Jump to content
Geron Kees ×

Dodger

Signature Author
 View Profile  See their activity

  • Posts

    5,591

  • Joined

  • Last visited

 Content Type 

Blog Entries posted by Dodger

  1. Dodger

    I miss my cuddly friend.

    By Dodger,


    Best Friend
    A few weeks ago, I lost my best friend and loyal companion. He had just turned seven years old when he was diagnosed with severe kidney disease, and despite several false hopes and attempts to prolong his life, he rapidly deteriorated and succumbed at home in my arms.
    In these troubled and violent times, it feels somehow wrong to grieve over the loss of a dog, but his death hit me hard and left a gaping hole in my life. I miss the guy more than I care to admit, which is strange, considering I spent the first six months of his life trying to offload him.
    It wasn't my idea to get a pet, and I was less than enthusiastic when my sister showed up at my door seven years ago with a tiny puppy that peed on my foot. He was the runt of the litter and the only one her friend couldn't sell, so I reluctantly agreed to take him in until a more suitable owner could be found.
    Having never owned a dog; I was hopelessly unprepared for the carnage that followed. In just a few weeks, this tiny but exuberant creature managed to destroy my house, wreck my social life, and empty my bank account. While he was busy doubling in size, I spent ages looking for the right family to adopt him, but when the opportunity arose, it was already too late. I was hopelessly attached to the guy and couldn't bear to part with him.
    It's fair to say he outsmarted me from the very beginning. Using nothing but love and loyalty, he became an indispensable part of my world, and I couldn't have imagined life without him. He kept me fit with long walks around town, and on my days off, I took him with me to visit friends and family or to my sister's cottage, where he would swim with me in the lake. He grew into a big dog—much bigger than anyone expected and bigger even than his siblings. Not bad for the runt of the litter, but sadly, his life was to be tragically short.
    No one told me about that bit, and this is why I will never own another pet. It stands to reason that it always ends badly, and his death was particularly distressing.
    I told my sister never to do that to me again. I love animals, but I'm not meant to be a pet owner. They're too demanding and expensive, and they cramp my style. But when she left, I cried like a baby.
    Rest in peace, my special friend.
  2. Dodger
    Never mind the title; that was just a cheap ruse to get some views. I know how your filthy minds work, but this is a family blog.
    It’s been more than three years since I last had a vacation, so now the restrictions have eased, I’ve decided to visit my sister out west. She is the third of my five sisters in terms of age and was the oldest of my adopted siblings still living at home when I joined the family as a young teenager.
    We bonded quickly, and she soon became my closest confidant. She was the first person to guess my sexuality at a time when even I wasn’t entirely sure, and she helped me to hide it from our parents until I was ready to come out. I even met my first boyfriend through her. He lived further than I could walk, so she would drive me to his house after school and pick me up later in the evening. Everyone knew I was up to something, but they assumed I was meeting a girl, and my sister did all she could to encourage this misconception.
    Such loyalty deserves a reward, and in return, I would open the back door so she could sneak in late from her boyfriend’s house. We didn’t have air-conditioning, so in the summer, I used to sleep in the basement where it was cooler, and she would tap on the window by my bed to wake me.
    Needless to say, we’re pretty close, and I’m looking forward to seeing her again, four years after she left for the boonies, but it’s not going to be easy. In Canada, everywhere is far away, and my sister lives three time zones from me on the Pacific coast.
    For someone who spent most of his childhood living in a city where you couldn’t drive for more than a few hours in any direction without ending up in the sea, it took a while for me to appreciate the sheer size of this country. To visit my sister, I have to endure a five-hour flight to Vancouver, followed by an hour on a small seaplane and another hour’s drive from the dock into the wilderness. I’m told she has a Jeep; I suspect a bull-whip too. Indiana Jones springs to mind, and I can remember watching those movies with her as a teenager and sharing the same unhealthy obsession with Harrison Ford.
    Door to door should take about sixteen hours. Of course, it’s quicker and easier for me to get to Europe and only slightly less distance, but it will be worth the hassle to see her in the flesh again. That sentence alone will ensure her favourite sibling is treated like a king. I’m a sly fox; she taught me well.
    Until now, Calgary is the furthest west I’ve been, and I shall never forget watching the bareback riding with my brother at the famous Stampede a few years ago. Make of that what you will, but it was an experience not for the faint of heart, and I’ve been dying to get back there ever since. Cowtown is a cool place to be in the summer, especially during the Stampede when the city is thronging with cowboys. If you’re reading this, I hope you appreciate the plug, @wildone. I'll be back there someday.
    On a serious note, I enjoy travelling; it’s in my blood. But I’m not irresponsible, and I understand that this virus has yet to be defeated. I’ve followed the rules from the beginning, isolating to the point of depression, but now I crave close family—something I took for granted for so many years. Living on my own hasn’t been easy, but my life is comfortable, and despite often working in areas of high infection, I haven’t been sick. I’m grateful for that and looking forward to finally crossing the Rocky Mountains.
  3. Dodger

    Blog about a Dog

    By Dodger,

    So here’s what’s new.
     
    I’ve got a dog. A golden doodle or is it a labradoodle, I’m not sure, but my sister told me that it was big and hard and she must have known that I wouldn’t turn that down.
     
    I wasn’t looking for a pet, but he was looking for a home to destroy and I just happened to have one available. The alternative for this poor creature was the pound but like the fool that I am, I didn’t ask why. My sister; love her, talked me into it but forgot to mention to me that he was very hairy, very young and not yet housetrained. It’s a familiar pattern; most of the males that enter her house are the same way, but when I pointed this out, I knew exactly what to expect and although our little battles have become much tamer over the years, I rarely win.
     
    She has far too much sensitive info on me to ever be vulnerable; it’s enough to put Edward Snowdon in the shade, so I have to be careful about what I say. I’m only joking, of course, I’ve been a good boy and she loves me. She told me so. Once. At the end of a hen night that she doesn’t remember and I definitely shouldn’t have been invited too. Come on, it was a night out, I was bored and there were male strippers, although I didn’t know that or I would’ve worn my glasses.
     
    Whatever, I’m easy going and I look at it as a valuable lesson learned. Never go out on the razzle with your sister or any other member of your immediate family, and if you do, stay the f**k away from tequila and anyone who plays the bongos and goes by the name of Stardust! It’s a dangerous combination, and although admittedly rare, it’s designed specifically to trip-up complete idiots such as yours truly. Luckily, I regained my sense of morality—or survival instinct kicked in—and I was able to give Stardust the slip long before he could show me his proud collection of Vietnam War memorabilia. My sister doesn’t believe me though, and the fact that he still sends me the occasional text adds some credibility to her well-worn jibes. I don’t reply to them, but I know that I will never be able to sit through another re-run of ‘Full Metal Jacket’ without thinking about this dude.
     
    I got sidetracked; this wasn’t the reason why I decided—in one of my all too frequent moments of insanity—to give a home to this crazed animal, who was able to pull off one of the greatest impersonations of all time. For the fifteen minutes that it took to drive him from my sister’s house to mine, he successfully masqueraded as a playful, cute, quiet, adorable little puppy, the type that you see on television adverts. I was ready to find him an agent and rake in the dosh, but those dollar signs quickly disappeared along with the sofa and almost anything else that he could fit his vice-like jaws around.
     
    I’ve always been a sucker for puppy dog eyes and partial to a little playful biting every now and then, but this guy was soon taking lumps out of me the size of golf balls. My sister said it would be therapeutic, good company for me while I recovered from a recent health issue, but my stress level went through the roof and my clean orderly life fell apart. She could have given me an alligator instead; at least I would have been better prepared.
     
    Now, let's make this clear. I would never hurt the little guy or mistreat him in any way. I am way too scared of him to attempt anything that foolish. It’s been a challenge though, and one that I have now begrudgingly accepted if only to prove the family wrong. They think that I’m a drama queen and maybe there is a little truth in that sweeping statement, but walking around my house in the morning can be like strolling through a minefield and taking him out for a walk is traumatic at best.
     
    I’m no stranger to dog collars, but anyone who gets that excited at the prospect of being attached to a leash and paraded around the neighbourhood isn’t exactly stable in my book. I was told by a helpful buddy of mine, who doesn’t really know me that well, that a cute dog is a babe magnet and it’s true, but it depends on which side of the road you choose to walk down. He didn’t get my vague metaphor, but he was right, and now I’m fairly certain that I’m being stalked by the lady a few doors along from me. She has a golden retriever and when my dog takes me for a walk, I always seem to bump into her. They’re both females and overly friendly, and it’s got to the stage where I’m checking to see if the coast is clear before setting foot outside and choosing increasingly odd hours to exercise my hound. So far, it hasn’t worked and she’s managed to collar me more times than not. She’s even caught me hiding behind the recycling, or rather my dog gave me away. He doesn’t exactly help by trying to jump her pouch at every opportunity, even though it happens to be twice his age and three times his size. It’s embarrassing but as flattering as it is, if her owner thinks that I’m going to try to follow his example in any way, then she’s definitely barking up the wrong tree.
     
    Who knows, maybe there’s a nice fit, good-looking, masculine, dog owner in the neighbourhood who’s up for a little playful biting, and doesn’t mind being jumped on, licked and drooled over occasionally, plus whatever the dog does to him.
     
    In the meantime, it’s just me and my dog and despite all my misgivings, moans and the fact that he has single-handedly destroyed my life, he’s become my best friend, and I truly love him to bits. My rapid evolution into a responsible pet owner—the type that I would always ridicule in my younger years—has somewhat surprised my family. I guess that they never saw me in this role, and neither did I. The only thing that they don’t understand is why I called him ‘Stardust’. My overly protective older sister thinks she knows, but she would never tell anyone anyway.
     
    They say that dogs look like their owners or vice versa, but honestly, I can only wish I was that cute! Take a look at the pictures below.


  4. Dodger

    Blogging from the UK

    By Dodger,

    So here’s what’s new.
     
    I’ve returned to the land of my ancestors. The little, funny-shaped island on the top left-hand corner of Europe where I spent most of my childhood, including half of my school life and a few chaotic years as an adult.
     
    This is the fourth time that I have been back since I was shipped off to the new world as a teenager and it seems that each time I return, this once very familiar place has moved a little further away. I have to admit that after seventeen years in Canada there is very little English left in me and I am now no more than a tourist in a city which for so long, I regarded as my home.
     
    One of the reasons for this visit was to attend a surprise birthday party for a friend who I have known since primary school. It was organised by his wife and she was the one who persuaded me to come over in a series of clandestine telephone calls and emails. It was a genuine surprise for my friend who didn’t suspect a thing and as you can imagine, it was quite an emotional reunion.
    He was completely unaware of the secret cross Atlantic messaging between his best friend and his wife and had no idea that she had already moved me into the spare room in their house earlier that day while he was at work. Understandably I suppose, he wasn’t that concerned by my harmless cavorting with his good lady and I spent most of the evening trying to free myself from his endless, tearful man hugs.
     
    I didn’t mind at all; he has always been one hundred percent straight but completely at home and supportive of my sexuality. I couldn’t want for a better friend and I shall miss him the most.
  5. Dodger

    The Royal Blog

    By Dodger,

    This may be a tad controversial and put me firmly on the radar of MI6 but I want to talk about the Royal Family. You know, the ones that live on the other side of the Atlantic but rule Canada.

    Now I’ve been accused in the past of being a bit of a queen, but I’ve never been much of a royalist and I cannot see any benefit in continuing with a British Monarch as the head of state in Canada.

    I won’t be fooled, I know for a fact that there’s no such thing as Kings, Queens, Princes, and Princesses. It’s all made up; they belong in Walt Disney films and fairy-tales, but they’re not real. Let’s face it, they’re just ordinary people who have been lucky enough to land a cushy number. They weren’t chosen by God as some goofballs would have you believe, they haven’t got blue blood, and they didn’t pull any swords from stones or slay any dragons either. They got to the throne by mercilessly torturing and killing anyone who dared to oppose them, including members of their own family—especially members of their own family. The present Queen Elizabeth II is a descendant of Henry VIII (1st Cousin 14 times removed), who relatively speaking, must surely be assured a place in the rogue’s gallery of the worlds most blood-thirsty despots. There are many other unsavoury characters in her bloodline; too many for it to be coincidental, but rather than apologise on behalf of her sadistic ancestors, she positively basks in their memory, proudly displaying portraits of these well-documented monsters as if they were Mother Teresa. 

    If you add up the number of murders directly attributed to this family and the resulting wealth that they have accumulated, they may just be the most successful crime family of all time but surely in the modern world, their days are now numbered.

    In the UK, their popularity has been steadily decreasing since the Diana debacle and it’s no surprise—given their list of previous—that many Brits believe that there was some sort of foul play involved in her death. Well, that’s a surprise, who would have thought?

    I believe that it’s unconstitutional to have an unelected foreign head of state in Canada, and I’m not alone. According to the latest Forum Poll conducted in 2015, 73% of Canadians would prefer to have an elected Canadian as their head of state. Unsurprisingly, on a provincial level, Quebec has the highest percentage of anti-monarchists with over 90% in favour of replacing the Queen. Those figures, if correct, do not bode well for William and Kate but they only have themselves to blame. They seem completely out of touch with the ordinary people and in particular the youth who will ultimately be the ones who decide on their future.

    It doesn’t help when you get married dressed like the Duke of Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo. I mean really, what groom carries a sword on their hip these days? It was another bonding opportunity wasted by a family still struggling to adjust to the twentieth century, let alone this one and they wonder why young people around the world find it difficult to relate to them.

    It was back to the drawing board but they know that the public love a Royal baby so the heir to the throne and his good lady have been at it like rabbits and knocking out sprogs quicker than a Catholic whore house. However, as formidable a weapon as this is in the hands of the press, poor William, bald already, just doesn’t look as if he has the spunk for this type of fight!

    Seriously though, most Canadians I believe, are misinformed about the role of the monarchy in their country. They know that the Queen’s on the money—in more ways than one—but they also believe that she has no real power in Canada. Wrong! Everyone knows that the Governor-General is chosen by the Prime Minister, but that’s more of a gentleman’s agreement than a constitutional rule of law. Officially the Queen chooses that appointment to carry out her ceremonial duties as head of state and that’s the key, she is the head of state.

    They may also be unaware that they are contributing to the British Royal Family from their taxes. Canadians pay $1.57 per person per year to support the Queen or just over $50 million per annum. It’s not a lot when you look at it like that, but it is when you consider that the British only pay $1.32 per person per year and they get to keep the crown jewels.

    Don’t get me wrong, I’m not attacking the UK or the British people in any way. My mother was English, I started school there, and spent most of my childhood and some of my adult life in London. I have dual nationality and I still haven’t shaken my English accent. I’m proud of my heritage but I’m not proud of the Royal Family, who in my opinion have done precious little to distinguish themselves or justify their enormous wealth and privilege in this world.

    I believe that the British monarchy has no future in Canada and that they should be replaced with a Canadian, democratically elected head of state, similar to the system that they have in France. This change should come about when the reign of the present Queen Elizabeth II comes to an end. In other words, when she’s brown bread.

    I will finish with a quote from Paul Heinbecker. A prominent Canadian diplomat and policy advisor, taken from an article in ‘The Globe and Mail’.

    “We should change the Oath of Citizenship to require new Canadians to swear allegiance not ‘to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, Queen of Canada, Her Heirs and Successors…’ but just to Canada, and to the Canadian Constitution and rule of law.”

    Is this too much to ask? What do you think?

    I’m not just looking for Canadian responses here but from all over the world. The USA, UK, Australia, France, and Scandinavia (I know that you also have Kings and Queens, it’s just that nobody knows who they are).

  6. Dodger
    It was a bad day. I’ve had a few recently. Often enough to know that they don’t get better halfway through; only progressively worse. After lunch, I should have packed up and gone home to bed. I had done that before and it had worked; no one could argue against the logic. The less I do, the less that can go wrong. Why tempt fate by pressing on regardless, when the situation was beyond saving.
     
    A phone call increased my workload; I should have switched it off earlier. The error led to a twenty-mile journey in the opposite direction and another so-called ten-minute job, that turned into four hours. I’ve been doing this work since I left school and I’ve never been able to do a job in ten minutes.
     
    I loaded up in the rain; it had been constant all day and getting worse. I needed coffee and dry clothes, but the coffee spilt and the clothes got wetter. The cup holders on these vehicles are the wrong size for Tim Hortons, American trucks, designed for American cups. Why can’t they make them bigger? Big enough to fit a coffee cup would be good; is this another way of saving money, what were they thinking?
     
    I was already uptight and irritable when I pulled onto the world’s biggest parking lot, sealing my fate. You would think that eight lanes in each direction would be sufficient to take the weight of this city. It’s not as if everybody drives or leaves work at the same time. There’s a good transit system; subway, buses, streetcars, and trains, and it’s nearly eight o’clock, but nothing is moving!
     
    Sixteen lanes of stationary traffic for as far as the eye can see is a harrowing site and my foul mood takes another turn for the worse. These people don’t understand my situation, if they did then they would get out of my way and allow me to pass so that I can get home and rest. I should be doing that; the doctor told me. Instead, I’m stressed, hungry, tired, and wet, and now I’m helping to set new records of congestion on the four-oh-one.
     
    If I die; it’s all your fault! Yeah, you mister suited and booted in the Mercedes next to me. A real estate agent if ever I had seen one. No wonder properties are doubling in price around here; someone has to pay for that car! Who needs a car that big anyway, to carry a stinking briefcase? When the traffic edges forward, I try to keep the nose of my trusty Dodge truck in front of his overpowered glamour car, and I’m doing okay as we speed up to almost a crawl.
    I get some satisfaction by leaving him behind, but it’s hardly the brickyard and it was only because my lane was moving quicker. I could have walked and still beaten him, but it didn’t stop me from gloating at his misfortune. See you later sucker! Then to press home my advantage and keep him behind me, I swung into a sudden gap created by a daydreamer, seizing my opportunity with skilful precision. Lewis Hamilton couldn’t have done it any better. Later, as the traffic eases, and we approach highway speeds, he shoots past me on the outside, leaving me for dead, but it doesn’t matter anymore, I won when it counted.
     
    It was late when I got home and the house was empty and cold. I should’ve stayed on the four-oh-one, at least I wasn’t alone. After a shower and some food, there’s nothing left of the day, but perhaps that’s a good thing. I don’t want anything else to go wrong if that was even possible.
     
    I’m at my desk trying to relax; I should have been doing this all day, but my doctor won’t pay my mortgage, so I have no choice. I have to work to live; but to live, I have to rest. It’s a difficult choice, but one that is made easier by my bank statements. I haven’t felt any discomfort for a few days. I’ll live; if only to annoy others. I may even get around to finishing my story. A few weeks ago that had seemed improbable.
     
    Writing was one of the few activities which the doctor had encouraged and it was easy to see why. I use it as an escape route to a more interesting time, where I am able to re-write my own history. It’s therapeutic, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to distance myself from the main character. There are several projects that I’ve started and shelved and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to write anything else. It was too late that night and I were barely able to stay awake, but I logged in, if only to satisfy my addiction and check on the progress of my latest chapter.
    Gay Authors has become another well-worn escape route and one that I am using with increasing regularity. I’ve even made a few friends. Cyber friends, I suppose, because none of them actually know me. We never talk, but type messages and express our feelings with funny little emoticons.  They know me simply as Dodger and their only visual reference is a cartoon drawing of ‘The Fonze’ from ‘Happy Days’. The television character is a poor representation of the real me. It’s the perfect disguise and perhaps that’s why I chose it.
     
    It was close to midnight when I sat back yawning. My bed was calling me, but I was distracted by a familiar avatar on the page. It had been a while since I had seen anything posted by Skinnydragon and he hadn’t reviewed in a couple of months. Perhaps this was his long-awaited explanation to everyone and my mood was lifted. I knew that he would come back, he enjoyed the site, he had unfinished work and was a prolific poster and reviewer. There had to be a good reason for his recent absence and when I saw the title of his blog, it made sense.
    Skinny’s sorry. Yeah, whatever buddy; let’s see what you’ve been up to? Travelling maybe, busy at work, moving house…illness wasn’t on my list and certainly not that illness.
     
    It was soon clear that this was no ordinary blog, and the gravity of his statement hit me at the end of the first paragraph. I read on until the end, before reading it again much slower, and then once more in tears. I had read every word of every chapter that Skinnydragon had posted on GA, but his final paragraphs were perhaps the most powerful that I had read from any author. It was obvious to me that those words were laced with pain particularly at the end where there were mistakes so untypical of his work.
     
    Dying wasn’t even a probable, but when I noticed the date, it became a certainty. Nearly four months had passed since that blog had been posted. I never knew about it, and had never bothered to find out why my friend had been absent for so long, although I did have a few problems of my own.
     
    He was my first friend on the site and in the early days, we had spoken quite a bit via comments and messages. He had followed my story from the beginning, posting regular reviews and when I needed his advice, he was quick to respond and thorough in his replies. He was a good guy and friends of everyone on the site. It was easy to see when reading the many tributes left on his blog. No longer tired; I stayed awake until the early hours reading and re-reading every one, but beneath my sadness was a constant reminder of what could have been.
     
     ‘There but for the grace of God go I’, was something that my mother used to say, and after reading about my friend, I’ve been using those words a lot myself.
     
    It was February 26 when I was admitted to the hospital with severe chest pains. It was a Sunday and I had been feeling ill for most of the weekend. That evening the pain became unbearable, I was short of breath and collapsed. I was fortunate that I wasn’t alone. Most nights I would have been. My friend got me to the hospital, the doctors saved my life and I’m still here!
    I haven’t seen the light and I’m not going to start preaching to people or telling you how to live your lives, but I will admit that I was very scared and the initial assessments that I received gave me good reason to be.
     
    The days that followed were dark and with little or no desire to write, I focused on more important and seemingly urgent requirements. I gave instructions to the family for funeral arrangements, prepared a will, and even wrote letters to friends. I never realised how exhausting dying could be, but when I read Skinnydragon’s blog I was able to feel some of his pain. I hope that he had good people around him, and I also hope that his end came quickly, leaving him as little time as possible to dwell on his fate.
     
    I thought I was too young for heart problems; I have a reasonable diet and I’m not exactly overweight, but no one knows what lies in wait for them. While most of us can hazard a guess as to where we will be in five years’ time, we are unlikely to even consider the possibility that we may not be around at all.
     
    I was lucky, within a week my breathing improved and the chest pains had disappeared. I spent the first two weeks of March, in cardiology being hooked up to machines that I was unable to even pronounce. I have no idea what all of this would have cost me without a health card, but I was at least able to see where some of my hard-earned taxes had gone and for once I didn’t begrudge them a penny. The Canadian health service doesn’t suck!
     
    I asked a lot of questions and learnt a lot about the human heart and how complex and resilient it is. I bet that most people are unaware that it can often repair itself to overcome minor defects and there is a good possibility that this is what is happening in my case.
     
    On Friday, six weeks after my collapse, I was delighted to receive a clean bill of health. My heart is not perfect, but it is in a reasonable condition and contrary to the initial assessments there is no longer any need for surgery. I will need to change my life a little, but I am happy that I still have one to change. Others, as we know, have not been so fortunate.
     
    In loving memory of our good friend—Skinnydragon. May you rest in peace, my friend.  
×
×
  • Create New...