"Fight like a girl"

Source of photo unknown

March is Endometriosis Awareness Month.

If you don't have endometriosis, or know someone who has it, you probably don't know what this is, or why there is a month dedicated to raising awareness about it.

Well, allow me to give you some facts about endometriosis (source: the Endometriosis Foundation of America):

• It is a reproductive condition that affects women. The endometrium, the lining of the uterus, grows in places it shouldn't within the pelvic and abdominal cavities (i.e., the ovaries, the bowel, the fallopian tubes, the area just behind the uterus). And just like the endometrium thickens and sheds through menstruation every month if an egg is not fertilized, so too do these little spots. Except unlike the endometrium, they have nowhere to go. So they just collect there, inside these various spots outside of the uterus, and form lesions. Lesions which often lead to painful side effects, like bloating, severe cramps, heavy menstrual bleeding, and painful sexual relations. 
• Most seriously, endometriosis can often lead to problems conceiving, or worse, infertility. In fact, 30 to 40% of women who suffer from this condition are unable to get pregnant, giving endometriosis the dubious honour of being one of the top three leading causes of infertility in women.
• The condition is often misdiagnosed as bad PMS, ovarian cysts, irritable bowel syndrome, or pelvic inflammatory disease. 
• The average age at which women are diagnosed with endometriosis is 27. When you consider that the symptoms manifest themselves most painfully during menstruation, that is a lot of years to live in pain without knowing what is wrong.
• 176 million women worldwide suffer from endometriosis. To put this in context, in 2010, 1.5 million women worldwide were diagnosed with breast cancer (Source: Worldwide Breast Cancer).
• Endometriosis is not perceptible by ultrasound. It can only be diagnosed with laparoscopic surgery. 
• There is no consensus as to the causes of endometriosis. Is it hormonal? Is it genetic? We don't really know.
• There is no cure for endometriosis. Yet there are a number of treatments. These include hormonal contraceptives, steroids to induce menopause, laparoscopic excision to remove the lesions, and as a last resort, full or partial hysterectomy.

I have endometriosis.

I would not normally use my blog to talk about something quite so personal. I prefer this to be a spot to tell more humorous stories, to make you laugh, or at least shake your heads and question my sanity. But then again, I didn't know that it was Endometriosis Awareness Month until I saw my Twitter and Facebook feeds. And to raise awareness, one can't be silent. Besides, I have been cooped up at home for 4 days now, because, in extremely fitting timing (a coincidence, I assure you), I just had my third laparoscopic excision surgery a few days ago. And there is only so much Netflix a girl can watch while she convalesces at home with her dog watching over her (especially a Canadian girl, because you Yankees get way better shows on your Netflix than we do). So I might as well tell a little story. It's not a funny one. But maybe it will make you think a little bit more about women's health issues. Which is never a bad thing.

Compared to most women, I was diagnosed relatively young, at the age of nineteen. However, my journey with endometriosis began a few years before my diagnosis. It began, in fact, when I started my period in the eighth grade. It was heavy and messy. It was irregular. It was extremely painful. None of my girlfriends seemed to be in that kind of pain. Yet there I was, begging my mother to let me stay home from school once every month-ish so that I could curl up with a hot water bottle and a handful of Advil. My mother worried. She brought me to the doctor. "On a scale of one to ten," he asked me, "what is your pain." ""Nine and a half," I whimpered. The doctor smirked a little, looked at my Mom, and said, "Don't worry, Julie. Teenagers are always a little melodramatic. Your daughter just has bad PMS."

A few years later, when I was sixteen, I was rushed to the hospital in the middle of the night with extreme abdominal pain. It hurt so much that I could not sit, lie down, or stand up without wanting to scream. Although I had just started my period, the level and location of the pain had us all convinced that my appendix was about to burst. I was even prepped for surgery. But when the test results came back, my blood cell count showed no sign of infection. The doctors and nurses scrambled to reassess. "Describe the pain," the ER doctor said. "It feels like someone is cutting my insides with a knife," I said. They kept me in the hospital for three days, poking and prodding me and doing all sorts of tests. When they let me out, the doctor said, "Maybe you had a ruptured cyst on your ovary. Or maybe you just have really bad PMS. But there's nothing else wrong with you. Advil usually helps cramps. Next time, try that before you come to the hospital." He sent me home.

My mother recounted this ordeal to one of her best friends. Rhonda was a nurse. She also suffered from endometriosis. She had it so bad that at the age of 25, she had a full hysterectomy. "She has all the symptoms, Julie," Rhonda said. "You've gotta push them. They won't take her seriously because she is so young. But if you don't push now, she could end up like me."

My poor mom had no idea what to do. I mean, we lived in a small town in Manitoba. It's not like we had a bunch of doctors that we could turn to for second opinions. But she tried. She talked to our GP, told her about her friend who had endometriosis and lost her uterus at age 25, and asked for a referral to a gynaecologist. "Don't be silly, Julie," the doctor said. "She's far too young. Women in their thirties get endometriosis, not teenage girls. She just has bad PMS. Let's put her on the pill and call it a day."

I went off to university. The pain continued. On more than one occasion, in the middle of the night, I had to call a taxi to rush me to the emergency room, because I would wake up in abdominal agony. Every single time, they asked me the same questions: "On a scale of one to ten, what is the pain like?" and "Describe the pain." Every single time, I answered "Nine" or "Like someone is stabbing me with a knife from the inside." And every single time, they gave me a couple of extra strength Advil and sent me home.

I started to read about endometriosis on my own. I tracked my symptoms, what I ate, how it impacted me. And I just knew that I had it. So I made it my mission to find a doctor who would take me seriously. I went to six of them, trudging along my symptom journal to show them proof that this was more than just bad PMS, that this wasn't just in my head, and that I lived my day-to-day life in real and considerable pain. None of them believed me. All of them sent me away.

And then came doctor number seven. Like all the others, she started into the same speech: "Why on earth would you think you have endometriosis? You are far too young for that!" Only this time, I would not, could not, accept no for an answer. With anger dripping from my voice, I told her that I was sick and tired of everyone telling me that I was too young to know what was going on with my own body. I told her that it was unfair that all of these doctors asked me to just accept my pain and live with it. I told her that I wasn't asking her to do the diagnostic surgery just so I could get out of doing a couple of mid-term exams. I told her that I knew that something wasn't right with my body and more importantly, that I deserved to know what it was. And I told her that I was scared. Scared that if it took me another ten years and thirty more condescending doctors like her, I might end up like Rhonda.

"Do you want children," the doctor asked?

"I don't know," I screamed. "I'm too f$#?ing young to know. But I'd at least like to preserve the option."

So she agreed. A few weeks later, at the Ottawa General Hospital, I woke up in the recovery room, groggy as hell from the anesthetic, when a nurse handed me a note that said, "You have stage 2 (of 4) endometriosis. Lesions on your ovaries and in your cul-de-sac (the area behind the uterus). We cauterized them with the laser. Make a follow-up appointment for 4 weeks from now and we'll discuss next steps."

I cried. Yes, I was sad. But there were tears of joy mixed in there. As misplaced as joy sounds when one is diagnosed with an incurable condition, that is indeed a big part of what I was feeling. That, and relief. I wasn't crazy. It wasn't "just bad PMS". It was a real condition with a real name, which meant real treatment options and real chances of feeling better. It meant hope.

And, I would discover, diagnosis would also mean experimenting, frustration, continued pain, and a whole lot of unknowns. Because that's the thing about endometriosis. What works for one woman doesn't work for another. Removing the lesions should have, in theory, made things better, at least for a little while. Only it brought no relief. My symptoms persisted. Quite severely, in fact. I was in so much pain that my doctor, who by this point, I suspect, was tired of hearing me complain and whine, put me on danazol, a steroid that launched my body into menopause. At the age of nineteen. I grew hair on my chin. I gained fifteen pounds. I had hot flashes. I had frightening mood swings. At nineteen. No nineteen year old is psychologically prepared for that kind of torture. Whether it was right or wrong, I took myself off of the medication one month earlier than I should have. I skipped my next follow-up with my doctor. And I started looking for a new one.

This, in fact, turned out to be the best decision that I ever made. Because sixteen years later, I am still with the same gynaecologist. Unlike every other doctor I have known, he takes me seriously. He cares about what is going on, both inside of my body and inside of my mind. He painstakingly explains every option to me, draws me pictures of my uterus so that he can explain to me what is going on, calls me "dear" as though I really matter to him, opens his office doors to me at 7:00 in the morning if I need to come and see him for an emergency, and most importantly, admits it when he doesn't have all the answers. He understands that he is fallible, and isn't ashamed to send me to experts more knowledgeable than him when the time comes. It hasn't been easy and it hasn't been without some degree of frustration, but he has been patient enough to try everything that he can think of to help me manage my endometriosis. And for the most part, he has been successful.

I say "for the most part" because endometriosis has no cure. And so it can, and does, rear its ugly head every now and again. There have been more nights when I have landed in the ER. There have been experiments with different medications. There has been an IUD. Some of these medications have caused other complications, like polycystic ovaries and ruptured ovarian cysts. There has been a second surgery, to remove both a ruptured cyst that was choking off my ovary and the endometrial lesions that returned. Always, the symptoms lessen for a time - sometimes years. And always they, along with the pain, come back again.

Which is why, four days ago, I found myself in the hospital, undergoing my third laparoscopy in 17 years. After ten years mostly at rest, the symptoms returned with a vengeance. Normal, I am told, for a woman my age. Also normal, I am told, for the condition to re-appear after so much time has lapsed since the last excision. And so both the surgeon and I expected that he would open me up for a routine laparoscopy, find the expected lesions on my ovaries and in my cul-de-sac, cauterize them with a laser, stitch me back up, and send me on my way.

Except this time, things turned out a little differently. The endometriosis they expected to find wasn't there (good news). A walnut-sized fibroid was there instead (bad news). This fibroid can be removed (good news). But not without taking my uterus with it (WTF???).

So they didn't take it out. Because they didn't have my consent to conduct a hysterectomy. Instead, they sewed me back up and sent me on my way.

And now I am left with this incredible feeling of "Now what?"

Seriously. Now what? I'm relieved that there was no endometriosis, but there is still pain. Is that pain caused by this fibroid? Will the pain remain if they can't remove the fibroid? But if the only way to remove the fibroid is to take out my uterus, do I really want them to go there? Or do I just suck it up and live with the pain? And what kind of option is that anyway? Why should I have to choose between shouldn't-have-to-live-this-way and not-ready-to-make-such-a-big-decision? And most of all, why can't I catch an 'effin break???

That's right. There's a little bit of self-pity. It isn't enough that I lived through nights in the ER, hospitalizations and seven doctors before someone took me seriously enough to check for endometriosis. It isn't enough that I went through steroid-induced menopause when I was far too young and ill-prepared. It isn't enough that in a decade and a half, I have swallowed a cocktail of hormones, that surgeries have been unsuccessful and have had to be repeated, and that I still deal with discomfort and pain on a monthly basis. Now I have a walnut-sized fibroid that is forcing me to decide whether or not to keep my uterus? Seriously, who the hell did I piss off?

Now those of you who know me might be saying to yourselves, "But wait a minute, Jay. You don't even want kids. So you don't need your uterus. Is this really such a big deal?" And the answer to that is "Yes. Yes it is a big deal."

I can't explain why. And I'm certainly not proud of this fact. But like it or not, a woman's identity is wrapped up in layers upon layers of sexual and reproductive identity. This is why I was so desperate in my earlier years to be diagnosed. The image of Rhonda, who lost her uterus at age 25, shook me to the core. I didn't want to, as I saw it then, stop being a woman. Even now that I know I don't want kids, I still take great comfort in the thought that this is a conscious choice that I made, not an option that was removed from me because of lesions and cysts and fibroids.

I have spent the better part of my adult life trying to separate my self-identity and self-worth from my reproductive system. I have tried to equate being a woman with being a sister, a daughter, a wife, an aunt, and a friend, instead of with having a fully functioning uterus. Being in a loving relationship and realizing that I don't actually want children really helped. Or so I thought. Until faced with this latest choice to make. And now I don't quite know what to do.

Which brings us back to Endometriosis Awareness Month. Social media didn't exist seventeen years ago when I was diagnosed. But now, virtual communities of women who survive this condition have popped up all over the place. They write blogs. They run forums. They tout slogans like "Fight like a girl" or "I have endo, endo doesn't have me." These networks allow us to talk to one another, to ask questions, to seek advice, to inspire, to cry with one another, to offer support, and most importantly, to offer hope, the kind of hope that can only come from knowing that you are not alone.

In a few days, I'll be back at work. In another couple of weeks, I'll hopefully be back to running and going to the gym and even (sigh) yoga. In four weeks, when things will have mostly returned to normal, I'll sit down with my surgeon to discuss next steps. I don't know what I am going to do, or what I will decide. But I do know this. Those slogans are right. I am not defined by my messed up uterus, whether it is inside of me or not. But I am defined by the journey that it has taken me on. I am a stronger, better, more self-assured woman because of what I have learned about myself along the way. And so there really is only one thing to do... In fact, it's what I have always done this whole time...

Keep on fighting. Like a girl. Because I will always be a girl, no matter what happens next.

Warning! - This post involves a soap box

I am interrupting work on my soon-to-be-published (I hope) post on this year's fabulous start to summer for this public service announcement - from atop my soap box.

Yesterday, the Beast, my husband, my sister-in-law and I took a short 1.5k bike ride out to a local dog park along the river so that the Beast could cool off with a few laps. (And if I ever finish the other post that I have been working on for a ridiculous amount of hours now, you will see that he spent a whole lot of time there this week).

This particular dog park is actually an island. A water processing plant occupies the north half of the island. The rest belongs to the dogs. And on this particularly hot, sunny and humid day, there were a tonne of dogs. Like, easily 30 of them. Which always makes me a little nervous because the Beast is easily over-stimulated and in such cases, entirely unpredictable when he is faced with soooooooo maaaaannnnnnnyyyyyyyy playmates. Indeed, there was more than one dog fight yesterday as unevenly-matched-energy-wise dogs got on each other's nerves. But miraculously, the Beast was very well behaved. All he wanted to do was jump in the river and retrieve his tennis ball.

And he had help in doing so from a good-natured American bull dog (ABD). Despite said dog's very stout and stocky appearance, he was a pretty good swimmer. Since his owners were sun-bathing on a blanket up above the shoreline, he wiggled his way into my little game of fetch with the Beast. Which was fine with both of us. The Beast certainly seemed to enjoy letting someone else retrieve his ball when he thought that the current had taken it just a little bit too far.

And so ABD, the Beast and I played fetch for about 10 minutes together. Eventually, ABD got tired and ran off to play with another dog on land, while the Beast and I resumed our twosome of fetch.

And then, about 20 minutes later, I heard a man walking up and down the shore calling out for ABD. But ABD wasn't coming. And although the guy looked pretty calm, his girlfriend was not as she frantically approached me to ask if I had seen the American bull dog that my dog had been playing with earlier.

I got a huge knot in the bottom of my stomach.

Because not even one day earlier, someone had said to me that every single year, a dog drowns in this dog park, swept away by the Ottawa River current because it just isn't strong enough to swim. Which is of course the very first thought that entered my head when ABD went missing.

"Honey," I said to my husband. "There's a dog missing. You stay here and watch the Beast. I am going to go and help them look for him."

There are only two ways off the island: you either walk across the bridge that joins it to the mainland, or you swim across. I agreed to walk up and down the shoreline, while the couple headed off toward the bridge.

And so off I went, yelling out "ABD!" up and down the shoreline, hoping that I would find him cooling off under the shade of a tree. But he was nowhere to be found. And the knot in my tummy just got bigger and bigger and bigger.

I walked back toward the main area to check up on the Beast and hubby. By now, people were starting to realize that there was a dog missing, and there was a lot of whispering going on.  Just as I was about to set out again, I saw ABD's owner walking toward me. Without ABD. I thought I was going to cry.

But when she got to me, she had good news. They had found him. He was wedged under the back tire of a car in the parking lot, spooked by something that drove him to hide. In fact, the car he was wedged under was about to leave, and could have run over the poor guy. But they found him before that happened, coaxed him out, and were bringing him home.

"Thank you so much for your help," she said, as she began walking away. Then she added, "My god! They're just like kids! You can't turn your back for one second!!!"

Well ain't that the truth....

Seriously though, it's entirely commendable to want to include your dog in your plans for enjoying a beautiful summer day by choosing to hang out at a dog park for an afternoon. I mean really, there are a million more enjoyable places for a human to be, I am sure. But to sit on a blanket and sun-bathe while your dog plays in a fast-flowing river, among 30 or so other dogs, and to not really pay attention to him? Well, that doesn't rank up there as the best life decision.

Which gets me to one of my fastest-developing pet peeves - dog owners who bring their dogs to a dog park and then decide to ignore them completely. Because it's enough just to bring them, isn't it? Surely they'll get all the exercise they need running around with other dogs? Why pay attention to them when there are other important things to do, like check Facebook, chat with other humans, or suck back a Starbucks latté? Besides, nothing bad could ever happen in a dog park. Especially not in a dog park with a fast flowing river and 30+ dogs running around....

Grrrrrrr....

To ABD, I'm glad that you did not drown, and I'm glad that you were found. To your owners, I'm so, so, so relieved that you found him, and I'm glad to have been able to help you look. But most of all, I really, really, really hope this teaches you to smarten the f&#k up the next time you bring him out to the island. Cause a really great tan is not going to replace Man's Best Friend.

Dog park rules

I've written about dog parks once or twice in this blog. Maybe even three times. What can I say? I spend a lot of time in them.

All of the countless hours that I have spent in these parks has led me to one very important conclusion: dog parks are kind of odd little places. I mean, for the most part, the dogs are pretty normal. But the people who frequent the parks, well, let's just say not all of them are normal. Like the guy I met once who challenged another guy to a parking lot fight because the other guy's dog lunged at the Beast. I mean, yeah, sure, it was, er, um, kind of sweet, I guess, that he wanted to protect the Beast. But a fist fight? In the parking lot? With so much foul language? I mean, that is sooooooo high school.... (roll eyes here).

To be fair, the vast majority of dog park goers are not this scary interesting. But still the crew of dog-park-goers does form a subculture of sorts, differentiated from mainstream society by a series of distinct characteristics. Such as:

• a unique fashion sense: I call it the "dog park clothes" line, not to be confused with the lounging around in my Lululemons line. No, Lulus are too high end for the average dog-park-goer. The dog park clothes line consists of anything ratty and even slightly distasteful, but definitely NOT black (no matter how slimming), so that it can be worn freely in dog-slobber and fur-filled environment without fear. Rubber boots are optional. My own dog park wardrobe consists of a pair of jeans bought at Value Village (oh the shame) for 7$, and a pair of sweat pants with a leopard down the side (not leopard print, an actual leopard). 

• a distinct patois: Similar in tone to baby-talk in that it is higher in pitch than normal speech, but all that cooing is replaced with "good boy" and "find your ball" in a very excitable tone.

• a love of sporting various accoutrements: The typical dog-park-goer can be spotted from a mile away, because they have a leash worn across their chest (much like Chewbacca's ammunition belt), a poop-baggie holder of some sort clipped to their waist, and a fanny pack full of treats and toys. It's like they are daring others to call them "uncool".

But most importantly, as with all subcultures, the dog park crew has established an intricate set of rules that one must follow if they truly wish to belong. These rules are not written down anywhere. I have learned them through countless hours of observation. So I am doing you all a favour (you're welcome) and writing out the top ten here, so that you don't have to go through the ridicule and embarrassment that has been my last 9 months of trying to learn the ropes so that I can truly join this cult intricate and exciting social group.

10 - Judge all the other dogs in the park as inferiour to your own
There is not one dog in this park who is as handsome/well-behaved/fast/fun/insert-any-other-word-here-that-you-would-like as your own beloved pooch. So judge harshly and judge freely. You have the option of doing this on your own, by silently standing back in a corner, shaking your head, and muttering obscenities under your breath. Or you can pair up with a like-minded dog-park-goer and judge together. It's more satisfying that way.

9 - Judge all the other people in the park as inferiour to you
Maybe you think she's too strict with her dog. Maybe you think she's not strict enough. Whatever. She's obviously doing everything wrong and ruining her dog. Which means that her dog will probably end up in a shelter and someone else will have to deal with its shit. So you should judge that bitch. (Again, this can be done alone or in groups, depending on your mood). 

8 - Throw your bags of poop in the garbage can that is clearly marked "No dog waste"
Why not? Everyone does it. It is overflowing with a rainbow of colourful poop bags. So what if it is smells like, well, shit whenever the wind changes directions? 

7 - Ignore your dog
Seriously. If you want to be cool at a dog park, you have to ignore your dog, and either sit on a bench and smoke cigarettes with your human friends, or talk on the phone with your human friends. And you should dismiss all of the uncool humans who are debasing themselves by playing fetch with their dogs. Losers. 

6 - Make excuses for your dog's bad behaviour, but then do nothing about it
"Oh, he's a rescue" or "Oh, he's a herding dog" (ahem) or "Oh, don't worry, he's not actually going to pierce skin when he bites your dog's neck like that" are all phrases uttered at the dog park by people who then resume rule #7 immediately thereafter. Even when their dog eventually does pierce skin. 

5 - Bring food into the dog park at will, and expect all the other dogs to behave politely despite this olfactory overload
Well d'uh! Of course you should be allowed to slip into the dog park with an ice cream cone and be able to eat it in peace while surrounded by 10-20 dogs, 90% of which are quite likely food obsessed because, um, THEY ARE DOGS!!!  Then get mad at the dogs and their owners when you get surrounded and the Lab grabs your snack.  

4 - Brag about your latest dog gadget
Maybe it's a cool ball chucker. Maybe it's a glow in the dark collar. Maybe it's retractable leash with laser beams that come out of it. Whatever it is, brag about it at will to everyone who will listen so that they know just how much more you obviously love your dog than they love theirs, and then resume rule #9. And possibly rule #6 when your overly-spoiled and undisciplined dog starts biting another dog's neck. 

3 - Give children the dirty eye
Children have NO PLACE being in a dog park. Even if they are there with a dog. All they do is run around, make loud noises, and rile up the dogs. And then when the dogs jump on them, they cry. And their adults get mad at the dog and its owner. And there is usually an argument, which gets the kid and the dogs riled up even more until it descends into a messy, tear and bark filled downward spiral. Best to simply not let children come into the dog park. After all, they have their own parks. You know, the ones with monkey bars. 

2 - Give unsolicited advice. About everything.
"I think your dog barks so much because he's anxious. Why don't you bring him in to see a behaviourist?" or "Does your dog pull? You should get this harness!" or "Why are you feeding him Fromm's? You should definitely be giving him Origins!" It doesn't matter what the issue is that you do NOT need help with, someone will try to help you out anyway. Out of the kindness of their heart and for the good of your dog, of course. (Not unlike the unsolicited advice that other people give you when you are planning a wedding or raising a child...)

And finally, the number one rule of the dog-park subculture is....

(Insert drum roll here...) 

1 - HENCEFORTH, THOU SHALT BE KNOWN BY THY DOG'S NAME, AND ONLY BY THY DOG'S NAME
No one will introduce themselves to you by name. No one will ask you your name. No one will say hi to you directly. But they will introduce you to their dog. They will ask you your dog's name. And they will say hi to your dog the next time they see you instead of to you. Even if they spend fifteen minutes chatting with you every day for the rest of their dog's life, it is quite likely that you will never know their name. And don't make the mistake of asking. Because they don't know how to respond with anything other than a blank stare and a reiteration of their dog's name.

************************

So there you have it! Dog Park 101. Now you are guaranteed to fit in and you can navigate the dog park with ease (again, you're welcome).

Or you can do like I do: spend the whole time in the dog park playing with your dog, and occasionally chatting with a nice adult that you have just met and who actually knows your name because you were brave enough to introduce yourself to him.

Either way, have fun!

The fight of the Beast's life**

(**Some melodrama may apply)

There are two things that you should know about me.

1 - I am not - by choice - a parent. While there are undoubtedly many wonderful things about having children, I have found that there are more than a few fringe benefits to not having any. Such as: freedom to go on a vacation whenever I want to; the ability to spend all of my money on myself; peaceful nights of uninterrupted sleep; and the ability to hand over a screaming child to someone who is truly responsible for their well-being.

2 - I am also a very bad volunteer. I have tried to find a cause so inspiring that I would be more than willing to give up my precious spare time for the greater good. But alas, I am selfish with said precious spare time, and loathe to share it. I appease my bad-citizen-induced-guilt in two ways: I give an outrageous amount of money to various charities (remember, no R.E.S.P. to which I must contribute...); and I don't nag my obsessively civic-minded husband when he gives up his spare time to any number of community-oriented causes, from the alumni association to the community association to the community spring clean-up to delivering community newspapers. Believe me when I say that he volunteers enough for our entire neighbourhood.

So with this knowledge about me firmly in hand, you may be surprised to hear that last night, I found myself sitting in on a community meeting involving the redesign of an area local park to make it more family friendly. Certainly, I was surprised that I was willing to give up 2-plus hours of my life that I will never get back. Also certainly, 6 short months ago, I wouldn't have gone to such a meeting, since (a) we don't have kids who could benefit from new play structures in the 'hood and (b) my civic-minded husband always goes to these things and would aptly represent our interests (or non-interests as the case may be).

But not last night. Nope. This time, I found the cause that made me willing to forgo pvr'd episodes of The Dog Whisperer and a glass of wine.

(Insert suspenseful pause HERE).

They want to mess with the dog park!!!!

(Insert audible gasp HERE, followed by a solid "How could they?!?!" HERE).

I suppose I should back up and tell the story properly...

So, hubby and I live in a downtown neighbourhood. We have a backyard, but it is tiny (20 by 40) and taken up mostly by deck. Hardly any kind of yard in which a high strung doggy can run around freely. As a result, since adopting our Beast, my husband has been forced to listen to me muse about moving to a bigger house with a bigger yard (and a bigger mortgage). Being the money conscious kind of guy that he is, and knowing that my musings have a tendency to turn into ceaseless nagging, he has taken it upon himself to remind me that a mere block and a half away, there is a fabulous green space, officially designated by the City as a dog-friendly park, where the Beast can run around to his heart's content. Furthermore (hubby takes great pleasure in pointing out to me), if we were to move away from this community, we would be tearing the Beast away from all of the great puppy pals he has made over the past six months, including his girlfriend Ruby the Black Lab, whom he loves more than life itself...

So by manipulating my Beast-sympathetic heart strings, hubby has convinced me that this park makes our 'hood the best possible place for us to live. So I should just STOP looking at houses for sale on mls.ca...

But then a few weeks ago he came home from his monthly meeting with the Community Association with news that our City Councillor had found money for the redevelopment of the park, and that...

"What?!?" I exclaimed before he could finish his thought. "They can't take away the Beast's dog park? Who the hell do they think they are?"

"Um, honey, nobody said anything about getting rid of the dog park," he said in his oh-so-logical-and-measured tone of voice.

"Oh, she might not have said it, but she is thinking it!!!  Why else would they renovate a perfectly lovely green space where only dogs run around, hubby? Huh? Huh? HUH????"

...

It took awhile for hubby to talk me down off a ledge and to convince me that our Councillor was not, in fact, the devil incarnate out to destroy our life with the Beast. When he finally did manage to calm me down, he recommended that I e-mail the Councillor with my ideas about the park redesign, so that they could be taken into consideration during the design stage. So I sat down with my laptop in hand and typed out the following statement in the subject line:

LEAVE THE PARK ALONE! LET THE DOGS RUN FREE!

Which hubby later made me erase, along with a few expletives, when I asked him to read the e-mail.

In the end, I toned down the rhetoric and sent a somewhat less bitchy e-mail, and the Councillor was kind enough to pass my comments along to the designer. She was also kind enough to invite me to a community meeting, where the plans would be unveiled and we would have a chance to comment.

It is only fitting to pause here and ask if anyone has ever seen the movie Footloose.  Remember the scene where Kevin Bacon appears in front of town council to request permission to hold a senior prom? He knows that the entire council is against dancing, and that a good number of townspeople are equally against dancing, and that he has a hard battle in front of him. So he whips out a Bible (thanks to his girlfriend) and finds ample evidence of Christian dancing to bolster his case. And in the delivery of his impassioned speech, which secured him a standing ovation, he gave millions of viewers goosebumps, and the feeling that they could achieve the impossible... (Even though town council ultimately voted against the dance and he had to hold it in another jurisdiction...)

...Well, in my head, this town meeting became my Footloose. I convinced myself that the Councillor and the designers and a big whack of community members would show up determined to run the dogs out of town. And while I didn't turn to the Bible to find evidence of the goodness and utility of canines, I spent days thinking of what I would say when given the opportunity so that I could convince them that they were wrong, that I was right, and that dogs deserve a place in the 'hood to hang out too. I was bound and determined to be articulate, convincing, and get my standing ovation, dammit!!!

So I went to the meeting. I looked at the plans. I listened to the Councillor talk about responding to the needs of the entire population of this area. I listened to the project manager give an overview of park renovations. I listened to the designer give a description of everything that he thinks he should do to this park to make it perfect, including reducing the dog footprint to a fenced-off 30% of the park so that elements such as a splash pad (there is another three blocks away) and a community theater stage (and there is another of these too, just one block away) could be included.  And I waited patiently for the presentation to be over so that I could get a chance to speak.

And when the presentation was finally over, I put my hand up faster than everyone in that room, and I got to take the floor first.

And so I told a packed room what it means to dog owners to have a park in the area. That it is difficult to see a plan that reduces dogs to a mere corner of the park when they have access to the whole thing now. That there has to be a way to make it more inviting without pushing one segment of the population out. And that elements such as splash pads and theaters that exist a few blocks away need not be repeated here at the expense of space for everyone to enjoy the natural elements of the park.

I didn't get a standing ovation. But I did get a few fellow dog owners thank me after the meeting. And I did spark quite a debate about the splash pad (who knew...). But most importantly, I stood up for my Beast. I articulated for him something that he can't say for himself: the importance of having his space and his friends and his time to be a live-in-this-very-moment dog.

So no, I don't have children. And no, I don't volunteer very much. But I am responsible for taking care of another sentient being, albeit one with four legs and a lot of fur, and I do believe that his well-being should count for something in this community.

I have no idea how this park battle will turn out. But I know that I will fight until the bitter end to get rid of that damn splash pad and make sure that my boy has enough room to be a dog.

And who knows. When all of this is said and done, maybe I will have found the civic cause that makes me get off my ass and work in the community...

The things I do for this dog...