Finn and Edith had agreed on one thing. Well they might have agreed on more but they never stopped chasing one another long enough to agree on much at all. But they did agree it was going to take a long time to train their humans.
“Keep your voice down.” Finn whispered.
“No need to whisper Finn, humans don’t understand dog.”
He could see that Peter was furious, struggling to remain composed. Beau pressed his advantage, “You and your publisher need to be careful. You care too much. You want my client to be convicted of first degree murder again. And if you’re not careful you’re going to interfere with a fair trial for my client. You’d better be careful.” he repeated. Peter was wordless but his flushed cheeks and the tension in his face betrayed his anger.
Joe Stokes had never had a day of trouble with the law. Yet, he had shot a man dead with one shot to the head with a .357 revolver. What happens to cause such a break, a lapse into a dissociative state, unshackled from the usual restraints against violence?
“Can I tell you about the biggest hemorrhoid I’ve ever seen?” It was Terry, a friendly welcoming member of what I came to call ‘The 10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’, a gathering of dog owners who met most mornings at a dog park in West Kelowna. I do remember thinking to say ‘No’ might seem unfriendly, even uninterested but then surely one can’t appear to be too interested in ‘the biggest hemorrhoid Terry had ever seen’. And I had no time to make my decision.
The case against Joe Stokes was what the cops call ‘open and shut’. They had the victim, the murder weapon and the only possible suspect. On top of all that, Joe had confessed to the killing.
September 12, 1977: He lay motionless on the floor of the only bar in Ross River, Yukon. Hank Woods had been dropped by a single bullet from a .357 magnum revolver. The shooter now seated on a bar stool over at the long mahogany bar, put the gun down, spun it along the bar and told the stunned bartender, “There. Now call the RCMP!”
The 60’s exploded into view, something few would have been able to anticipate. Forces were unleashed that would change everything. Baby Boomers, now a majority and coming of age, found their voice and reached out for their power. It would unnerve our parents and rattle all the trusted conventions of the time. Even as I was living through it I could feel that everything I knew, all that I trusted was shifting beneath me. I just didn’t know how and I didn’t know my place in all of it.
‘Canadians are so nice!” I can remember my mother saying that when I was a young boy, new to Canada as I was. And it wasn’t a compliment. From an English woman finding her place in this new land it was sharp criticism. If her purpose was to pose a question, it worked. It has echoed through the ages, a question posed, a question unanswered.
Writing for profit is a fool’s game. I don’t, I write for myself. Some of my writing is profound, some is important, but most of it is neither of those two things. I am at my best as an observational humourist, filtering the mundane through the ‘amusing’ lens and writing.
David Sedaris is a great American observational humourist and he has unknowingly guided me as I spelunked my way through many a dark, confusing writing tunnel. He taught me to stop worrying about inspiration. He says that human beings are very funny, hilarious at times. The knack he says is to get better at seeing it. He is right, if I have grown as a writer it is because I am better now at ‘seeing’ us as we are, simple and complex, shallow and profound, tragic and hilarious. We are endlessly fascinating, a never ending source of writing inspiration.
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