Van-fucking-couver.
the city of opportunity, the city of rain, the city of millions of sexy gay men, shirtless and oiled up and winking at you from every corner... or so I thought.
In reality, there are a lot of sexy gay men in Vancouver, it does indeed rain A LOT, and there is a wealth of opportunity if you just peel back the layers a bit. I however wasn't given a huge chance to peel back much of anything... But it's probably for the best.
2014 started out with a bang! A sharp, deafening, piercing, stinging, painful bang. Making bad decisions got me to Vancouver, via uhaul and crazy chauffer. When I say crazy, I truly mean fucking nuts. That being said, I got there, and that's what counts in the end.
While yes, I do daily wonder what the fuck I'm doing in another province; I don't for an instance wonder what I'm doing in Vancouver... Because I'm not in fucking Vancouver, I'm in Nanoose, a small village/town on the island, 2 hours away from Vancouver by boat. BOAT! BOOOOAAAT!
Now besides being on lake Winnipeg as a child, and steering my great uncle Joe Matheson's fishing boat (fun fact: Matheson Bay is named after him), I had never been on a big boat before. Hell, I'd never been to the ocean before. It was exciting, except it was at night-time. I wanted to see the water, but it was black. When I stood out on the deck, I looked into the horizon and nothing could be seen. No stars. No water, Nothing. I loved the feeling. Nothingness. I've always loved it. The only thing, in fact, that I will miss about the snow: is the sound of nothing. When you are insulated by snow, and you stand still to avoid the crunch of fluffy snow being compacted beneath your feet, all you have left is the sweet nighttime sound of nothing. Something so safe feeling about that. On the ferry deck I tried not to blink while I shoved a finger in each ear to just enjoy the void for a minute. True happiness.
But I digress.
I came by boat to Nanoose to stay with my sister after the shit show that was my Vancouver place to stay fell through. I was so upset leaving Vancouver, and was actually shaking. I didn't know what future I had in store for me, all I assumed was that I was dropping off my dog at my sisters home on the island, until I sorted things out for myself in Vancouver. Lucky for me, my sister was a bit more generous than to let me end up in god knows what situation. She extended an olive branch, and offered me a place to stay and work until I could afford independence. I accepted. I snagged the first job I applied for, as a chef in a small English style pub on the island, not too far from my sisters place.
I love the green of this island, it looks like either spring, or the start of fall around here, and I can't complain. My dog LOVES it. I checked out the ocean for the first time in daylight, saw some of the forests, and have spent a lot of quality time with my nephews... Guilt ridden or not.
The guilt comes from the murder of on of my nephews prized pet Charlie: a budgie. The budgie was turquoise and really sweet. Well I went to the bathroom, when I came out a few minutes later both my dog, and my sisters dog were in the hallway by the bathroom door. BOTH LOOKING HORRIBLY GUILTY for something. But what could it be? I walked into the kitchen and saw it instantly... The broken neck form of Charlie. A few small feathers here and there. Tragic. I'm not a bird person, but I'm also not a fucking monster, either. First reaction: Put the bird in a bag, take the bag outside, bury the bag. This plan seemed adequate to me, the ground doesn't freeze here, my sister would be out for at least a few more hours... So I picked up the bird, the way one picks up dog shit on a walk at the off leash park. Bag over the whole hand, retrieve the mess, pull the bag back the opposite direction. No mess, no fuss, nothing fucking disgusting on your hands. Well, as soon as I got the bird in that bag (a clear bag, no-less), I looked down at it. I CAN'T DO THIS!! It was once alive, everything alive deserves a proper death, and a proper remembrance, and a proper goodbye. What if this was my dog? What if this was my friend? Guilt. Pure guilt. I had done nothing yet, but I felt hot faced guilt. I put the bird on the table, and called my sister. If I didn't tell her, the whole thing would surely become worse. A search party, assumptions, the works. Plus, she needed to know. I recommended, however, that this weekend might not be the best to teach the boys about death. They were at their fathers house, giving my sister (whom was already out, in town) an opportunity to purchase a new bird. Which she did. The funny thing about birds is that no two are completely alike. They may look identical, but personalities are bound to be different...
My sisters children came home the next day, and within 4 minutes of stepping in the fucking door, the 10yr old inspected the god-damned bird. "Charlie looks different," he said. "He shed some feathers," my sister replied. This peaked the overly curious mind of my 10yr old nephew. He opened the cage and I scooted outside to smoke a cigarette, and watch the scene from behind a pane of glass. Within a second, that fucking bird was latched onto his hand by his beak, like a bird infected with some zombie virus. Apocalypse. Apocalypse-fucking-now. fuck. All you can now hear are the screams of my nephew "That's not my bird. where's my bird? you killed Charlie!!!!!!!!!!!" Even through the glass, I could feel the sound-wave. His bird was dead, and he clearly wanted even god to know just how upset he was. I slumped. Guilt. Pure guilt.
But as 10yr olds do, he became calm, as he realized "hey, there's a new bird." He still cried. Quieter tears. My sister told him the bird had gotten sick and died sadly at the vet's office. "They did everything they could." A few minutes later, after informing her several times how much he loved the bird, and that she should have told him, even if that meant calling him, he turned to me. The second I knew he was eyeing me up, the guilt again came. But he grabbed my hand and said "Uncle Kizmo, can I have a hug?" Shit. I do love the little guy. I picked him up off the ground and let him cry it out. Then, reminded him about how awesome the new bird would be, after a little training. He seemed to shake it off.
I found out that Charlie #2 was actually Charlie #3, as the first one that I hadn't met, flew into the ceiling fan. Poof. Charlie #2 was switched out and the kids didn't notice. Probably because, as I said before, Charlie number two was a much fucking nice bird than Charlie number three.
Now I keep a much closer eye on the bird and the dogs.
Lessons learned. Lots of lessons.
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