From “Life Is a Carnival” by Karen Solie, published in the newest (April) issue of The Walrus. Love love Solie.

(That link goes to the poet’s contributor page on The Walrus’s website. The poem’s not up online yet, but there’s a place holder for it.)

(Source: rte132)

I never know how to write about people dying. I guess I wouldn’t be much good as a war correspondent or an obituary writer. I’ve never written a story where each of my subjects cried, or teared up, in front of my stony face. It’s different than calling a parent who has just lost a child on the phone. It’s worse, because you can’t be brusque. 

Last summer, there was a series of plane crashes in the North. That, despite the best efforts of some, is a fact, hard and true. When I took on a story about those events, fighting for its relevance within my own office walls, I knew it would be tough. I didn’t anticipate the degree of difficulty the next three months would involve. Slowly I pecked away at an industry bound by pride and also by loss. If it weren’t for the grace and courage of a woman named Jane Hare, this story may never have run. I didn’t understand why so many said no, they didn’t want to talk about it. I still don’t. 

All of which is to say, when this story about those terrible weeks comes out at the beginning of March and you’re looking me up out of anger, frustration, resentment or curiosity, I hope you happen upon this and know — or at least try to understand — that every word of that story was carefully considered. It is all exactly and precisely what I mean. I tried incredibly hard. And I cried, too. 

This summer, I spent some time housesitting. Housesitting is an entrenched part of Yellowknife’s culture. Whether it’s because of the cold winters, the crazy numbers of pets in this town, or the transient community, there are always dwellers coming and going, and always a keen 20-, 30-, or 40-something (and beyond) to take care of your dogs, cats, parrots, plants, whatever you’ve got. I heard about Yellowknife’s housesitting circuit before I moved north, and I was interested in taking part, to meet more folks around town and also to lend some stability to my uprooted life. Even if it wasn’t my house, it was nice to live in a house for a while. Anyway, this July I was lucky enough to spend a week living in a beautiful, airy green house on one of my favourite streets in Yellowknife’s Old Town, the quirkiest little neighbourhood you ever did see. In exchange? I had to care for 30 sled dogs, as the house belonged to a dog-musher, Danny, and his wife, Susan, who are both fantastic. I wrote a little essay about the experience for Up Here, in the December issue which just hit newsstands. But I’m fond of it, so I’m going to post it here too. 

How I went barking mad

When a city girl agrees to babysit a kennel of huskies, she learns it takes more than kibble to become the alpha dog. By Katherine Laidlaw; Illustration by Monika Melnychuk

Anik backs away from me, chain clanking. He’s sandy-brown and stocky, with suspicious yellow eyes and a thick neck. He’s the biggest husky in the yard, and he hasn’t warmed to me, even after a week of feeding him and scooping his poop. He swings left and I hop right, dancing around his chain in an attempt to shovel his turds without falling face-first in the mud.

For one week, I’m babysitting 30 sled dogs – which is ridiculous, because I’ve never owned a dog. I’ve never fed one, or walked one, or been alone with one for more than a few minutes. I moved to Yellowknife last winter, a young journalism grad from downtown Toronto, my hometown. Shortly after coming North, I met a trapper and sled-dog racer, Danny, and his wife, Susan, and casually offered to housesit for them. To my surprise, they accepted my offer.

It was hopeless from the start. On a bright July evening I arrived at their green two-storey in Yellowknife’s Old Town, upbeat and eager to learn the huskies’ routine. But as soon as Susan opened the door, I was smacked in the nose by a dank smell reminiscent of mouldy towels. It was wafting from buckets of kibble that had been mixed with warm water and left to soak. Susan eyed my skinny jeans and teal runners. “Want to put on some of my grubbier clothes?” she asked.
I declined.
“Do you have any gloves?” she asked.
Again, I shook my head. Obviously, I was about to get messy.

Ten of Danny and Susan’s dogs live at the house. The other 20 are kept in a dog yard on the opposite end of town. We hauled four buckets of kibble into the trunk of Susan’s hatchback and drove off to meet them.

Amid the chorus of howls and barks that heralded our arrival at the lot, Susan gave me instructions. I stepped forward, remembering that as a child I learned dogs can sense when you’re nervous, and put on my confident face, which I knew had no relation to my jittery aura. I spooned dog food into the first bowl. Save for one, all the dogs huddled behind their houses when I came near. They seemed to hate me. Ladle after ladle of food did nothing to warm their hearts. Chester urinated when I approached – a bad sign. Chubby cowered. Cole freaked out, frantically running around his pole. I briefly considered begging Susan and Danny to stay in town.

But I didn’t, and they left. By two days into what I started to call my “week of responsibility,” my life reeked of dog food. I smelled it everywhere – on my hands after furiously washing with soap; on the salad I made for lunch. When I started smelling it in the shower, I thought I was losing it. I showed up for work each day with mud-smeared clothes, once with a glob trailing down the cleavage of my blouse, a gift from an enthusiastic dog whose eye medication I was responsible for administering. Really, I think he just used the meds as an excuse to cop a feel.

Each day brought a new challenge. There was the 2 a.m. wake-up call from crying puppies, or the night the next-door neighbour threw rocks at my window to wake me, reminding me to feed the brood so they’d stop their midnight whining. One day, I accidentally clogged the laundry-room sink with soggy dog food. That same day, I lost a dog under the house, and spent half an hour with my knees in the grass, calling through a hole in the baseboards, no doubt raising questions from the neighbours about my mental stability. And, of course, I spent countless hours scooping steaming piles of feces, a stench I never got used to. On the upside, I learned to hold my breath for about 10 seconds longer.

I lived and breathed dogs, calculating that it took about five hours a day to mix the food and feed all 30 – and I didn’t even have to run them. By day six, I missed my friends, who I didn’t have time to see unless they were helping me with the dogs. But each day, I found myself enjoying the huskies more and more. I took extra care to play with the smaller ones, worry about Bullet, who was tearing his hut apart with his teeth, and feel a little bit sorry for the dogs I knew weren’t slated for this winter’s team. And, after a week of cowering, Chubby finally let me pat his head. I considered it a victory.

You probably expect this story ends with me adopting Bounce, my favourite in the lot, or charming Anik (I didn’t), or quitting my job to start a kennel (nope). But the dogs survived and I survived, and I learned that I prefer being 26 years old and fancy-free.

(Source: conflictingheart)

This photo by Darrell Berry makes me irrationally sad. I found it on Granta’s website, along with a poem by ever-favourite Adrienne Rich, which is below.

Don’t Flinch

Lichen-green lines of shingle pulsate and waver
when you lift your eyes. It’s the glare. Don’t flinch
The news you were reading
(who tramples whom) is antique
and on the death pages you’ve seen already
worms doing their normal work
on the life that was: the chewers chewing
at a sensuality that wrestled doom
an anger steeped in love they can’t
even taste. How could this still
shock or sicken you? Friends go missing, mute
nameless. Toss
the paper. Reach again
for the Iliad. The lines
pulse into sense. Turn up the music
Now do you hear it? can you smell smoke
under the near shingles?

IT LIVES! That’s right, friends. Last Friday marked two milestones in my life. One, the issue bearing my first-ever cover story was released! And two, I outed my lifelong fascination with exotic-animal owners. (Is it because I secretly want a tiger? Maybe. Why? Who’s asking? Etc.)

The story came out of work I did at Ryerson University last year for my master’s and I never thought it would see the light of printed day so a big thank you to Drew, Madeline and everyone at Maisy! Now, to add suburban big-game hunter to my CV.

Anyway, click on the cover to check out all the solid content in Maisonneuve’s fall issue.