Smokers are jerks... and I mean that in the nicest possible way

I am a proud non-smoker, and I always have been. Oh sure, I tried it in grade eight when the rest of the world (i.e. my group of friends) tried it, but lucky for me it just didn't stick. I am amazed that it didn't, but it didn't.  Two adults I lived with for the duration of my childhood who prefer to remain nameless smoked my entire life. My brother, who was my hero growing up (not that he isn't still or anything) smoked from the age of about fifteen until he found out he was going to be a dad five years ago. My husband Matt smokes. Most of my friends smoke. Why not me? What made me say 'Ew, this is disgusting, what is wrong with you people?' and not them? It puzzles me to no end. Not that I am complaining or anything; I've saved myself a lot of money, a lot of health problems, and a lot of hassle by choosing not to smoke, so I am definitely glad I never took it up.

That being said, I have never been one to rag on smokers all the time for their choice of habit. I am not one of those non-smokers that bitches about smoke from your cigarette going in my face, or one who will not hang out at certain friends' houses because they are nicotine fiends, and never would I NOT see a band or musician I liked because I might inhale a little second-hand smoke. I tend to avoid situations where I am unable to breathe, as a rule, but it isn't going to ruin my night if I have to deal with it. While it amazes me that people in this day and age STILL decide to take up smoking even with all the scientific evidence that suggests it just might not be a good idea after all, I am not one to go into some big spiel about how you are going to get any number of cancers, shorten your lifespan by about fifteen years, have disgusting breath and stinky clothes, nicotine stains on your fingers, an increased number of fine lines and wrinkles, end up with heart- and/or lung-disease, become impotent, increase your risk of stroke by 40-60%, increase your heart rate and blood pressure, or significantly decrease your circulation. That's your problem, smokers, not mine.

But what's with smokers thinking it is ok to chuck butts everywhere? Seriously, it's nearly as disgusting as the act of smoking itself. Maybe even more so, now that I think about it, since it affects the general public and the environment instead of just the health and wellbeing of the smokers themselves. Why is it so easy for people - even good people who pick up after themselves and recycle and sort their garbage and all that good stuff - to throw their butts on the ground? Do they honestly think it does not count as littering? Because it does... and nothing pisses me off more than littering. Cigarette butts, made primarily from a type of plastic called cellulose acetate lovingly wrapped in paper and rayon, take anywhere from 18 months to 10 years to decompose, depending on the environment they are so haphazardly thrown into. They are not completely biodegradable, only breaking down into smaller physical components. In addition to the 'visible' cigarette butt itself, each one contains toxic chemicals such as benzene, arsenic, ammonia, nicotine, tar, butane, cadmium, formaldehyde, copper, DDT, acetone, lead, turpentine, radon, stearic acid, methanol, toluene, and hydrogen cyanide (to name a few) that leach into the surrounding environment, stunting plant growth and invariably ending up in our waterways, where each cigarette butt pollutes 40L of drinking water. Cigarette butts are also a danger to wildlife who ingest them thinking they are food, and are responsible for millions of fires worldwide (90,000 yearly in the US alone). They are the most-littered item in the entire world, with billions of butts being thrown on the ground each year.

The world is not your ashtray. If you want to smoke, that's fine; that's your choice. But throwing it on the sidewalk, or on the road, or in a nice wooded area, has got to be the pinnacle of ignorance. Use the ashtray in your car, carry a bit of foil or a little container in your coat pocket to put them in, or use provided 'butt stops.' There is no reason for them to end up on the ground. Thank you.

gross.

Who do you wear YOUR poppy for?

Today, Remembrance Day, marks the 92nd anniversary of the signing of the Armistice between Germany and the Allies during the First World War.  At the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month 1918, key members of the Allied Forces met with representatives from Germany in a railway car in the Compiègne Forest in France, to sign the military agreement that would end the fighting on the Western Front and signify the end of 'The War to End All Wars.'   When I was a little kid in elementary school, I can vividly remember people making more of an effort to commemorate this important event, and to recognize the struggles and sacrifices made by those who fought and died for their country in The Great War and in all the wars and battles all over the world since that day.  I recall having a Remembrance Day parade at school that culminated in an assembly in the gym, where we all recited 'In Flanders Fields' and sang 'O Canada.'  We had visits from those who had fought valiantly in battle, then we coloured our own paper poppies in class, pinned them to our coats, and marched down to the Cenotaph in Gore Park for two minutes of silence - back when it was a full two minutes of silence - to honour the fallen and to give thanks to the veterans who were still alive to share their stories with us.  


But it seems as I get older, Remembrance Day does not hold the same clout it once did.  Is it just me?  Not having kids in the public school system, I am totally oblivious to what is being taught about the subject in school today, if anything, so please excuse my ignorance if I am totally wrong.  It just seems that now, or even by the time I was in high school (and was proud secretary of the History Club, thank you very much), students are not presented with the same volume of information they were when I was in my formative years, and if they are, learning about such important events is often optional.  When you are fourteen, are trying to be 'cool,' and are confronted with the choice between spending a couple hours in the library talking to a bunch of old dudes about wars that happened decades ago, or going home early for the afternoon to veg out in front of the TV or hang out with friends, unfortunately, for all but a few of us, the pull of after-school programming wins out every time.  With recent pitches to declare Remembrance Day a statutory holiday, I fear for the future of this solemn day of reflection.  It should not be a day to sleep late, or nurse a hangover, or go shopping, of all things.  The attempt by companies like Sears and Eddie Bauer to make a buck from someone's courageous loss of life with the advent of a 'Remembrance Day Sale' is an insult to our vets.


I remember my mom giving Justin and I a poppy each fall.  When asked why we wear our poppies, she would tell us the story of Onkel Arne, my MorMor's brother.  Arne Poulsen, 18 years old, was killed in Hans Christian Andersen Park in Odense, Denmark on 5 May 1945.  Arne dreamed of being an agricultural consultant and running a farm some day, and worked on a farm in a little village just outside of Odense to gain the experience required to get into agricultural college.  During the Second World War, MorMor - who was 14 or so at the time of his death - didn't see very much of Arne.  She thought it was because he was away at school, and he was... but he was also a freedom fighter; a member of the Danish Resistance Movement (Modstandsbevægelsen... don't ask me how to say this) that fought the occupation of Denmark by Nazi Germany and helped transport Danish Jews out of the country to safety.  In fact, Arne was part of the group that received and decoded secret messages sent from the Allies via BBC Radio and Danmarks Radio, notifying the Modstandsbevægelsen of where and when the next drop of weapons and munitions would be to help them fight the common enemy and regain Denmark's freedom from the Nazis.  MorMor didn't see very much of him, because Arne could have been arrested at any time for his involvement and imprisoned, sent to a concentration camp, or worse, as would anyone else in his company at the time.  He stayed away because he did not want to endanger his parents, two sisters and two brothers.  The last time MorMor remembers seeing her brother was the evening of May 4th, 1945.  The next day, May 5th, Denmark was liberated from German occupation by the Allies, but in a cruel twist of fate, Arne would never get to see a 'free' Denmark.  While ridding Odense of the last fleeing Nazi soldiers, Arne's friend was gunned down in HC Andersen Park.  Arne ran out to try to save him, and was killed on the spot.  He died beside his friend in the park on what is now celebrated as Liberation Day in Denmark.  When I was there in 1998, MorMor, Onkel Svend and I visited HC Andersen Park and saw the plaques that mark the places where Arne and his friend fell on that day, along with many other brave men and women who fought to keep their country free.  


On Remembrence Day, I wear my poppy for Arne Poulsen.  I will never forget his story, and I will share his story with my kids some day, so they never forget either.  If it weren't for people like Arne who fought so bravely, I wouldn't be here today, and neither would you.  This Remembrance Day, please pay proper respect to those who fought and died to defend their country and stand up for what is right.  Don't 'celebrate' by buying a sweater, or sleeping in... speak with a veteran.  Listen to their stories and hear the first-hand account of what it was really like to fight for what you believe in.  Hear about the sacrifices made and the lives lost and the victories won.  Because there will come a time when we won't be able to do that anymore, and sadly that time isn't all that far off.  According to Veterans Affairs, there are only 143700 Canadian veterans from the Second World War alive today, at an average age of 87, and 12000 veterans from the Korean War, at an average age of 78.  Twenty thousand Canadian vets die each year.  At that rate, by the year 2018, there will be no one left to share with us the stories of war such as we have never heard before in our lifetime.   At 11am today, take two minutes - a full two minutes - out of your busy day to think about what Remembrance Day really means to you.  To me, it means having the freedom to think, choose, and believe whatever I want to think, choose or believe, and live a life that is free of tyranny and oppression - thanks to brave souls like Arne who did their part to uphold these basic human rights.   

I hope I did the right thing... *sigh*

I always have such a hard time with euthanasia.  Not that putting a loved one 'to sleep' (how quaint!) should ever be easy, but I am always completely torn asunder when one of our beloved beasties is in so much pain or distress that there is nothing else to do but say goodbye.  While I would love to be writing about how much fun I had on my little adventure to see Billy Connolly at Massey Hall on Saturday night, I am just so darned sad today.  I can't even muster a single chuckle when I think about seeing my favourite comedian for the third time, this time at one of the world's most beautiful and historic venues.

Yesterday morning I had to have Norrie put 'to sleep'.

For those of you who are not familiar with my furry family, Norton (Norrie) was a beautiful, elderly tortoiseshell cat.  My gran adopted Norrie an amazing SEVENTEEN years ago from a cat rescue agency here in Hamilton.  A victim of population explosion, little Norrie (I named her Norton... gran and I were watching 'The Honeymooners'... ha ha) was looking for a quiet home after being an abused, neglected barn cat for the first year of her life.  Gran took her in and she lived a quiet happy life for many many years from the comfort of the back bedroom.  When I moved home from Kingston five years ago, and moved in with gran to help her out, Norrie and I became really good buddies.  It took her a while to trust me (it took her a while to trust anyone) but once we got to know each other better, we became the best of friends, so it was no trouble at all when Norrie officially became 'my cat' after gran moved into the nursing home.  She was so sweet and meek and timid.  She feared loud noises, sudden movements, and thunderstorms (among other things... ok, who am I kidding, she was afraid of everything).  She had the richest, most beautiful, most luxurious purr I will ever hear in my life.  She was such a good listener.  She used to mutter under her breath in a weird, rusty, squawky meow.  She used to sleep under the covers beside me.  She was a beautiful combination of black and brown and marmalade tabby that I have never seen the likes of before.  She had one orange toe that I just loved to bits.

But late Saturday night, when I got home from Toronto, I was confronted with a scene of pure carnage.  There were pools of blood on the carpet in the bedroom, and drops and splatters all over the hall and bathroom floor.  I thought Matt had cut a finger off in my absence, quite frankly, that's how much blood there was.  (The fact that he was sleeping peacefully didn't really register at the time... ha ha)  After coming to my senses a bit, I thought it was a rabbit fight, which can be pretty brutal.  But after counting long-eared heads and checking for obvious wounds, I checked the cats, and found where all the blood was coming from.  Poor Norrie.  She was trying to pee, and she couldn't.  Instead of peeing, she was bleeding; it was matted in her tail and all down her pants.  She wasn't complaining, or crying, just wandering around bewildered, trying to go to the bathroom.  And she was purring.

When I saw what was wrong, I felt just awful.  I had seen blood in Norrie's urine off and on for a little while, but Norrie was so timid and easily freaked out that invasive veterinary procedures would have been so stressful for her, and I fear would have done more harm than good at this point.  She just couldn't handle it.  After much research, we thought it was her food, and had been slowly changing foods to try and get to the bottom of her urinary issues (and to prevent similar issues in Black and Frank), with varying degrees of success.  Believe it or not, most commercial cat food is completely unsuitable for cats.  Unlike dogs, cats are strictly carnivores, which means they should eat nothing but MEAT.  Cats should not eat corn, or rice, or 'chicken by-product meal'.  Cats should eat meat.  Commercial pet foods do not provide this for cats, and it just isn't fair.  In fact, most feline health complaints are the result of improper diet, even when cat owners believe they are providing nothing but the best for their cats.  I am currently researching switching Black and Frank to the BARF diet (bones and raw food) for cats, but that is a blog for another day.  When it came to poor old Norrie, I realized that it was too late.  I had failed her.  On Saturday night, I cleaned her up as best I could, and gave her something good to eat, and we spent the night sleeping on the floor together, just camping out.  She got under the covers with me, and I patted her, and she purred and purred, just like she always did.

First thing Sunday morning, Matt and dad and I bundled up Norrie and took her to the Hamilton Wentworth Emergency Vet, and I held Norrie while they gave her the injection that would end her life.  I am just beside myself with grief.  Did I do all I could?  Did I do the right thing?  She seemed so healthy just days ago.  What if I could have saved her?  She wasn't crying or acting funny.  I know cats purr when they are in pain, and I know that Norrie was not the kind of cat to cry and wail, but she must have been in so much discomfort.  Right?  I know that at nearly eighteen, she had the longest, happiest life a cat could ever hope for or wish for, but euthanasia has always been the sort of thing that scares the shit out of me.

There are times when there is nothing else that can be done for a pet, and at times like that I am thankful that euthanasia is an option, because the alternative - watching a pet suffer and suffer until they die - is  positively unthinkable.  I myself have had to make this decision to end an animal's life way too many times, and it never gets easier, nor should it.  But so many people see it as such an easy choice to make, when their pet could be easily saved by a simple operation and/or medication.  Pets are not disposable.  Potential vet bills from illness and old age should always be taken into consideration when opting to welcome any furry critter into the home.  I understand that these things are not cheap and that, since there is no legislation determining the cost of veterinary medicine or procedures, vet clinics can pretty much charge whatever the hell they want for their services.  Vet care is expensive for any animal, and it is so hard to put a price on one's love for their pet.  Because of this, I always feel just awful when I have to make the decision to end a life.  What if I could have done something to save Norrie?  She didn't have a voice to tell me how she felt; if she was in pain, or if she was uncomfortable, or if she wanted me to take 'drastic measures' to save her.  Did she understand that I loved her and that I wanted to do what was best for her?  Did she know she was not 'disposable' to me, and that I wasn't taking the easy way out?

aaarrgghhh.  I hope so.  I'm so sorry Norrie-cat.

You know she is sick if you can take her picture; she used to think you were trying to steal her soul if you had a camera in your hand