Anyone who has ever had a pet knows how they can get under our skin, stomp all over us with their hairy little paws and rule the household. They are often the favourite members of the family. Always thrilled to see us, they greet us like we have been away for weeks. They know when we are sad and need support, and they are always up for hanging out or cuddles. They never judge or question our decisions or motives.

It is no secret that that I’m generally more fond of animals than people. I’m not necessarily proud of this and I should probably work on my love of humanity, but given the choice between a cocktail party with humans or an evening surrounded by dogs, I would choose four-legged company any day. You won’t run into phonies when you are around animals. Animals teach us how to be fully present and in the moment, something we humans try to achieve through meditation and yoga and a million self help books. Animals teach us what unconditional love means – to receive it as well as give it. Although my cat may not be delivering on the loving me unconditionally part (he tends to regard me with a combination of disdain or disinterest), I would do anything for him. I look at that little body filled with so much bitchy attitude and my heart melts every time.

Of course, some pets are more remarkable than others. Every now and then you meet an animal that has that additional something that twists your heartstrings with extra force.

My parents got two cats back when they were kittens. Clyde was the runt of the litter, a ginger with a pointy alien face who is either too skittish or too pushy for cuddles, forcing himself on you and rubbing his tail in your face. He often smells.

“Why does the cat smell like cheese?” I asked my mom when I found his scent particularly overwhelming.

“He only smells like cheese when he is aroused,” she answered casually.

I have not recovered from that comment. How my mom came to the conclusion that the cat smells like cheese when he is aroused is highly disturbing. I do not want to think that the cat is feeling sensual when he is rubbing against me. I refuse to believe that he is releasing some weird aroma as a way to seduce me.

The cheese scented ginger cat is nice enough, but his sister Bonnie really won my heart. An emerald eyed beauty with a bit of a weight problem, she was the Elizabeth Taylor of cats. Even after Elizabeth Taylor became rotund she still had those haunting violet eyes and that glamorous demeanor. Bonnie was like that, all femininity, charm and mesmerizing eyes. When she rolled onto her back she looked like a baby seal. When she walked she looked like a giant ham with legs. Despite her girth, she was a beautiful, gentle creature. When I would visit my parents she would waddle out to greet me and promptly fall on her side so that I could rub her belly.

“Oh my God, Bonnie fainted!” I would cry every time. She would walk a few more paces then fall to her side again. ”She’s swooning!” I’d shout. I loved the fainting game. As my dad and The Sweetie would play cribbage I would gather up the cat and announce,”It’s ladies night!” My mom, Bonnie and I would hang out together, her cheese scented brother lurking somewhere in the hallway.

A couple of weeks ago Bonnie began lying in the corner and ignoring her food, which for her was a sign that something was definitely wrong.”Maybe she’s on a diet as a New Year’s resolution?” I suggested. My parents took her to the vet who ran tests for her thyroid. The results came back negative and by this time she wasn’t eating at all. I went to visit her last weekend. She didn’t waddle over to greet me and we didn’t play the fainting game. I carried her limp body next to my mom on the couch and we both started to cry. I looked over at my dad and I saw that he was welling up as well. Last Monday Bonnie had to be put to sleep. My mom has been crying for days. Clyde spends his time wandering around yowling.

Anyone who has lost a pet knows the void that you feel when they are gone. Those who don’t understand have obviously never experienced furry love and don’t know what they are missing. Our pets teach us about our own capacity for love. Our hearts may break when we lose them but we also realize how much our hearts can swell. As soon as we care about something we have that awful fear that we will lose it. That is the risk of love and that is always my downfall when I try to embrace a Buddhist attitude. I can’t be Buddhist about love. The emphasis on the transience of existence and the conclusion that we cannot possess anything doesn’t work for me. I am all about grasping and possessing and trying to hold on with all my might. I live in terror of losing those I love but I am willing to risk dying of heartbreak for it.

It will hurt for a long time when I visit my parents and expect to see Bonnie waddling out to greet me. I am going to miss her gentle face and seeing her hairy butterball body faint at my feet. Above all though, I will be grateful that she existed and I had a chance to love her, even if it stabs me in the heart to know that she’s gone.

It is always around this time of year that my serotonin reserve is utterly depleted. While other people are still excited about their New Year’s resolutions and facing fresh goals I am trying to figure out how I will achieve the Herculean feat of getting out of my bathrobe. These episodes are interspersed with heavy infusions of carbs. Yesterday I enjoyed a big bowl of leftover spaghetti topped with fried potatoes. Carb on carb meals may not be for the faint hearted or for those hoping to fit into their pants when spring comes, but they feel therapeutic. Naturally I followed my starch plate with chocolate cookies, a handful of vitamins and and my happy herbs from the acupuncturist. I have no idea what is in my little herbal pearls but I don’t care. Perhaps it is odd that I am highly suspicious of my doctor when she recommends any type of conventional medication but when my acupuncturist passes me a new bottle of pills I happily pop them, no questions asked. She also is convinced that my salvation lies with giving up dairy. When she first mentioned this I paused and said, “Does that include cheese?”

“Yes. No cheese.”

“I thought you were supposed to make me feel better. I love my cheese. You can’t take my cheese away.”

She looked at me gently and then tapped me on the nose like a misbehaving puppy.

After my appointment I immediately went to my favourite cheese shop where they give out free samples. With my mouth full of cheese I told the counter guy about my acupuncturist’s recommendations for me, including the shunning of cheese.

“I think you need to find a new health care provider,” he said and handed me my purchase.

I guess I could do more to get through the winter. I could give up cheese and alcohol and eat a hard boiled egg every morning. The acupuncturist seems to think an egg a day will save me too. Maybe I should stop self medicating with carbs and go to the gym instead. I could do a lot of things but really all I want to do is sit under a blanket next to a calendar and cross off the days until I feel like a semi-normal person again. Ideally with a vat of macaroni and cheese and a chocolate fetching dog by my side.

It feels like just last week I was complaining about seeing Christmas displays before Halloween and the next thing I know it is New Years eve. My plans for homemade gifts, sumptuous feasts and whimsical decorating have been foiled again. One day I hope to spend the month of December smugly admiring my artfully arranged decorations while softly humming to myself as I cut out paper snowflakes. There is always next year.

Despite trying to simplify things as much as possible, the Christmas frenzy is palpable and contagious. One night on the streetcar a seemingly normal looking woman got on, let out a giant sigh and then yelled a string of obscenities. When she didn’t get any attention she calmly put on her headphones and sat quietly for the rest of the ride. I chalked it up to a mini Christmas meltdown. The holidays can do that to a person. One morning I found myself inexplicably running around the house with a slab of butter in one hand, a box of Christmas cards in the other, feeling completely scattered and flustered until I burst into tears.

Interspersed with these bouts of madness, however, there were little pockets of cheer. One girlfriend decided to have a Christmas party at the last minute, calling people the night before and leaving incoherent mumbled invitations as she was falling asleep. It felt more festive and celebratory than any well planned fete would have been. The Sweetie and I enjoyed a night watching an old Babara Stanwyck movie in our pajamas that left me feeling comforted and cozy. I made a pompom garland and hung it on our mantel where it looked utterly ridiculous. I recharged in baths scented with gingerbread bubbles.

The morning of Christmas Eve The Sweetie had to go to the hospital for an MRI which was scheduled at 4:30 am.  Walking in the frigid cold to catch the all night bus, affectionately known as the Vomit Comet, we had a chance to see Christmas lights and suddenly felt like we were having a lovely date. That night we gave the cat a special plate of tuna for his Christmas dinner and collectively marveled over the girth of the bloody Christmas tree that practically filled the entire room and had almost killed me carrying it home.

The Grinch is right. Christmas came without packages and baubles and roast beast. It came despite MRIs in the middle of the night and my disorganized ways and sugar fueled meltdowns. It felt like Christmas because there was a chance to savour the little things that matter. The stolen moments among the chaos and sweet times with loved ones made it feel merry. And the shortbread. The pounds and pounds of shortbread. That helped too.

In case you have been wondering what I have been up to, enjoy this video and instead of a dog, picture a woman in a bathrobe and instead of kibble imagine a pile of shortbread.

Found here

Christmas is almost here which meant that it was time to get a tree.

The Sweetie and I decided to stroll a few blocks to the church where the boy scouts sell Christmas trees. Since The Sweetie is still suffering with his bulging disc there was some discussion of how we would get the tree home. “Christmas trees are light,” I assured him. “I can carry it. It’s not far. It’ll be a piece of cake.” My memories of Christmas trees past involve the two of us merrily carrying the tree together, practically skipping. Last year I posed for a photo with the tree hoisted over my head like a mighty lumberjack.

Little did I know that we would choose a tree with a weight problem. It didn’t seem that big when we selected it, but I began to totter under its weight when I attempted to lift it.

“What the hell is going on?” I panted. “This thing weighs a tonne!”

“Put it on your shoulder. Crouch down like a football player and lift with your legs,” The Sweetie suggested.  Once I got it up I immediately started tilting. A pine needle poked me in the eye.

“There must be something living in it,” I gasped. I put the tree back on the sidewalk and hugged it in front of me, trying to hoist it a few inches from the ground while shuffling.

“That doesn’t seem to be working,” The Sweetie murmured.

“I’m fine!” I snapped.

“Let me take an end. I can’t watch this,” The Sweetie said.

“Back off the Christmas tree!” I yelled. “You can’t injure your back any further. I can do it”

A flood of expletives followed when I tripped and fell forward. How do people steal television sets and run down the street with them I wondered. I’d be caught immediately.

“Maybe you should walk ahead or behind me so that your manhood isn’t compromised,” I suggested after we passed a couple giving us a strange look.

“I’m staying,” The Sweetie said grimly.

I was in a full sweat at this point. The house felt so far away. I had to stop every few steps to readjust. “Careful with it, your losing a lot of needles,” The Sweetie offered. I had needles in my hair and sap on my hands and jacket. I spat a needle out of my mouth.

“Umm, maybe you should have worn practical shoes?” The Sweetie remarked. I was wearing shoes with a heel, thinking I would look cute and festive. Now the clickety clack of my shoes sounded like an affront, mocking me as I took wobbly, mincing steps.

“Almost there,” I hissed.

A car pulled up next to us and a man stuck his head out the window, “Shouldn’t he be doing that?” he called to me. Funny that it was okay for him to heckle but he didn’t bother to offer a helping hand. I gave him my best Scrooge stink eye, muttering to myself and stared straight ahead.

Somehow we made it home and I leaned the tree against our back door. “That’s it, I can’t go any further,” I huffed.“It can stay outside for the night. I can’t even look at the damn thing right now.” I was soaked with sweat and sap. Pine needles were in my hair. My hands were shaking. I hated my clickety-clack shoes.

That evening I was in the kitchen when I heard voices in the driveway. I knew the neighbours were away. Maybe some thieves are finally stealing that lumber the neighbours have had out back, I mused and continued washing the dishes. Then it occurred to me, “What if they are stealing the Christmas tree! I’ll be damned if someone takes our tree after all I’ve been through with lugging it home.” I don’t know how I planned to wrestle a tree from thieves. My arms were already achy from the exertion of carrying the tree but I was determined to fight to the bitter end if necessary. It turned out it was our neighbour’s son who seemed a little startled by my snarling face on the porch. The Christmas tree was safe.

The tree is now sitting in its stand in the living room. It is quite wide and bushy. It makes sense that it was so heavy. I figure another couple of days and I will be able to lift my arms again so that I can decorate it. Then it will look glorious and proud and the struggle will have been worthwhile.

I have a confession to make. I am not a fan of pears. This admission always seems to provoke incredulous gasps and protests. There is always the indignant, “How can you not like pears? What did a pear ever do to you? What’s not to like about pears?” It is a texture thing for me. They are mushy. Often slimy. They bruise easily. I don’t like that overly sweet grainy sand-like sensation. Frankly, I find them a little pretentious. Perhaps being a small chested, child bearing hipped woman I resent the pear for invoking my shape. This hasn’t interfered with my love of butternut squash, however, which has a similar physique.

The Sweetie gets the same incredulous indignation when he admits that he doesn’t like smoked salmon. People can’t accept it. Rather than being indignant shouldn’t pear and smoked salmon lovers rejoice that there will be more left for them? The Sweetie does love pears though. Knowing this my parents brought over a pile of pears for him. Every day I nag him to eat the pears. I leave them in strategic spots for them to catch his eye, much like I do for myself with my vitamins. I decided to take matters into my own hands and save the pears, feeling heroic for saving something I don’t particularly like. It must be the season making me more charitable. I found a recipe for pear bread that looked enticing despite it’s star ingredient and set to work. It was delicious.

It turns out that pears have taught me a valuable lesson in keeping an open mind, expanding my horizons and overcoming biases. Unpalatable things can be made acceptable if we are willing to bend a little. All you need to do is put them in a cake.