Life Our Way

Ours to be lived the way we saw fit
we did it our way, alone together. And
while we are still together, we are alone.
We parted long ago from our friends and
our peers whose interests were simply 
not ours. There were, however, concerns
exclusively ours absent all the things that 
appealed to those whom we knew so well
but as matters turned, knew us not at
all, other than that we were differently
attuned, sufficiently so to be swept
aside in the focus of life that brings
us all tides of happiness and regret. For
us, regret there is none, not for anything
we might have been able to change. For
whatever we were unable to influence
regret has no place. We ascended the
slopes of mountains of opportunity in a
tandem of commitment. If love truly does
mean caring for someone else more than
you do yourself, then ours was true love.
And that love has over the years matured
with the care we feel lapping steadily
against the tide of time and age and our
very existence. There remain mountains
to ascend, and we mount them, steadily.

 

Redpoll Flock in Transit

They make no effort to courteous enquiry
whether they are welcome, or whether
we are prepared to accommodate their
unexpected appearance, company in a
group surprisingly large. Yet they have
flown a long distance so they can be
forgiven for assuming they will indeed
be welcome ... and they are. In fact
no complicated arrangements must be
made beforehand, and as they arrive
there laid out before them is the repast
their long journey demands to restore
them to optimum health and optimism.
Moreover, as hosts we are entertained
by their presence, their uniform costumes
of red cap, black bib, striped shoulders.
Those tiny creatures settle in the
ornamental trees and shrubs surrounding
the winter feeders on our front lawn
and we watch, entranced, as they
flitter from tree to feeders among the
squirrels, chipmunks, doves and 
chickadees, goldfinches and nuthatches
where the redpolls feel welcome and
secure that this stopover will fuel them
adequately to continue their journey
to the springtime far north of Canada.


 

Hiking Casualty

They both watched with dismay
as the ball rolled steadily down 
the snow-thickened bank of the
forest creek. Had the snow
not been glazed by a layer
of ice caused by yesterday's
epic day-long rain, then frozen
by night winds and a steep 
temperature plunge it would
never have gone beyond
installing itself in the plump
depth of the snow. They
watched incredulously as the
spring-flooded creek carried
the orange treasure in a
triumph of captured possession
among the fallen twigs and 
leafy branches down its swollen
causeway, then raced to a
bend in its passage certain 
the flow would subside allowing
them to seize the moment the
large black dog's prized toy
would appear. Nature had other
plans, as they surveyed anxiously
then plodded deep into the 
crusted snow to sight possibilities
closer to the muddy maelstrom.
A woman and her dog, the ball 
not hers, but the dog certainly so.

Carrying On

The prolonged shuddering booms
of thunder that disrupted early
morning sleep have long abated
leaving the atmospheric theatre
to torrents of rain washing away
this winter's worth of detritus
while returning birds perch on
feeders in a restoration of spring's
promise and soon bulbs of daffodils
crocuses and tulips freed from 
their soil-bound deep-freeze
will signal the garden's return to
life. On the street, now freed of
ice and snow and under the teeming
downpour, an elderly slip of a
woman pushes her walker, slowly
deliberately in measured cadence
her husband hovering alongside
umbrella aloft, shielding his charge.

Neighbourhood-New

She is three months' worth of adorable
cuddle, uncertain of herself but so
pleased to be among others like her
and many quite unlike herself but
exuding ease and so she too is
comfortable. Her smooth tawny coat
the colour of an African lion, her paws
a tad too large for her plump little
frame, she looks about with eyes
wide in curiosity while everyone 
present has their eyes fixed on her.
By her side is her mentor, newly
introduced to be sure, but he will
become her life companion, older
and for now, somewhat wiser, his
sturdy frame and colouration echoing
hers but in size large since they are
both bull mastiffs. She already displays
a discriminating mind of her own, 
reluctant to move on just yet, 
interested in play-companionship
with toy poodles whose size appear
to her more in keeping with her own.

My Delayed Garden

It's spring, the miracle of rebirth
after winter's cruel cold, and how
could I not but be amazed anew at
the magic of finally witnessing fresh
green shoots of lilies and irises,  
hostas and tulips begin to shoot from 
the still-frozen soil of my garden 
as the snow began to melt and the sun 
embraced the rising world of the garden. 
It's March and though I credulously 
watched those shoots growing taller 
day by day, a new succession of 
snowstorms succeeded in burying that 
new life and how could I not be utterly
devastated? My longing for the
blissful spontaneity of summer, the 
fresh fragrance of the growing garden
with its colour, diversity and form
delighting the eye like an enchanted
landscape shimmering in its glory, the 
very thought of it all expiring as winter 
set in for that long sleep of absence ...
over! preparing me for the reappearance 
of those plants and flowers, blooming 
shrubs and trees offering pleasure and 
pride in equal measure in my beloved
garden  of earthly delights ... delayed.

Trick-and-Treating

Such dear, innocent little naifs
they are. How are they to know
that they are in store for a treatment
not a treat? After all, the inflection
my voice used was one that invites
them to share in treats, an irresistible
invitation geared to promote instant
compliance. The compulsion simply
overwhelmed at sight of their slight
untidy frames, to once again take up
my grooming shears to impose
the order of conformation and
tidiness on those mites. To struggle
is but to invoke irritation and sternly
they are ordered to 'behave', and
anxious as always to please, they do.
One done, then the other, tiny
scissors around their minuscule
paws-and-pads, tiny blunt scissors
for inside their ears, and a graduation
from medium-to-large for their
shanks, their backs, until they are
done, sleek, no longer dishevelled
and prepared for their reward, the
treat that has been too long withheld.

Fooled, Again

Aren't we just the naive ones? 
Revelling in spring's sweet arrival
glorying in the warming sun
the kinder winds, the mellowing
temperatures and the melting snow
and ice. How fascinating to see
fresh green shoots wasting no time
erupting from the garden soil
eager to flaunt the colours of
tulips, crocuses and daffodils
and in the woods, the forest floor
is being revealed at long last
birds singing Hallelujah! it's spring.
Spring connoisseurs beside themselves
with anticipation feast their eyes
and ears on all these signals,
breathing the fragrance of new
life on the cusp of becoming. How
devastating that our short memories
failed to urge caution over March
expectations when curmudgeonly 
winter has not yet fully departed
leaving us with icy gales, freezing
rain and snow tumbling out of
pewter skies still in the miserable
grip of persistent, gleeful winter.

A Short, Very Short Story

He had never married. She was the single mother of a boy who needed a father's steady hand. They both worked as civil servants, specializing in computer programming. He found her attractive, and she thought of him as potentially suitable as a partner. Perhaps a solution to her son's growing, juvenile distance from her, the problems she was being informed of by the school administration.

They married and he became the very image of the doting husband. He was glad at last to have someone to share his life with and so was his father, happy to wave his son off to a good match, even if it came with a ready-made grandson. They never did have children together. And the boy resented his stepfather, so that didn't turn out much of a solution in that area. The boy continued to wreak havoc at home and at school.

But the pair was happy, content to live their lives together, despite the episodic irritations that were raised when the stepfather's patience was worn too thin, and his man-to-boy talks were ignored as though his efforts meant nothing. But life went on and as time passed, the mother who was always pleasingly plump become more and more rotund, while her son went into his mid-teens, and little events like a housefire deliberately set but put out on time, and pleas from the school administration to convince the son that his huge size placed him at a decided advantage when a confrontation took place between him and one of his peers failed to hit their mark.

The son eventually graduated, and the mother had in the meantime become so obese that her doctor for want of anything better to prescribe, put her on anti-depression medication. Her husband remained true to his pledge to love, honour and respect his wife, a truly uxorious man. Time came that her immense girth prevented her from from walking about with anything approximating ease. Truth was, she was sick and tired of people gawking at her, disbelieving their very eyes.

She was still attractive if one's gaze lingered on her pretty face framed with blonde hair, her complexion that of a young girl, her eyes sky-blue and appearing as though her appeal was entirely justified, just so long as eyes weren't lowered to take in the incomprehensible size of the rest of the woman. A size that made her as maneuverable as a whale out of its depths. And so she left work, and spent her time at home. Not all of it in her house, mind, since she loved nature.

So she would sit out on their porch on an especially wide rattan loveseat, watch her three cats tease area squirrels, enjoy looking at the greenery about her and people walking by. The people who lived on the street knew of her, but did not know her. There was a cool restraint about knowing one's neighbour, and although some neighbours did become friendly, she found no friends among them.

Her husband did the shopping, went up the street to retrieve the mail from the group mailbox, and rarely spoke to anyone. He was, in any event, often away for days at a time after leaving the public service and taking up contract jobs that paid more but required that he travel abroad from time to time.

The son had long since left to live in a house of his own which his mother financed. His employment was sporadic, like his mother and his stepfather he was a software engineer, mostly self-taught and since he knew so much more than did the people whose employ he was in, he never lasted too long in any one position.

Needless to say, the woman was physically, functionally incapable of performing rude household tasks, and the house began to acquire a thick layer of soil over everything, and though the furnishings were carefully chosen in a classical, even exquisite demonstration of good taste, there was no one to dust and to clean, much less wash floors. An unsavoury odour rose, from the basement to the upper floors. She became less and less able to climb those stairs from the ground to the second floor where their bedroom was located.

Still, when she sat out-of-doors, enjoying the fresh air, not lingering overmuch on the thought of how she detested the very thought of undergoing any type of treatment for her obesity, which wasn't her fault, but obviously genetically determined, her husband, when he was home, would cater to her, bringing out to her cups of tea on her bone china teacups.

On one of the occasions when he was away, on a sunny winter's afternoon, out she came with her cats, leaving the front door slightly ajar as usual so the cats could enter and exit as they wished since it was too onerous for her to rise from that seating arrangement to satisfy their needs. As a matter of fact, she never did rise again. It was a shocked passerby who realized that some huge dark form was seated, immobile, on the lighted porch as he passed late at night.

Spring Delights

Ah, early spring, there's nothing
quite so delightful when sweet breezes
release the savoury aroma of organically
processed food deposited over winter
by a wide assortment of four-footed
companions accompanying 
woodland hikers. Newly melting snow
has a habit of revealing all concealed
within its layers. And our beloved
dogs can be forgiven when boredom
leads them to spurn the usual
twigs and bark in a chewing frenzy.
When, however, a sloppily affectionate
kiss is redolent of awful offal recently
indulged in, we can be forgiven
for failing to indulge our pets in
their humble gratitude that our walks
provide the opportunity to graze on
the sudden cornucopia of reeking
edible delights uncertain whether we
are grateful they did not also roll in
the seasonal offerings as a canine
version of our own propensity to spike 
our glorious hair with odorous garnish.

Is This Irony?

He, among others like him, inheritors
of an ancient creed whose heritage
bound its tribe to their forefathers and the 
land flowing with milk and honey
had the misfortune to be named a
pestilence upon the face of the Earth
their presence an affliction, an assault
on the refined sensibilities of a cultured
people whose leader decreed they be
exterminated as one would threats to
civilization. Vast resources were thrown
into the resolution to rid the world of
their presence, a refinement of technical
resources capable of 'processing' those
whose charred and powdered remains
were destined to fertilize the fields of
Europe, their ashes seeping into the
crops that those who preferred to become
oblivious to the carnage would so
greatly appreciate in a time of scarcity.
But this man, a maker of sweets, somehow
survived the far-reaching solution of
annihilation of his people, to live another
day, while mourning the passage to death
of all those he had loved. Now, he lives
in the land of his ancestors, claiming a 
new life, his tormentors quiescent for
the moment, while he is feted as the 
oldest man in the world, outliving the
vast calamity that was the Holocaust.

Incorrigible

She is the mother of all life and 
perhaps this takes a toll on nature's
tolerance, leading her to occasionally
test our own with the strange
peculiarities she writes into various
codes of genetic inheritance. Twins
born of the same mother, she is
perverse and manipulative and her
brother is sweetly undemanding.
Favour him momentarily and she
comes thundering along to be
petted and praised alongside him.
Yet hers is the calculating and
wholly irritating personality while
his is spontaneously innocent; he
is the naif to her Machiavellian
persona. What is his must also be
hers, and what is hers is denied
him. Her favoured bed is also his
but when he is installed, though
ample room exists for both she
cunningly approaches not to curl
alongside him but to vigorously
uproot him from his comfort. When
on a woodland trail other dogs are 
seen ahead she will spurt ignoring calls
to desist, challenging the oncoming
strangers, with authoritative bellows 
of 'halt who goes there!', then rushes 
back when the provoked bruisers
respond, leaving her brother who
dashed after her, to explain to the
rankled dogs her error of identity.

Forever Yours

Music presents us with the
miracle of renewal. Music of
an era captivates and revives
the remembrance of our
younger years, of romance
and of passion, of pleasure
and the emergence of the future.
Those timeless lyrics that 
were so intimately ours when we
were young lovers still resonate
illuminating our older hearts
reaching deep within recalling
and teasing those emotions
to the present. Just as I recall
the warmth and fragrance and
feel of you then, so too do I
recognize it all now, beloved.

Sayonara, Winter

With Nature magisterially
presiding, the court of
popular opinion has once again
overwhelmingly refused
winter's appeal for an extension
quite content with seeing it
huffily preparing for its
annual banishment as spring
prepares to assume her
celebrated entrance at
centre stage. Mumbling vague
threats of lingering snowstorms
winter testily refuses heartfelt
offers to assist in packing
his rucksack of icy gales
freezing temperatures and
overabundant snow events
to hasten imminent departure.

Jack and Jill

Sibling rivalry is a force of conceit
to be reckoned with, irregardless of
the species, and those twin black poodles
exemplify throughout the course of each
day the canine fundamentals of 
the competitive spirit, each contesting
the other in a myriad of ways to prove
their incontestable superiority. They
may be linked by birth and companionship
but motivated by an independent spirit
compelling them to counter any
privilege viewed by the other as theirs
alone. He has mastered the acrobatic 
artistry of buoyant leaps easily placing
himself out of her reach yet taunting her
from those heights, ears hanging low enough
for her jaw to close and teeth to tug him
irresistibly to her floor-height for a tussle.
With her superior weight balanced against
his taller frame, they reach a stalemate.
When she takes possession of a treat he
spurns his own, vying for hers without 
success while she has no trouble achieving
ownership of anything he has possession
of in masterful strokes of feint-and-grab. 
It's a race to the finish when on snowbound
forest trails we pause to rest and they gambol
on, one in the lead the other hot in pursuit
black streaks-of-motion on icy trails.

Derangement Factor

As a society engaged in a social
compact of polite acceptance of
the other we hesitate to question
evidence before our very eyes that
not all can be shrugged away as mere
coincidence. There comes a time when
it is folly to turn our eyes away, shut
our ears and maintain a tight grip on
thoughts which, once emitted, identify
the speaker as 'Islamophobic'. There
must be some reason born of tribal and
religious pathology that in a society
where adherents of Islam reside
the sinister echoes of social conflict
rise to infiltrate public consciousness
and when sympathy is detected to a
hidden message whose purpose is to
slander and to incite hatred, there on the
cusp of ideological action is a hate
crime in the making. But don't stop there
peruse the daily news; unfailingly names
identifying heritage and faith are linked
to public crimes within societies that
have generously opened doors to those
who too often are incapable of full
integration, who spurn the laws of the
land, and who yearn to inflict upon
others their beliefs. Polite and accepting
as we are in the pride of pluralism and
equality, such unworthy thoughts as
hindsight offers linked to observation
must be set aside at risk of censure.

Impressions of Nature

Had there been more than 
a fine mist when we started out
we would never have entered
the forest for a winter hike
the forest floor thick with the
snowfalls of the season. But 
embark we did under a frowning
cloud-crowded sky, ascending
the long iced-over trail into
the woods where the melting snow
has swollen the creek below
rushing in shallow rippling
cascades of winter-murky runoff
a micro-roar of released energy
where a pair of mallard ducks
have made a home of temporary
convenience. Soon the tempo
of the rain pucks the hoods of
our winter jackets in an emphasis
of increased vigour and though
we aren't singing in the rain
we are grateful for the landscape
before us in the winter woods,
a fine mist rising from the water
faintly blurring sightlines like an
impressionist painting by nature.

Notes between the pages

I see you everywhere. I'm reminded of moments we have shared and wish it could have continued. I love the times we shared together, even just sitting in your car in the rain, talking.
I miss  you. XOXOXO

I wish I could take this and keep it forever.
Thank you, my heart. I miss you every day. Every, single day. XOXOXO

Beautiful, my heart breaks when I think about how much I want to be for you. And then realize all I can be. I will take what I can get. Even if all I can get is memories of how wonderful you are.
I tucked my love for you away years ago ... for it to blossom so strong decades later. Now I have this heart that aches to be in your arms, to hold you, to be your everything ... and I feel I need to tuck it away again.
It's so hard not being able to talk or spend time with you. You are my obsession. Thoughts of you consume me. I desire you with everything I am. How lost I feel without  you...
I love you more than words can express. I feel incomplete without you.
But ... at the same time knowing that you are safe, and happy, and being loved ... it brings me a peace. 
Because I can't provide you what you have. A family, respectability, and security.
I'm glad to know you are in a place that you want to be in. I truly and hopefully wish you all the love and joy a person can contain.
I have loved you for longer than anyone I know outside of my family (why did I add that?)
My love for you will always be tucked away and ready to blossom if you ask for it. You are and always will be my soul mate. XOXOXO

I wish there was a safe place we could talk about things.
I'm struggling with what I'm doing to you. I love you too much to put you in a position in your life where I'm the cause of your strife.
Don't risk what you have, because of me. I wouldn't be able to deal with causing  you pain.
You asked me to be your friend. That is what I'm trying to do. 
Love always, XOXOXO
I miss you so much

I don't know if you will ever come back here again.
In case you do there is something I want you to know.
You've changed me. 
I hope it's for the better.
Life for me will never be the same.
Especially with you not being a part of it ... the way you used to be. 
I hope you are happy and loved all the days of your life ... and treated the way you deserve to be treated. You're a precious flower, a gem ...
My heart is and always will be yours. XOXOXO
I hope for happiness and joy and peace and love for us both all the days of our lives.
Yours forever

I love you ...
I feel like I always have ...
I feel like I always will...
I know this is difficult.
Do what you feel you need to do.
I'm here ... if you need me.
I will be whatever you want me to be.
Your friend ...
Your support ...
Your distraction ...
Your bad habit ...
Your lover ...
Your desire ...
Your break from reality ...
Whatever you need
I'm willing to do whatever you ask. But I will not be what destroys  you or brings you down. I want to be what builds you up and brings you joy ...
You mean so much more to me than words can express.
I'm here for you ...
I love you. XOXOXO

I've been struggling with our relationship ...
I have such strong feelings for you. I love you. What we shared -- I will never let go of. At the same time I worry about you. It pains me to see you so stressed and full of regret. Not that you regretted it when it happened but more that you are aware of it now.
You have clearly chosen your family and everything in your life over me. And it makes sense to me that you would. Because choosing me would be devastating. I get that ... and understand why.
So now we find ourselves slowly slipping away from each other.
I want you to never forget how we were together. I am and always will be  your friend. I believe you are my soul mate regardless of our situations and how cruel time has been to us. You are always in my thoughts. I am still hoping that one day again we will be able to hold each other and allow our passion to run free ...
I'm always here for you -- protecting what we had. I will step back and let you make the next move. 
I miss the friend I found.
I miss the passion.
I miss the connection.
I miss you ...

We were something incredible when we were alone.
I will always wonder what could have been.
I dream about what was and what could have been frequently. XOXOXO

I am still here. Not in the same way, but always still here. I'm so sorry for how things have to be. I'm so sorry for so much. I want to say sorry for letting it happen at all, because now there is so much pain. I wonder if we had just walked away at the start how much easier things would be now. Less hurt, less regret, less heartache.
But then I remember ... and I smile thinking of our time together. We made the right decision.
We are friends with really special memories that only we share.
We can't cause each other, or others any more pain, but what we can do is hold on to what we had as a really wonderful, amazing part of our lives and cherish it and each other forever.
Always thinking of you and always remembering. XOXOXO

 

In My Snow Garden

In my snow-capped garden
Winter has not yet agreed to
its grudging retreat but a
newly heartened spring sun
has conspired to undo what 
cold and icy winds have wrought
aided by incoming milder
weather. A scarlet cardinal
repeatedly trills its morning
welcome and our two little dogs
rhapsodize over fascinating
fragrances emitted beneath
the retreating banks of snow.
The raccoons' night-time visits
to delicately pluck what suits
them from the garden kitchen
waste compost bespeaks a
rousing of spring arrival, as
much as the chorus of geese 
routing their arrow-straight
course in direct reversal of
their fall migratory flight.

 

Memories In Motion

Snuggled deep in the treasured
recesses of our memories are the
melodies and the songs of our childhood
when Saturday night meant dancing
and we moved together in a rhapsody
of young love, certain that we would
spend the rest of our lives together
and we have. On Saturday night a
radio station plays the songs of the
1950s and we recall those nights of
laughter and dancing when everyone
around us was in their mid-teens and
so were we. Much has happened
between then and now, but one thing
has remained constant, our love
for one another. And we dance now
bodies melded against each other's
softly murmuring together the words
to those songs that linger in memory.
It is dark, the light in our kitchen that
shines on us illuminates two people
that fate has blessed. Should our
neighbours happen to glance across
through our lighted windows they would
doubtless be nonplussed. Born long
after we were married they may have
the feeling that we are rather peculiar.

Her Self-Assigned Destiny

She is neither arrogant nor
humble in her far-reaching aspirations. 
She is however self-assured that she
will reach that elite plateau she has 
set for herself. What she has is a
surfeit of confidence, an
irrepressible ambition of long
standing despite her young age.
The obdurate child with a mind
of her own, fresh out of the womb
with fully formed opinions who
cut her teeth on the philosophy
of moral justice now studies 
criminal law and philosophy. She
is prepared to serve her apprenticeship
on courts of law on her way to
serving as a justice par excellence
of the Supreme Court and will in
due time take her place as Chief Justice.

Rain-on-Snow

The forest has been well steeped
in winter, its floor packed deep
in layers of ice and snow
reflecting a season's worth of
successive storms and blanketing
the sleeping woods with its 
downy-white layers sculpting
the outlines of leaf-bare branches
and winter-dark tree trunks
creating ghostly humps where
stumps once stood. Winter not
yet prepared to leave, early spring
has brought rain to melt the
snowpack and shed trees of their
white tracery. The woodland ravine's
creek now rushes swollen with
muddy melted snow. On the
trails winding through the forest
hikers pause to hear a cardinal's
trill welcoming spring, careful
to remain centered on the
ice-packed trail, for a false step
sends the unwary lurching sideways
booted leg stuck deep in the soft
melt of the snowpack, then
sprawled upon it, like an
exuberant child happily wallowing
in the depths of its wet softness.


 

Through Dreams

How odd it is -- but then
perhaps not at all odd
that a parallel world appears
to exist alongside the one
we imagine ourselves to be
inhabiting, experiencing,
involved within, where we 
live out our years. Strange too
that those worlds begin to
intersect as we grow older.
When, in our dreaming hours
those absent from our lives
long since suddenly appear
and we casually greet as
though no separation had
ever occurred. They take
their leave as suddenly
as they appeared and the
changing scene, both familiar
and not so, moves on.


 

Still Life

Not the merest hint
nor a whisper of air moving
the forest this morning.
Yesterday's fierce windstorms
swept away the snow and ice
layered on trees leaving
their limbs dark and bare
against the backdrop of
white on the forest floor.
That ferocious siege
blew every dead branch
and twig from their
perches, all the
dessicated and transparent
foliage clinging stubbornly
past fall on the branches
they favoured with a
vibrant green summer and
fall, displayed now in
one of nature's superb
art shows, 'leaf-on-snow'.

The Good Husband

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

The Good Husband

Four more previously-cherished and lavishly cared-for dogs for the local humane society to shelter. Animals confused by the sudden absence of the woman who had cared for them, loved them, took them out for daily walks in the quiet neighbourhood of single-family homes with its adjacent parks. She is no longer there to feed them, speak to them, assure them that each day will be the same as those it succeeds. Her future is now a chasm of silent grief, and theirs is separation, confusion and a woebegone sense of something gone dreadfully wrong, that no human could quite discern or attribute to a species other than their own. They are two large-dog breeds, two middling-sized. Each with its own personality, and needs. As a group they made a very well-disposed team, with her to guide them past little lapses in their social compact.

Now they languish, ears flat to their heads, tails tucked firmly into their haunches, eyes solemnly following the activity of the staff at the human society animal shelter. Each to a cage, none knowing nor quite caring about the whereabouts of the others, waiting, in their patient, canine way for order to be restored to their lives and their caregiver to walk through the door with her huge welcoming smile.

They had lived with her for all the years of their lives worth remembering. When she was absent during those periods when she was at her job, they awaited her return. Mostly sleeping, occasionally engaged in solitary play. But all four, when the time arrived in the late afternoon when some arcane animal sense informed them she would soon re-enter their lives, circled around the front door, then sat stoically, until she finally entered to be regaled with a chorus of welcome. She would rub the tops of their heads in greeting, bustle about a few minutes, then haul out their leashes, and take them out for a quick run through the neighbourhood.

The neighbours were always aware of her presence. She was not shy, not averse to greeting them, talking about neighbourhood things. She had good relations with them and they liked her living close to where they did; a good person, and a good neighbour. When she eventually brought home a young man, to introduce him to her dogs, everything seemed fine. He was a nice young man, with sandy hair that streamed over his forehead, deep brown eyes, and a good manner. She had met him when she’d taken the dogs to a far-off quarry turned into a recreational park for companion animals where their owners could let them run free off the leash. He wasn’t a dog-owner, but he had been there, walking about, and they had stopped to talk.

Over the course of the next several months he called often, and they went out on casual dates. It wasn’t that she was lonely and felt she needed a man to complement the quality of her life. She was happy enough with the family she had; herself and her dogs, and her extended family with whom she kept in constant contact. He liked her practical, matter-of-fact nature, accepting him for what he appeared to be, not closely questioning him, asking, prodding, why he didn’t have a regular job. He had enough of that from his family. He was happy to work when he felt like it, at casual, part-time jobs that paid just enough. And when he got tired of working he managed to manoeuvre himself into a job loss, and still qualify for unemployment insurance. Giving him the time he wanted to just mosey about life, at his own speed, fulfilling his very own need.

She had a regular, full-time job, a responsible one, as a professional, with a department of the federal government. You could see that she earned a respectable income, since she owned her own home, and he admired that. He had great admiration for her love of life, her sparkling good humour. It gave a nice balance to his moods, when she went out of her way to sympathize, to lift his spirits. He loved running his fingers through her long, straight-silky hair, worn shoulder-length. It suited her, with her green eyes, her fine complexion, her neat facial features; a pretty woman with an athletic build, nicely contoured.

He appreciated her casual disregard for social custom. He felt that same way himself. So it was a little surprising, he felt, when she said after six months of comfortable companionship that she’d like him to move in with her, but it wouldn’t work for her outside of marriage. He hadn’t anticipated that kind of conventionality from her. But he didn’t mind, after all. Because truth was, he did love her, and he told her that, and he could see how much it pleased her to have him say that, and to hug her whenever the mood took him. Oddly she didn’t like holding hands in public. But that made good sense, since the dogs’ leashes were often at the ends of her hands when they were out in public, other than at night during their decreasing number of nights-out dates.

Their marriage was a muted affair. A few of her close friends from her high school days, from her office, and her sisters, father and mother although they were separated. His father attended, and a few of his cousins; friends, none. Everyone seemed to get along. It was kind of festive, he liked that, and so did she, the casualness of it all.

He always went with her, when she visited with her family. They made him feel welcome, and he felt comfortable enough with them. The dogs, they were always brought along, too. Everyone had long ago accustomed themselves to the reality that wherever she went so too went her dogs. Bad enough, she said, she had to leave them at home while she was out working. In her leisure hours they deserved her company.

He actually didn’t mind. He enjoyed watching her with the dogs. They more or less ignored him, but came alive when she was around, and he thought that was interesting, the dynamic between them. He watched her set out their bowls at feeding time. Her assiduous attention to their regular appointments with the veterinarian he knew were expensive. Her life, her earnings, she could do what she wanted with all of that. It had no impact on him, other than as an observer, and an equal-opportunity recipient of her warm attentions.

Well, sometimes he felt irritated when he was in the house alone with the dogs, and they might be curious about something he would be doing in the kitchen, and he’d snap at them. That would effectively clear the room. They’d slink out, find somewhere else to install themselves. He was, in fact, alone often in the house with them. So, she said brightly to him and to anyone else who might remark on it, how terrific it was that the dogs were no longer lonely, with his presence.

Occasionally the neighbour whose house was closest to theirs heard shouting during the day, and understood that the dogs were doing something inconvenient, irritating or plain bad, and he was disciplining them. He never laid a hand on them for physical punishment, though. He respected how she felt about her dogs. Why shouldn’t she?

She had told him once how those dogs had come into her life. They were all what she called ‘rescues’, dogs that had been abused, abandoned, and she had taken them in. She had coped with their aggressive suspicion, determined to turn their temperaments around, to invoke trust in them, to treat them well, to gain their trust. It took a long time, but eventually, each of the dogs came around and became loyal and trusting of her. When she had taken in the last dog, one that had been rescued from as far away as Iqaluit, it had taken her the longest time, she said, sighing, looking at the dog as she spoke, lying comfortably before her feet, its thick husky-fur on its large, muscular shepherd body resembling a placid bear. He respected her enormously, he told her, for her conscientious kindness to those animals. Not that he particularly cared for dogs, any dogs, but he could, he told her, relate personally. As one who had been abused, neglected. That won her heart, he was convinced of that.

She didn’t seem to mind that she was the bread-winner. In that sense, she simply continued what had always been her reality. She had simply added another member to her family. She never chided him for his lack of enterprise, his unwillingness to apply himself to working, to look around to find something he would like to do, rather than limp along from one impermanent service job to another. And that was really good of her, he thought, and he appreciated that too about her.

So at the funeral mass, when the good Father, speaking of how loving a person she had been, remarked “Unfortunately Gwendolyn’s love was not reciprocated” he was wrong, dead wrong. Gwen loved him and he loved her, he most certainly did. No one could take that away from him, from them. He always would love her, recalling the soft smoothness of her skin, her arching back when they made love, her cuddling into him afterward, her soft words of love. They loved one another very much. No one could take that away from him, not her family who blamed him and now hated him, nor the pastor who in his ignorance thought he could take away the love he had for her.

His father sat well back in the last pew at the church during her funeral mass. He described to him later how there were so many people, extended family, friends, colleagues, neighbours, all there to mourn his wife’s too-early death. And his father sat there, later, comforting him, telling him not to worry too much. Things would unfold as they would. He would be there, at the trial, to testify on his behalf.

He knew his son, and he knew the kind of relationship he’d had with his wife. He saw them, after all, each and every week, since they visited him every week-end, and he could see the mutual love and respect they had for one another. He knew there had to be a reasonable explanation for what had happened. It wasn’t his son’s fault, he was a good husband, and he loved his wife. Something had happened, quite obviously, but it would all come out, and his son would be exonerated. Hadn’t he said to the police who came to arrest him at his father’s house where he had stayed the last few days, crying his broken heart out that his wife had refused medical treatment? And then they took his boy away.

It would be revealed that she had a medical condition that threatened her life, but she refused to seek out medical help. What could his son do in the face of such an indomitable will, other than submit to her wishes? He knew how much his daughter-in-law meant to his son, how she turned his life around, how he stopped drinking incessantly after he met her. How happy he was with his new life. He knew from observation, and from knowing his son. Why, when they were separated while she was off at work and his son at his own workplace - sometimes even helping him with a roofing job - they were always using their cellphones, staying in touch.

It seemed odd to him that an autopsy had been performed on his daughter-in-law, but that was likely standard procedure in such mysterious sudden-death cases. He had been concerned for his son’s state of mind. Completely inconsolable, weeping, tearing at his hair, mourning his wife. “Buck up, fella” he said, patting his heaving back. “The truth will out, and everyone will realize that you’re beyond suspicion. Her medical condition killed her, and that’s the truth.”

But police detectives thought otherwise. And after the results of the autopsy were revealed to them they knew their first instincts were correct. Trauma to the lower body, legs and feet. The upper body badly burned. Her body discovered in the basement of the house.

Well, if they asked, and it will likely be a matter of enquiry during the trial, her bereaved husband could explain that, too. How, sometimes, he’d had to correct his wife, instruct her. He had no intention of causing harm to her, and she knew that. That was a huge component of his love for her. She never, ever judged him. She would ask him quietly to stop doing something that bothered her. And then when he calmed down, she would talk, talk, talk to him for what seemed like an interminable period of time. Sometimes all that talk gave him a raving headache and he would tell her so. She was so concerned for his well being. She would immediately stop talking, cuddle him to her, run her slender, loving fingers along the top of his head, and rock him until he fell asleep. She was his very own treasure. He will never, ever get over her untimely death. No one would ever know how much he loved her, how he would miss her.

And the dogs? Well, their separate photographs appear on the website of the Humane Society. One by one they have also appeared in newspaper advertisements, in the hope that people at this time of year, preparing for Christmas, might feel it in their hearts to have some compassion for truly lost dogs looking for a home. For all the dogs, the description includes nothing of the misfortune which befell them, but the legend “much loved, high-energy dog needs a new home” follows them all.

If they were to be adopted by some kindly souls looking for the company of faithful companions at the Christmas season, it would please the ghost of their mistress so very much. A matchless gift to her on her 34th birthday, this coming Christmas.