90's I applied for Permanent Residence and it was granted but I was involved with someone that did not want to leave South Africa and something else was holding me back; my family, my friends, my fear. I remember saying that I was tired of always saying goodbye to friends that were emigrating, and I wanted my turn! After a bad breakup in 2002 I almost got a job in Vancouver but that fell through and so I carried on talking about it. In fact, friends that had never considered it, chose Canada and emigrated during that time and I was still speaking about it!

When I met Keith I told him that if he wanted to be with me, then it would have to be in Canada. His response appropriately mirrored the person that he is when he said "I don't care where we live, as long as I'm with you". It would be 3 years before we finally made the move. 

I look back on the past few years that have flown by and I am amazed at how incredible our experience has been. From the moment we set foot on unfamiliar ground we felt at home. Despite my almost spiritual pull towards the country, there were moments when I felt lost or a little lonely but in all this time, Keith has never once wavered from his immediate love for this magnificent place. I have not regretted one thing. I believe that the way in which we embraced everything that is Canada is the reason why we settled so quickly, why we love it here so much and why we have always been happy. We moved into the right neighbourhood, immediately making friends and finding a community where we are on a first name basis with the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker (OK, the wine store clerk). And as the years have gone by, the circle of friends has increased. This week, after a particularly interesting conversation over breakfast, I turned to Keith and said "You know that we have been here long enough when 6 degrees of separation applies".

We have lived a lifetime in a short period; bought and sold homes, lost Dexter and Jessie and brought home Tyson, we've written our learner driver exam and took the road tests despite a combined driving experience of 50 years, we've learned the layout of the city, and found new restaurants to love and hate, we've called 911, wrote a Citizenship exam and passed! We have braved the snow.......and we love it. We have integrated.

I will never forget my roots and this post is not about being South African. This post is my thanks to a great country and it's people. I am honoured and proud to call myself a Canadian. 

But you may not really understand why? Click here and then here. 

@nixgilbertca

I consider myself lucky that I look back on my childhood and smile; a lot of people don’t. I loved high school and I don’t ever recall it being bad. There were occasional moments that one could today call bullying but it was part of growing up, and though I personally feel the term is possibly over-used today it was a different world. If we were naughty we were sent to the Principal’s office for “6 of the best” and despite it, I am no worse off, having proudly showed off the welts to my friends. Our parents didn’t ask us how we felt, or reason with us in the permissive way that I’ve seen kids treated today; we were told in no uncertain terms the how and the what; we grew up in the remnants of a “kids should be seen and not heard” environment mixed with “find out who you are”. In a recent heated discussion with friends I found myself saying “wait till you are 40” and “life was simpler in my day” and I believe it. I also said “you will say the same thing when you get to my age”. No doubt my mother said that same thing at some point in her life.

When you get to my age you have a 40-year history of friendships (I know, it’s an obvious fact). These include people that I have known since the start; many that I met along the way and some that are relatively new (again, not that much different to anyone else). They all bring some kind of meaning to my life. They are all vitally important to me because I am a social soul.

The nature of us being South African is that many of us are spread out across the globe. Many local Torontonian friends I have today still hang out with people they met at school or University. I remember feeling a pang of jealousy one day when a friend said that he had spent the day with people he had known for 15 years. The nice thing about technology today is that email, texts and Facebook help to make people feel closer and we likely know more about each others day now than we did when growing up, albeit our lives are probably not as exciting as Facebook makes them out to be.

I’m at a medical conference in San Francisco and yesterday I spent a few hours with a high school friend I first met in 1988. The cliché applied; I got into her car at the airport and it was like we had seen each other yesterday rather than the god-knows-how-many-years since we last hugged in person. She hasn’t changed much, and hearing that familiar laugh from so long ago instantly made me feel at home. We polished off a bottle of white, ate delicious food and we laughed the guttural loud kind that makes people at nearby tables look up. We reminisced, remembered moments we had forgotten, told each other secrets, I admitted the school crush and she ruined one of my fantasies.

Life moves fast, things happen, days pass, we get wrapped up in what we do. We forget. That’s normal. But we also remember, when these short moments come around, and they fill me with such warmth, they renew my soul, and they feel so goddamn good.  Thanks for taking the time out of a busy day, from errands and chores and 4 children.  Thanks for sitting in the sun with me. I’ll be back for more.

On turning 40, losing Mandela, and becoming Canadian

I am two years older than my mother was when she lost my father. At 13 I gave no thought to what 40 felt like though no doubt I must have thought it quite old. I am sure that my mother felt younger than she was and had the same types of conversations then as I do today with my peers. The time has flown, my friends have teenage children and while a small part of me mourns my youth that flew by, I have thoroughly enjoyed the gentle transition out of my 30s. The last decade was hard in many ways, yet rewarding in so many others. If I live to 80 then I am only halfway there however my sister was halfway there at 16 so the truth is we never know. And that's why I am happy to be where I am, know who I am, in the best shape I've been in years, able to look back with no regret and fervently hope that I age as well as Joan Rivers. 

Hearing that Madiba had died was no great surprise, we knew it was inevitable. At 95, he accomplished so much more than most of us, suffered hardships we will never endure and despite spending the better part of his adult years incarcerated lived a lifetime after his release from jail. For a moment I wished I was back in South Africa to be a part of the rainbow nation and I read and watch as much as I can with interest; noting comments for and against him, predictions of change in South Africa versus the fear of the mythical Uhuru and the international commentary on who shook hands with who and where the fake interpreter came from. I am proud to have actively lived his freedom, I knew a South Africa pre-end-of-apartheid and I lived the one post. I watched his release from prison and stood outside the Union Buildings at his inauguration. I was fortunate enough to have met him. He was taller than you would expect. He was quiet-spoken. He was legendary. But I also fled the South Africa he created, and that is the only part I hold against him; though blaming him is akin to blaming an apple for rotting in the sun (as quoted by a friend). 

I wrote my Canadian Citizenship Test last week. I studied hard and actually enjoyed learning the history of the country I now call home, figuring out how the economy and government works and achieving a score of 100% - set high the previous week by Keith. I have always loved this country and this is the inevitable conclusion of a 20 year old dream. South Africa will always be the land of my birth; nobody will ever truly understand Africa unless you have lived it; but I am Canadian. I am proud to be legally part of a country that works, where I feel my taxes do something; where I feel free and safe and where in comparison the government and people are free of the ailments I was so frustrated by in South Africa. 

But best of all, where I live, all you need to do to become the next Mayor is not smoke crack.

Remembering Jessica

Jessie was born on one of my saddest days, helped chosen by my friend Cherise, and came home to me and Dexter at 12 weeks old with a serious case of attitude that would continue throughout much of her life.

During one of her naughty moments, and there were many, I screamed out JESSICA! to which my sister, who lived with me at the time, added ANN! And so it was, that she came to be known as Jessica-Ann (Joo-Joo-Bell) Reiter Pfeiffer. 

Boxers tend to get lots of lumps and bumps and are prone to Cancer and so each time something popped up on either her or Dexter, we would run off to the vet to check it out. Most of the time they were benign but at around 5 years old I got a call to say that she had a Grade 2 Mast Cell Tumour on her chest. I was devastated and immediately Googled this only to be told by a series of online experts that my baby would probably not last another 7 months. Jessie had two surgeries to remove the tumor and surrounding tissue but they could not get clean margins i.e. there were still cancerous cells in the tissue. I did some research and found a Vet that specialised in animal Oncology and after an interview and assessment we were invited to join the secret programme. Once a week for about 15 weeks we would park in the lot outside the Park Lane Clinic in Johannesburg, hiding in the car and watching the side blue door of the hospital for movement. As soon as we saw the light go on and the door open, people with dogs and cats would run from their dark cars across the lot, through the doorway and down a flight of stairs to the Radiation Oncology Unit where Dr. Crewe would be waiting, needles in hand, to immediately sedate all pets upon arrival. You see, while the hospital administration were well aware of what was going on in the basement, the patients were not. And all measures had to be taken to avoid anyone finding out and complaining because we would then be kicked out. Once sedated, each patient would go through their individual radiation routine and then be woken up. As soon as they were able to stand on their own we would be whisked up the stairs and out the door with a "I'll let you know when the next session is" farewell. A few people would stay behind to scrub the walls, the radiation machines and clean the floors so that in the morning no human patient would be any the wiser as to the nocturnal goings on. Jessie ended up with a hairless patch on her chest from the radiation, and for the next 6 years I would send an annual follow-up to Dr. Crewe letting her know that the 7-month prognosis had far been exceeded. 

Jessie always had her tongue out, during the hot and humid Toronto summers she would walk around with the tongue getting longer and longer until it almost dragged on the sidewalk, resulting in people literally stopping to ask if something was wrong with her!

Jessie believed that anything the other dogs had actually belonged to her. She would walk around the house gathering up balls and toys and guarding them; not necessarily even wanting to play. Keith was always convinced that these tortured her because she would lie on the floor, with two balls, or two bones in her mouth, whining incessantly.

 She loved Dexter. Every morning when she woke up she would walk over to him and lick him, clean his eyes and wake the rest of us up for a walk.

She loved Troy. When she first met him as a pup she looked at him, walked over and pushed him to the ground. She was a no-nonsense, dominant kinda gal.

But she liked to lie on her back.

A few weeks ago Jessie suddenly wasn't herself. Up until then she had been in great shape. Tests revealed that she had a Cancer that required the removal of her spleen and half her liver. She seemed to recover unbelievable well and despite us deciding not to put her through any treatment, was given around 3 - 4 months during which time we promised her any treats she wanted and days filled with love. I think she knew what was coming and rather than force us to make the decision on when to let her go decided to do it on her terms, Jessica-Ann style. She died in her sleep 5 days later, at home, with all of us sitting by her side. Sarah Silverman recently lost her dog Duck and wrote a beautiful tribute to him. In it she said "I picked him up and his body was limp - you don't think about the head - it just falls". When Dexter died, it was a surprising, unfamiliar feeling. When I picked up Jessie to take her to the vet, it felt almost comforting. We let Troy and Tyson say a gentle goodbye. 

I wish that I could upload every photo and video of her because each one is touching and beautiful. Sitting here looking through them makes me laugh and smile, and though we miss her terribly we are blessed for a life almost 11 years long. Below is a short video montage; her best bits. She was a fierce girl, our Chatty-Cathy, she loved having her ears rubbed and snuggling with Keith in bed, she bounced when she ran and she always attacked the vacuum cleaner. She hated wearing boots, but she hated the salt even more. When Tyson joined us she immediately took on the maternal role. She was the last of her line and we will never forget her.

"When a friend passes on, they take a little piece of you along with them for their journey...."

Gustave Flaubert

I will make no apologies; a New Year's resolution

Scott Feschuk recently wrote this in an edition of Macleans: "I am saddened to announce that my New Year's resolutions, which imbued me with a sense of optimism and gave me hope that I could become a better human being, have died. They were less than a month old. They passed away quietly after a brief struggle with reality".

I loved that. It's the reason why I do not make New Year's resolutions. But I do believe in change.

We visited South Africa in December/January and it was a trip filled with great moments and not-so-great moments. Highlights included Christmas/Birthday Celebration with the family, the Game Reserve, great South African food, and seeing the country of my birth through the eyes of Canadian friends. The low-lights aren't worth mentioning however an interesting experience was noticing how, after almost 5 years, friendships have changed. People I expected to smother me with attention didn't, and people who I didn't expect to see at all, smothered me. It was not a low-light, it was a realization and that's OK. I returned home, to a place I love, filled with friends and experiences I would never have had, had we not taken the giant leap. I'm a lucky guy.

This year I will be 40 and I am excited to enter that decade of my life though I often struggle just with the concept that I have reached this age, be it middle, just approaching, or past - it's older than I often feel. When I woke up on my 39th birthday I said to Keith "I wish I was 40", he said "me too".

A friend and I have set ourselves a personal 60 day challenge. This is my New Year's resolution and we have set ourselves some goals that we will motivate each other to meet. This morning I decided that one of those is to remove myself from Facebook for that period. I tried a few months ago to get away from technology and speak more to people rather than communicate only through text or online but it didn't work and I quickly understood that this is the way of the world. Heaven forbid I become someone who speaks about how things were in my day...

Having said that, I log on to Facebook too often, and spend a ridiculous amount of wasted time seeing who checked in where (some of my friends insist on checking in to every place they pass on a daily basis), reading shared pictures, statements and bright-light ideas, learning about everyone's opinion (and I often wonder why you have to put that as a status - how about actually telling the person about whom you are opining directly) and my personal pet peeve; being subjected to someone's cause (I respect that you have something you now believe in but please stop shoving it down my throat). I've removed the app from my phone, along with many others so that I am no longer someone who constantly checks the (I love my) iPhone at a dinner party, coffee or gathering in the hopes that my phone is not broken and has received that exceptionally urgent message, status update or email.

I would love to catch up with someone and actually hear some news that I didn't already know from Facebook. And I think I need to read more magazines. And maybe blog more. So I downloaded a copy of my Facebook data, transfer my birthdays to my iCal (because I still want to wish you a Happy Birthday) and will decide if I want to suspend my account or just remain silent (because no doubt I will be back and I may need to log in and check something!). In doing my "how do I" research I learnt that if one has ever "logged in using Facebook", that if one uses that application, it will automatically re-activate a suspended account and then your friends think you couldn't go the distance and stay away. Facebook is not that easy to get rid of!

So I'm almost there. But then to my horror, I realized a fate worse than forgetting someone's birthday. I won't be able to check in to the Fran Lebowitz show next week, nobody will be able to comment on my beautifully worded memory status on the 4th anniversary of my sister's passing, and I won't be able to like your comment or comment on your comment. In essence, I won't be getting any attention and neither will you. Wonder how that's gonna work out for us?

If you are reading this, then I pray it's not on Facebook because that means that Networked Blogs has re-activated my previously (very recently.....or maybe not yet enforced) inactive Facebook account. If you are reading this I pray it's on Twitter (because I can't remove myself from every social networking site available to man), or because you are one of my precious 12 email subscribers. 

Everyone else on my Facebook friend's list will be none the wiser, may not notice, and will comment on my return, when I return that I've been quiet.

As they say about the uninterrupted vinyl record; "catch you on the flip side"

Anything we love, that loves us in return, never dies: A tribute to Dexter

Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened - Anatole France

In February 2002, a little guy called Dexter came into my life. I grew up with Boxers and always wanted another one but University living and then working my way into a career wasn't very conducive to having a pet.  Finally I had a home and a big enough garden and decided it was time for my very own Boxer. Little did I know the bond that would be formed with him.

It's amazing how quickly time flies and how much you forget. I guess that living in the moment (a good thing) means that you don't necessarily need to dwell on the past so it is only now, that Dexter is gone, that I find myself consumed by memories and in going through the thousands of photos and videos I have of him I realize how much I had forgotten.

Dexter, a brindle Boxer (whose registered name was actually Royce Ambach's Aleksii) came from the Tanyati line of Boxers, who are still being bred today. One look at any of the Tanyati Boxers and the resemblance is immediate. He was named after the main cartoon character from Dexter's Lab because he was a quirky little guy, with an active imagination, boundless energy and a happy face. The name was quite appropriate. Anybody who knows Boxers understand their boundless energy and a constant need to lick everything. You would often find Dexter standing beside me happily licking my jeans without a care in the world nor any intention of stopping. I constantly walked around the house with a huge wet patch on my pants due to excessive Boxer love.

In the beginning, life for Dexter was much like that of any dog in South Africa. In the mornings I put him and his sister Jessie (another Boxer who joined us a year after Dexter) outside and I went to work. The two of them had the run of the garden and a very large water bowl (we call it a swimming pool) during the day and when I went out at night. I taught them to sit on the step at the front door when I was driving into or out of the driveway until the gate had closed and they were very good at that. After a while, the sound of the gate opening would result in two Boxers sitting patiently on the front step. At night though, they would both sleep indoors and Dexter would climb under the duvet with me and curl up against my legs. Once fully grown he was a big boy and I am not ashamed to say that there were times that we spooned. Dexter loved being warm and his favorite thing would be to curl up and be covered with a blanket or fully stretched out on the couch.

A few months later I moved into a house that had a cottage on the property and my sister and her husband moved in. For a few years my mom stayed with us too. Later, I would work from home and still do today. This meant, that from a young age, our dogs were hardly ever left alone for more than a few hours; they always had some form of human company at home with them.  And we were, for the better part of every day, with them.

In 2004 I met Keith and with him came Troy, our Golden Retriever. That completed the family. And that's how it's been ever since.

In 2008 Dexter hurt his back leg and couldn't put any pressure on it. He had torn a cruciate ligament in his knee which is common in dogs and needed surgery to repair it. This involved breaking the leg, inserting a metal plate and screws and months of restricted movement and care. He healed well, just in time to make the trip from South Africa to Canada to his new home. Dexter loved living in Canada, there was lots of snow, squirrels and great long walks that we didn't typically do in South Africa.

Keith even taught him to walk off-leash, as long as he carried it himself.

Because of the pressure he had put on his good leg while the affected one healed, the second cruciate tore in 2010. this is also pretty common and Dexter had a second surgery to repair the other leg. Again he healed well but he was always plagued with arthritis that didn't particularly seem to bother him especially when a squirrel was in sight.

About a month ago Dexter starting exhibiting strange symptoms, circling, tilting his head, vomiting, and we took him to the vet who thought he had a vestibular syndrome which is like a middle ear infection. When that didn't get better we did blood tests and found that his thyroid was very low which seemed to explain all the symptoms. After two weeks of thyroid treatment he was no better. By this time Dexter was struggling to stand up or walk, he would spend most of his day lying in his bed next to me or on the floor, I would help him walk or carry him and at night I would sleep on the floor next to him so that when he tried to move and couldn't, I was there to help him. Through all of this he kept his happy face, wagging his tail when I walked into the room, eating as though there were no tomorrow and always licking my hand or the bed. In my mind, he would get better so that we could explore stem cell therapy that I wanted to do on his arthritic legs.  Last Friday morning we woke up early and I carried him outside and then back in again. I knew that when I took him to see the vet that morning that he wouldn't come home and I sobbed as he snored in my lap. I took a video of him sleeping so that I would never forget that beautiful sound. We took him to see the neurologist who did a bunch of tests and said that it was most likely that Dexter had a brain tumor that was causing the symptoms and that we were suddenly catapulted into a moment when a "decision" needed to be made. Nobody ever wants to hear those words; how the hell do you just decide? There was no way that I could let him go without knowing for sure if the problem was benign and treatable so we scheduled an MRI for the next day.

On Saturday morning we fetched Dexter from the vet. We had left him there because he was getting dehydrated. He had had a good night, and stood up on his own to go out. We drove to the MRI centre and were early so we walked on the grass and lay beside each other for a while. He seemed better, he was still struggling with his legs but he was walking. Keith and I gave him lots of love and he happily licked my hand. The MRI took about an hour and images were sent via email to the neurologist who called me to confirm the diagnosis. My little boy, my best friend, my dester-malester had a tumour that was pressing down on his brain and spinal cord. The thing I feared the most was right in front of me. I knew that to wake him up would be for me, to subject him to surgery or treatment would be so that I could have him next to me just a little longer,  doing nothing would mean a quick progression that could include pain and suffering. So the choice we made was for him. We let him go, and we sobbed as we stood next to him rubbing his tummy and stroking his beautiful, soft face as we said goodbye.

The devastation I feel right now can only be described as big as the love I felt for Dexter. He was my shadow, he went where I went. He was outside the shower door when I climbed out, he got up when I did, and 40kg of Dexter slept curled up on my lap every night in front of the television. There are no words to describe the loss that I feel without his immense presence. He was a big dog, a gentle giant with an incredible soul.

In my moments of grief I have beat myself up about my decision, but I know that I did the right thing and that this guilt stems only from the fact that I desperately miss him and want him to still be here. But that would mean that he would be here without the ability to walk around freely or go outside. He would be here for my company only and that is not why we share our lives with our animals. In a way, the fact that he was already asleep is probably a blessing, rather than have to wait for the day, or decide which one, to take him back to the vet.

Though it's only been a few days I am starting to feel better. I know deep down inside that everything is OK and the way it's mean to be.  


There will never be another Dexter, but there will be others. I could not imagine my life without a (Boxer) dog in it.

There is a video on my Facebook page that embodies all that Dexter was. Take a moment to watch it, make sure you see the end, it's worth it.

Dexter 

I thank you for 10 and a half years of unwavering love, slobbery kisses, comfort in hard times, a pillow on the hard floor, excitement when I got home, someone to miss when I was away and a million things more. A part of me died when you died but that's OK, because that part was always yours. I will never be the same; I am better for having you.