Murchie Plus Books: The End

Every Sunday for the last two and a half years, I’ve shared pictures of my beloved dog, Murchie, posed with everything I read that week.

Last Sunday night, Murchie didn’t sleep. He couldn’t stay still, he didn’t want anything I offered him, and he was obviously confused. Over the last couple of years this had become a frequent nighttime routine on account of a bowel issue and something that looked an awful lot like doggie dementia.

All through January, he had two or three bad days for every one where he was his usual spunky self.

My parents and I took him to the vet at lunch on Monday. She gave him a checkup, listened to everything he’s been through recently, and told us that while she could perform some more tests she couldn’t guarantee any further treatment would help him. It’d been a while since his medicines eased his suffering in any appreciable way.

None of us wanted to say goodbye to him, but we didn’t want him to suffer anymore, either.

I’m grateful I got to hold him while the sedative took effect. I felt him relax in my arms, the way he used to before sleep became so difficult for him. I laid him on the exam table and stroked his head while the vet administered the final injection. It was awful, but he had loved ones with him the whole time and that made a terrible day a little easier to bear.

Fictional Preoccupations

I spend a lot of time considering what I like, why I like it, and how I can best compile the things I like into definitive lists to which I may refer whenever anyone even hints they might be interested. Consequently, I’ve got Favourites lists for everything: literary characters, TV shows, novels, comics, things I’ve learned from the CW, and so on and so forth.

I am Very Serious about these lists. Some of them are downright life-defining.

Foremost among these life-defining offerings is my list of Stuff I Especially Love In Fiction. It contains, in no particular order:

• Random siblings. Half-siblings are best, but any sibling who pops up with minimal foreshadowing is story gold. Random siblings fuck everything up for everyone involved. They make characters question their entire existence and cause heaps of tension as everyone comes to terms with years upon years of lies. It’s the best.

Regarding Winter

This is not a happy post.

Winter and I, we ain't friends. I hate it so much that I can’t even begin to understand or empathize with anyone who loves it. And while I know everyone's physiology is different and it’s no one’s intention to make me feel angry and marginalized with their winter-love, that’s usually the end result. I struggle not to snap at people who romanticize this bloody season.

Now there's snow on the ground in my part of the world, I figured I’d give myself one long form, not-directed-at-anyone snap in the hope that posting it will be therapeutic. If not, it’ll at least it’ll give me something to point to when people start telling me I should just put on another layer and drink some fucking cocoa because hey, winter’s totes the best season.

So, yeah. I hate winter because:

Regarding Four-Leaf Clovers

When I was four years old, my grandma plunked me down by the clover patch in her back yard and announced we were on the hunt for a four-leaf clover to bring us luck. We’d look here, and we’d look in the park across the way, and we’d celebrate when we found one.

We never found one.

I kept on looking, though, and not just with my grandmother. For the next two decades, I paused to hover over clover patches large and small in search of the elusive four-leaf, with poor results all around.

In late 2011, I visited Nelson, NZ. My helpful hostel director encouraged me to do three key things in town: climb to the centre of New Zealand, combine fish and chips with a pint at two sister-restaurants down the road, and explore the Maitai River trail.

That guy knew what was what. The centre of New Zealand was impressive, the fish and chips and beer was delicious¹, and the Mai Tai River trail--which stretches from Nelson's harbour straight on inland to the mountains beyond the town--proved itself one of the best places in the entire country.

My trek inland ranks among the highlights of my life, but I started with a walk down to the harbour. And a patch of clover caught my eye along the way, as as patches of clover are wont to do.

I left the path, craned my head over the wee plants, and sighed. All at once, it felt pointless. “I dunno why I keep doing this,” I grumbled to myself. “I’ve been searching for twenty-three frickin’ years, and I haven’t found a four-leaf clover yet.”

Thirty seconds later, I straightened up with one pinched between my thumb and forefinger.