Goodbye, Old Friend.

My dog died the other day.

Tuesday morning about 7 a.m., Paxton died in his sleep. He had been sick most of the weekend. Actually, he hadn't been well for the past two months. Heart problems typical of older Great Danes. He'd get sick, would lay down and be unable to get up and seem like he was on Death's door for hours on end. But the next day or a few hours later, he would always rebound and be back to his old self.

This time, he didn't wake up. Eleven years old. That's about three years longer than the usual life-expectancy for a Great Dane. He just didn't want to leave. How's that for loyalty?

He came to live with us four years ago. He was an older dog and came into our home to retire. Seven years old. That's 49 in dog-years. At the time, I was 49 in people-years. We were well-suited for each other. We both liked to just lay around the house, sit in the back-yard and chase the occassional squirrel.

I'd never had my own dog before. And by the end of that first weekend, I was smitten with him. And I was amazed about how, at this particular point in my life, just how easy it was to fall in love again.

I know that he felt the same way. I was his Alpha Male and his best friend. He was my constant companion, choosing to only rarely be out of my sight and going up to bed when I went. He could have stayed downstairs where all the fun and activity was. Instead, he chose to come up and stretch out in his spot on the floor at the side of the bed. Maybe he thought it was his job to be up there to protect me or keep me company. Or maybe he was just sleepy too. Sleeping was one of the things he did best.

Actually, there were a lot of things he did well. To get a treat he could do the three-step process of 'sit', 'shake a paw' and then 'jump' where he would leap into the air for a Milkbone held about six feet off the ground. He knew how to keep squirrels from setting foot in our backyard. He knew how to bark at anyone knocking at the front door, walking down the sidewalk in front of the house (especially if they were walking a dog - somehow he just knew,) or even at passing trains who made the house rumble from two blocks away.

He knew how to sneak into bed. Crouching down, then plopping one foot on the bed, waiting to see if anyone had noticed, then plopping the other up there and then laying low he would wiggle his whole body up. Then he'd flop his head over and look at you like he'd just beaten the heck out of you at checkers. And the funny thing was, that this 120-pound dog actually thought he was pulling something over on you and that you didn't even notice until it was too late.

At supper, he wouldn't beg. He would just stand next to you, stare at your plate, let out the occassional sigh and then plop that huge head down on the table and wait until you were done and those scraps got tossed into his bowl.

That head was the most magnificent thing I've ever seen. If I was a different sort of person, I would have had a taxidermist preserve it for me properly when he died. But I knew they wouldn't be able to capture those soulful eyes. It wouldn't be the same.

T'was a noble head to be sure. Floppy ears, not the cropped Scooby-Doo kind. Next to each of his eyes, a narrow line of short black hair looked like a running tear. As he got older, his grey whiskers gave him the 'Jed Clampett' look that I also favour. A ridge of hair stood up on the back of his neck and ran about ten inches. Where the ridge began, up near his collar, was a swirling of matted short hairs. It was the exact size and shape of a thumbprint. "That's where God put His stamp on him," explained Mavis.

He was one of those Gentle Giants you hear about in the dog world. Never bit anyone even though he could have ripped your throat out if you deserved it. A loud bark but probably too scared to ever do more than that. The patience of a saint.

He taught me that I really do like going for walks along the river first thing in the morning. Even if it is raining and miserably cold. He taught me that you can tell if another dog has been this way and urinated in this particular spot if you sniff hard enough and shove your snout deep enough into the snow. But mostly he taught me how easy it is to love someone without any effort.

As someone else said when eulogizing their own dog - "No, he wasn't the best dog in the world. Only the finest."

The bond between a boy and his dog is one of the strongest and I can't tell you how much I am going to miss that dog.

Goodbye, dear sweet friend. Until we meet again.

... It's going to be Quietsville around here for awhile.

This is How I Feel

Paxton, a couple of years ago. Click on the photo for an enlargement. He's crying.

It's a Family Day Miracle!

I don't know about you but I often get depressed and sad around Family Day. Maybe it's because there's just too much build-up. After all that anticipation, nothing could realistically live up to those expectations. Or maybe it's because I never get anything good in the Secret Dalton gift exchange at work. But the bottom line is that I just don't like to be alone on Family Day.

Not much I can do about it this year though. Mavis and the Gnut will be here. And the dog. But the girls can't make it. D.J. can't come. She and her boyfriend Travis have to spend Family Day with his parents this year because they had Family Day dinner with us last time. And what with Harriet moving to Toronto a few months ago, she can't make it down. Besides, she works for one of those places that still refuses to acknowledge Family Day as a stat holiday.

Yep, it's going to be Quietsville around here this Family Day.

Not like the old days. It seems like just yesterday that we'd start the Family Day weekend off by all wearing our new Family Day bonnets to church that Sunday. Then we would spend the rest of the day watching Family Day specials on TV. 'A Charlie Brown Family Day,' 'Family Day on Walton's Mountain,' 'Bobby Hill Discovers Family Day.' All the classics.

And for supper that night, a Family Day Eve meal of boxed meats and hors' d'ouvres out of the freezer. It's all the leftover stuff from Christmas. The stuff we saved for when B-list company unexpectedly dropped in. So last night we feasted on dry garlic pork, a cheese ball, mini-vegetable spring rolls and an Oriental Party Pak. All of course supplied by the good people at M&M Meatshops. It's become a tradition. No wonder every February 17th when I make my annual visit to M&M, all the staff greet me with a hearty "Happy Family Day, Sonny!"

We sing a few Family Day carols and then it's time for the kids to go to bed early. Why? So they won't scare away the Dalton Pixie of course! Every Family Day Eve, when everyone is fast asleep, the Dalton Pixie sneaks into homes all over Ontario pick the pockets of the grown-ups and leave a present for all the good little boys and girls who have not yet reached voting age.

But that Dalton Pixie is a mischievous little imp. He only brings hot air, empty promises and useless gifts. This year, when Gnut unwrapped the present left on the kitchen table he found a can of mushrooms. Gnut doesn't like mushrooms. Won't eat them. Not even fresh ones. "Oh, that Dalton Pixie," he good-naturedly chuckled, "He's done it again!"

And on Family Day Eve, since the children have retired early, it's the perfect opportunity for Mavis and I to have our annual Family Day sex. For purposes of procreation of course. At least that's what I tell Mavis. Kind of loudly too. At some point in those almost ritualistic tumblings, I'm sure to yell out - "Must ensure the continued existance of the species! Must maintain the viablility of the family unit!" Followed by, "Ohhhh, thank you thank you thank you!"

But as satisfying as the sex is, my favorite part of the day is sitting down to a good old-fashioned traditional Family Day dinner. One with family-sized portions. Oh, I know that some families are big on homemade 'comfort' foods for this holiday - meatloaf, mac n' cheese, cabbage rolls or a nice big roast beef with roasted potatoes, onions and carrots. Sounds good. But I can eat that kind of stuff anytime. Nope, here at the Drysdale household, nothing says home-cookin' or 'home' and 'family' better than those three sweet, lip-smackin' little words - 'take-out from Swiss Chalet.'

But this year, I went one better. When I was in M&M yesterday, they pointed out a new product - Rotisserie chicken wings! Well, I almost shit my pants. Can you imagine that - all the flavour of Swiss Chalet without having to even go into the damn restaurant? Slowest service in town. I swear. It was worth the ten bucks a box for that alone.

And after Mother carves the Family Day bird from Swiss Chalet and I, as the eldest say the traditional Family Day Grace - "Dear Lord who art in heaven, Sonny Drysdale here ..." then we all stuff our faces and the dinner conversation is limited to the likes of "pass the M&M potato wedges please?"

The sounds of mastication can get so loud that it's a good thing I have music on to cover it up. Before we sit down, it's the same every year. Me and the Gnut good-naturedly kibbitz about what we are going to listen to first - 'An Anne Murray Traditional Family Day' or Boxnoxious' 'Family Feud Day.' I always win out though. It's my CD-player.

But it's not just the food. It's the sense of belonging one gets with Family Day. As we sit in the living room after supper, digesting our meal and contentedly basking in the glow of Mr. Television as he tells us the story of 'Family Day on the Ponderosa,' I like to reflect on the day and all the magic it has brought to us. If only, I wonder, if only we could maintain and keep the spirit of Family Day alive all year round. I know it sounds like an impossible dream - but can you imagine it? Families sitting down to eat dinner together every night? To watch television together? In the same room? To actually go to the trouble of pretending that they enjoy each other's company? Oh, I suppose I just sound like a foolish old man here. Shooting for the moon. But I like to think that maybe, just maybe it might be possible!

And with that wish, I hope that all you gentle readers out there have a Kick-Ass Happy Family Day.

And I leave you with the best of news. Just like the last Swiss Chalet french fry on the plate with just a smidgen of dipping sauce left, I've saved the best for last - I just got a telegram - and the girls ARE coming home for Family Day!

Toronto Girl called in sick to work and coincidently, Deeje's boyfriend's parents came down with the flu and are presently puking their guts out - so she and Travis can come here after all! It's a Family Day miracle!

I can't say I'm too surprised. They always make the effort to be home for Family Day. Bless them, it means so much to their mother.

But then, why wouldn't they come home? It's not like me and Mavis aren't responsible for their entire existance after all.

You know, I have a feeling that this is going to be the BEST Family Day EVER!

A Family Day Memory

I remember it as if it were just yesterday. There I was, a tow-headed young lad in Grade 11 at Riverside High.

As a member of the Dance Committee, that meant helping set up the gym for the annual Family Day Dance, putting up decorations and streamers and hanging up the lights and disco ball. It was a lot of work but we all pitched in because we knew what a swell dance it was going to be and we didn't want to let the rest of the kids down.

On Saturday afternoon we had finished and the gym looked great. We all congratualted ourselves that it had never looked that grand for a Family Day Dance. This was going to be the best one ever!

Satuday night I was full of anticipation as I walked to the dance. As I got there couples walked in holding hands, groups of girls came in all dressed in simple short black dresses and gangs of guys in white sports jackets followed them in with hungry eyes.

I stood there for a moment taking it all in, watching the snow-flakes softly fall under the parking lot lights and praying that all our hard work would be appreciated that night.

When I got to the front door, Debbie Hanson, the president of the Dance Committe was sitting at a table taking tickets from people coming in. At her elbow was Todd Maranic, Secretary of the Dance Committee.

"Hi Debbie. Hi Todd," I said. "Looks like a good turnout for the Family Day Dance."

And when Debbie replied, it was like being hit in the gut. "Sorry Sonny, but you can't come in."

My eyes welling up with tears, I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "But why?" I asked, my voice on the verge of choking up. "I'm a member of the Dance Committee. I've spent the whole week after school and then today helping decorate the gym."

"I'm sorry, Sonny - but it's Dance Committee policy," Todd said.

"I don't understand. I'm a student here and I'm ON the Dance Committee. I even bought a ticket."

And then Debbie piped up with those words I'll never forget as long as I live. "Think about it Sonny, it's a FAMILY Day Dance. And you're an orphan. You and your kind are not welcome here tonight. ... Besides, we don't like you."

"That's right," Todd chimed in. "Now beat it. Go home."

Go home. Nice thing to say to an orphan.

But I did. And all the way back to the orphanage I thought about why they really didn't want me there. It had nothing to do with being an orphan. Or the colour of my skin. Or my religion. Or sexual preference. It was because they were all jealous of me because I was smarter and better-looking than them.

When I got 'home' I didn't stay there. I went to the orphanage kitchen and got the biggest butcher-knife I could find and headed back to the school. I'd show those narrow-minded snobs. I'd fix them. I'd fix them good. I'd show them all.

And that's just what I did. As they were all inside, dancing away to 'Sha Na Na's Greatest Family Day Hits,' I made my way around the parking lot and slashed the tires of every car there. Every last one of them. ... The smug nuclear-family bastards.

Video Review - 'London: The Cradle of Canadian Mediocrity.'

Yo - long time since I last rapped at ya, but I've been busy reading. A book. It's called 'She - A History of Adventure.' By H. Rider Haggard. It's set back in those olden days about the time of Indiana Jones and it's darned good.

I actually saw the movie version starring Ursulla Andress when I was about 10 or 11 in the mid-1960s and if memory serves, it was that movie that convinced me that I was a man. Or that I could be if I thought about Ursulla Undress hard enough.

But the movie is next to impossible to find so I thought I'd read the book because even though 'She' will always have a warm wet spot in my heart, I'm not going to drop $50 bucks for it on Ebay. But the book is proving to be a lot of trouble. Over 300 pages, all in small type and I have to keep going back to the glossary to figure out the references from those olden days. The movie was a lot less complicated. A white goddess named Ayesha and she lives forever. I think me, Anne Rice and Whit Streiber must have all seen the movie at the same time.

And I've also been reading the newspaper. Particularly Ian Gillespie's column in last week's London Free Press in which someone who was hired to film some of the segments of the 'Ambassador London' promotional video was making sport at how chaotic the whole experience was and he jested that for $51,000, the end result is mediocre at best. And that the in-town advertising agency that made it came up with a product that a bunch of first-year film students could have made for about the cost of the film and an editing suite.

So I was intrigued enough to check it out on YouTube. I had to go there because if you go to their website, ambassadorlondon.ca, you can't just download their video. That would be too easy and make it too accessible. No, first you have to send in a request for it - submit a form giving them your email address and the reason you want to view the video.

I figured that if I told them I only wanted to see it so I could give it some decontructive criticism and make sarcastic comments about it on my blog then they wouldn't let me see it. Sorry, permission denied. But if you go to YouTube and do a search for 'Ambassador London' you will find it under a vague description. But it will be the only entry that doesn't show the Mayor or some guy in a suit making a speech at the Ambassador kick-off party last spring at the convention centre.

When I read about it the video in Mr. Gillespie's column and then more about the subsequent kerfuffle in his Free Press blog, my first thought was $51,000 for THIS?!? But now, having seen the video first hand, I have to ask - $51,000 for THAT?!?

I was totally underwhelmed - $51,000 worth. To call it mediocre is a compliment. It's more like just another typical-London example of how to be lame.

The video itself is harmless enough of course, but what really gets my dander up is that if these 'professionals' can't come up with a better video for $51,000, then why, oh why is our City Council about to give this brand new organization $100,000 to come up with a business plan? Why would you hand over that kind of money to fiscal incompetents while you nickel&dime every worthy social agency in town who comes to you with a genuinely needy hand out?

Well, the answer to that is - because we're London. We have an inferiority complex and will have it until we get a Performing Arts Centre or until the day Toronto gets nuked and we can reclaim our proper title of The Capital of Upper Canada.

Anyway, here are some highlights.

Visually, it's all pretty pictures of what could be Anytown, Anywhere, U.S.A. Lots of happy children, happy people and they let it hang out at one of our summer ethnic festivals. In fact, the one black person in the video seemed to be having a heck of a time. But, then, he was a vender at SunFest, just passing through and had to be there.

But it's the voice-over narration to the visuals which provide the real eye-opening laugh-getters.

Did you know that London is "a city that never forgets its past"? I think of that fun-fact every morning coming home from work and I drive past the rubble being bulldozed from what was once Locust Mount, the home of our first mayor - but more importantly, once one of the most distinctive of all the pre-Victorian homes in the downtown neighbourhoods.

Our city council and city staff revere our heritage so much that they let the developer who owns it let it just sit vacant and unprotected for seven years until the inevitable fire(s) set by homeless transients destroyed enough of it that it could be torn down so those condos on the blue-prints could finally be put up. The same sort of intentional demolition-by-neglect that I'm reminded of as I travel further down the street and see what was once the Talbot Hotel, now Disneyfied onto the facade of a hockey arena. All of which was done under the watchful eyes of City Council, city staff and the developer who owned the property.

Did you know that London is "where cultural development starts at the ground level"? Viewers learn this as they see a young woman doing a large chalk sidewalk drawing at one of our summer festivals.

What it doesn't tell the viewer is that, sure you can get the education to be an artist here - but once you do become an artist, don't expect to be encouraged or even acknowledged. Our one daily newspaper doesn't even have an Art critic. So even if you do manage to get your own exhibition, don't expect to see your work reviewed. Consider yourself lucky if you get a two-sentence mention of it in the monthly round-up of some of the art shows in town.

This is why anyone who does graduate from one of our fine art colleges, immediately leaves for Toronto or Montreal. However, if what Ambassador London means by "cultural development" is - 'being ignored and left alone to do your own thing as long as you don't call attention to yourself or annoy anyone' - then London is your town.

Did you know that London "is where Johnny Cash proposed to June Carter"? If you are a Londoner, chances are you have - because apparently, it's the only interesting thing that's ever happened here. Luckily for us, Johnny was feeling bold that night when his band passed through on tour three or four decades ago. If he had waited a day longer to pop the question, Brantford would be making that claim.

Surprisingly, when it comes to music, there's no mention of London being the hometown of Guy Lombardo, whom I'm told has sold over two-million records even though he's been dead for decades. Although, Guy's nick-name in Big Band circles is 'The King of Corn,' at least the guy actually was born and raised here.

Not the least bit unsurprisingly, when it comes to music, there is no mention of The Demics, London's first punk band who were once voted in a poll by our nation's music critics to have recorded the best Canadian single EVER.

It's title - 'I Wanna Go to New York City,' says everything you want to know about what a dead lame-ass town this is. For anyone who has ever been young and spent a summer hanging around downtown, the song sums everything up with - "I'm damn pretty bored - AND I WANNA GET OUT." If you are young and in possession of a functioning brain and soul, how could you not relate to that? That line alone says volumes more than those two million Guy Lombardo records ever could.

But judging by their video, Ambassador London isn't trying to attract young people to London - just businessmen who want to move their head office here and take out a mortgage.

It certainly isn't aimed at the young people who are already here and keeping them here. In this town, if you are young, it's a foregone conclusion that you're already planning on leaving. And you've been dreaming of it for at least a decade.

That's one reality you will never hear about from Ambassador London - that if you are under the age of 30, there are far more reasons to leave than to stay.

And if you happen to be a young out-of-towner, the only reasons to come here - even as a tourist - are only for school or a mandatory job transfer or in a plane crash.

F.Y.I. - the Ambassador London group are a pretty thin-skinned bunch. They don't like negative criticism. They defensively point out that before you put something down, you should have a better solution to offer -

So here's mine - whenever Ambassador London makes a new video or inevitably retreats to the editing suite to fix the current one, I offer this suggestion to make it viewer-friendly -

More show-tunes. And it wouldn't hurt to show a few good looking broads either.

The Annual Theatre Review

Went to Theatre London last night and had a Grand time. Ha-ha.

We saw 'Sexy Laundry.' It's a comedy about this long-time married couple who go off for a romantic weekend at an expensive hotel to "re-evaluate their relationship" by bringing along a copy of 'Sex For Dummies.'

Going to the play was Mavis' idea. She read a review for it in the Free Press (written by the reporter who likes EVERYTHING,) and thought it sounded 'cute.' I read the same review and 'cute' isn't the adjective I would have chosen. Cliche and predictable would have been.

I wasn't too thrilled about the idea. The last time I went to the Grand was to see 'The Graduate' and there was nudity in it. But it's one thing to see Sonja Smits bare-naked - and full frontal, no less - and quite another thing to see two somewhat pudgy fifty-somethings nude and having sex up on stage.

Geez, if I want to see two naked middleaged people having sex, all I have to do is glance up at my ceiling. Ha-ha.

But the ol' lady was looking forward to it and seeing as how I never seem to take her anywhere anyhow unless it involves Sonja Smits naked, I thought what the hell. It would be a nice pre-Valentines gesture and way to show her that we don't need to go to an expensive hotel to rekindle our romance. Or even show up with roses on February 14th for that matter - our union is that strong.

Besides, we were going to a restaurant across the street from the theatre before the show to use up a gift certificate I got at Christmas, so I figured I'd at least get a good steak out of the deal. And considering the subject matter of the play, as long as I didn't fall asleep during the performance, there was a good chance I might be getting laid afterwards.

So we went - and as for the night on the whole, I gotta tell ya - that was one of the BEST steaks I EVER had. Beef tenderloin, seared lightly so it was still nice and pink inside. With 'jus reduction' - which I think is French but seems to basically be 'au jus' which I believe is Latin for 'gravy.'

Had a Ceasar to kick things off and a really nice glass of red wine which came in a glass the size of a small fishbowl - and I was content for the night right there. Even if the hostess asked me to remove my hat when we sat down. Now, don't get me wrong, I understand why a fancy restaurant would want to discourage the knuckle-dragging crowd from wearing their ball-caps or trucker hats into their establishment.

But I was wearing my beret. Just like the kind they wear over in Paris. You know, Paris, France? The place where they got all those bistros where everyone and their dog sit at tables eating croissants while speaking all that French-talk and wearing berets?

After all, this was a restaurant which specializes in French cuisine - what would be more appropos than a beret? But what the hell. I had a shower a couple of hours earlier and had washed my hair so I looked too damn cool to have my lion's mane covered up anyway. In fact, my hair looked so good I even took out my pony-tail scrunchie.

Mavis had the special of the day which was blue marlin. And it was darned good too. We'd never had blue marlin before. Or any kind of marlin for that matter. But I always feel that when you have to spend a small fortune in a restaurant, you might as well get something you can't cook yourself or that none of your friends could possibly whip up if they invited you to a pot-luck.

We didn't get any appetizers or dessert. As I told Mavis, let's not fill up.

As for the play itself, it was pretty well what I expected. The first half was like 'Everybody Loves Raymond' as written by the staff writers from 'Cosmopolitan.' When intermission came, if Mavis was to have suggested leaving so we could go home and catch 'King of Queens,' I would have gone. But she liked it. And they did get off a few good yuks so I didn't mind it too much.

And I'm glad we stayed because the second half moved in a different direction. One which involved, at one point - black leather, whips and bondage. In a cute and wholesome kind of way.

And the two actors were darned good. Both were pretty funny actually. But it was the closing night performance so I knew they would be pulling out all the stops and give 110 per-cent.

And it was the kind of play that when you go in, you know you'll be holding hands when you're coming out.

But it occured to me later, that for the small fortune I paid for dinner and the hundred bucks it cost for front-row theatre seats, I could have spent less than that taking Mavis to some fancy expensive hotel for a romantic weekend. Instead of watching two strangers up on a stage doing all that stuff we could have been doing it in real life ourselves. And probably for two nights if we went to someplace like Motel 6 on Wellington Road - and still have money left over to go next door to the Red Lobster for supper.

Too bad I shot my whole wad of February's romance budget on theatre tickets. But you know, I don't really mind. Mavis enjoyed the show. And that's all that matters.

And with the second act, it was certainly tolerable. It's not like I had anything better to do. Otherwise I'd just be sitting at home, watching some cowboy movie on TCM and digesting that incredible steak.

So we stopped into Coles on Dundas on the way home and picked up a copy of 'Sex for Dummies.' Such is the power and the magic of live theatre.