Like, seriously? with Colleen Stewart Podcast

The Bay Has Closed.

Despite the suggestion from Microsoft Word’s artificial intelligence tool that I let it draft a short article on how to volunteer at a non-profit organization or create a summer shopping list, I have decided to use my natural intelligence for a topic I am thinking about and, in my view, is more pressing. That is, where on God’s green earth is a Canadian woman supposed to go these days to buy socks, underwear, hand towels, and pantyhose? It used to be that I, nay, every Canadian woman I know, would go to The Hudson’s Bay Company, the iconic Canadian department store spawned by two French fur traders in 1659, and known to modern-day shoppers as The Bay. We had our choice of either the smaller Bay in our local mall or, if we needed more selection and higher end options, our flagship Bay, often downtown and featuring six levels of shopping, designer boutiques on the fifth floor, and a gourmet food cafeteria in the basement. My visits to The Bay always began with a march through cosmetics, holding my breath as I passed the fragrance counters and the ladies who offered perfume-soaked strips of paper or a spray from the bottle they had pointed at me. That march meant I was on a mission. Perhaps to deal with a newly discovered run in my pantyhose that started at my big toenail and ended in the middle of my knee. Nothing could deter me. Not Ladies’ Wear, a department that sometimes made me wonder if being a colour-blind schizophrenic was qualification for employment as a Hudson’s Bay purchaser. Not the dizzying laps around Hudson’s Bay blankets required to ascend the multiple escalators to the hosiery floor. Like many women before and after me, I relied on steady feet, a sense of direction to rival a French voyageur, and a guarantee that I could be in a new pair and back at work faster than a Starbuck’s barista could make and serve a Grande pumpkin latté. It was in this department store, once the governing power of more than half of the landmass now called Canada, that I could find multitude pairs of socks of every brand, shape, size, and pattern; a skin-colour rainbow of pantyhose offering a spectrum of girdle support that guaranteed bellies of any shape or size would be tucked in, smoothed out, and rendered invisible under pants or skirt. Underwear? By God, there was underwear. An entire morning could be spent in Lingerie perusing an endless assortment of materials, styles, and colours. Or, if I needed my Calvin Klein “Old Faithfuls” before my one-year-old woke up and threw his soother, I could head straight for the “Three Pairs for $20” bin and – God bless the Hudson’s Bay Company – be in and out in under ten minutes. And if I also needed hand towels, I was two escalators and one tight lap away from Housewares and a selection of size, colour, and plushness to take my breath away. This was the efficiency and confidence every Canadian woman was gifted by The Bay. Today, I cannot do any of this. On June first of this year, in a move that surely had demons in hell chortling and clinking pitchforks, The Bay ended three hundred and fifty-five years of operation and closed its stores, abandoning millions of Canadian women to drive aimlessly through city streets, stand gaping in parking lots, and ride helplessly up and down mall escalators wondering, “Where do I go now?” when they need socks and underwear. Take slips for example, that distinct article of women’s underclothing that started as a smock in the Middle Ages and became, in the 1920’s, a thin liner of rayon to be worn under the modern fabrics that were either clingy or see-through. For one hundred years, Canadian women were rescued with slips found at The Bay. Half-slips, full slips, short slips, long slips, white slips, black slips, nude slips, pink slips. The Bay had more slips than Dr. Seuss had fish. Arrive home with a new skirt, discover you can see right through it, but love it too much to take it back? Cue: The Bay. If you arrived at the right time in the middle of the afternoon, you would find a 60-something no-nonsense saleslady peering at you over glasses attached to a chain and smelling of the perfume-soaked paper strip that you were offered on your way in. A woman who knew in three seconds what you needed and where to find it. A woman whose two-inch manicured nails would fly over the cash register buttons while she offered you a ten percent discount if you signed up for a Hudson’s Bay credit card. Those days are gone. Today, buying a slip means defining the word “slip” and explaining why anyone would wear one to salesgirls who are thirty years younger than you are and want their clothes to either cling or be see-through. I know from experience. The calf-length sage-green sheath dress looked good in the lighting at Aritzia. The 20-something salesgirl said the fit was “fire”, a descriptor that had to be repeated so I could hear it over the store’s piped-in indie pop track and then translated because I am fifty-five years old and fire is something that happens in my kitchen when I forget I have something under the broiler. “Good,” she explained, convincing me to take the dress home. However, when I tried it on at home, I knew it would never leave the room, let alone the house. I needed a slip. And because thirty years of shopping programming is not easily undone, I went back to the mall, forgetting that the only store guaranteed to rescue me, The Bay, was now bankrupt. The giant space at the end of the mall was now a war zone of broken-down racks and dismembered mannequins dressed in liquidation sale banners. After a few seconds of standing in front of the security panels and willing the department store back into existence, I joined my lost sisters on the escalators, looking for a place to shop. Aha! Victoria Secret! Surely the leader in lingerie for almost half a century, the inventor of the Miracle Bra, and the launcher of super model catwalk careers the world over would have a slip. “Slip?” the young woman looked at me like I was asking for directions to the moon. In Persian. “Yes,” I said. “To wear under a dress.” She stared. I said, “A dress that is not lined and needs a liner.” No response. Wondering if I should check her for a pulse or a reboot button, I tried again, “It’s usually made of rayon. It can start at the waist. Or it could be full length with bra straps.” Pause. Stare. “That’s what I need. Full length.” Her eyes brightened. “Oh! Do you mean a negligee?” And striding towards a rack, she triumphantly raised a ten-inch piece of hot pink polyester lined in fake fur, cut out at the sides and back, and glittering with rhinestones. Now it was my turn to stare. Across the hall at La Senza, a lingerie chain made successful by being across the hall from Victoria Secret, the salesgirl knew what a slip was but lamented the fact that I would not find one in the mall that day. “We don’t carry them anymore,” she said sadly, admitting she did not know why and leaving me to assume that this could only be the work of those pitchfork-clinking demons. No more confident march in and out of The Bay. It was a disappointed trudge through the mall, eyes dry from the recessed LED lighting and feet sore from the polished concrete floor as I tried to remember if I had parked outside Classic Newsstands or Mobile Klinik. I was headed home to order from Amazon where I would attempt to pick the best slip from seven pages of options with only deceptive fashion photography and anonymous reviewer comments as my guide. While I punched in my Amazon username and password and grabbed my phone to access and enter the one-time pass code, I longed for the 60-something no-nonsense saleslady at The Bay with her heavy perfume, glasses on a chain, and two-inch manicure. The one who knew that Lingerie section like the back of her hand and understood what a woman was up against when trying to leave the house during daylight hours in a polyester dress. The latest news is that Canadian Tire, another Canadian retail legend, has purchased the Hudson’s Bay Company brand. I had a look at the website. They are selling Hudson’s Bay-striped blankets, travel mugs, Christmas tree balls, toques, and nutcracker dolls. The demons might be chortling for now, but I have faith in an all-powerful God and He might just hear the distressed cry of Canadian women and inspire someone to put our high quality socks, underwear, hand towels, and pantyhose back in one location where they belong. Until then, ladies, see you on the escalator. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit colleenstewart.substack.com/subscribe [https://colleenstewart.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

How To Watch TV In 2025

When I was six, watching television was easy. I would roll into the living room on my plastic Ride On Fire Truck and park next to the couch where my parents would be nestled, my father pointing the four-button Zenith Space Command remote control channel changer at the only television in the house. Deciding what to watch took seconds. We had four channels, fifteen shows that played at specific times, and two decision makers, my parents, the only ones in the room with money to pay the cable bill and thumbs strong enough to push the Zenith’s buttons. Together, our family journeyed through Little House on The Prairie, The Jeffersons, Happy Days, Wonder Woman, and Mary Tyler Moore. “Binging” a series did not happen. Shows played once a week and programming stopped at midnight, the end marked by thirty-seconds of station identification, one-minute of O Canada, and forty-five seconds of static, coloured test bars. After that, the television turned into a crackling box of fuzz until programming resumed sometime close to noon the next day. Staying awake past the fuzz was so contrary to the moral order that the only place you would spot someone slumped in a lounge chair with the television crackling was in a horror film. Had Brock and I decided in 1976 to watch a movie called Bonhoeffer, it would have been because the paper TV Guide told us a movie called Bonhoeffer was showing on one of four channels during one of five time slots. We would have arrived at the couch on time, nestled in, and happily watched our movie. However, it was not in 1976, but in 2025, that Brock and I decided to watch a movie called Bonhoeffer, the true story of a Lutheran pastor who joined a plot to assassinate Hitler. We did not pick the movie because we knew it was playing on a certain streaming service at a certain time. We picked it because while listening to a podcast on my way home from Toronto one day, I heard a guest from Manhattan recommend it to a host in Florida. At least we knew what we wanted to watch. Deciding may have been quick in 1976, but in 2025 it can take anywhere from five minutes to five days to no decision at all as everyone grabs their device and scatters to different rooms to watch what they want. Brock and I curled into our respective ends of the sofa, me next to the shelves I steadily populate with books I will never live long enough to read, and Brock next to the end table he steadily populates with reading glasses, phone chargers, and random pieces of hardware one never needs while sitting on the couch. Detaching from our individual devices to watch a movie together had sparked a joy in me akin to being seven years old and allowed to stay up late and watch Charlie’s Angels. With a flourish that would feather Farrah Fawcett’s hair, I raised the remote to find Bonhoeffer in the Roku television search field. Several options with accompanying thumbnail images popped up on the right-hand side of the screen. Three documentaries, one mini-series, a film from Angel Studios whose thumbnail featured a young man with wide blue eyes behind round, 1940’s-era spectacles, and for no reason I could detect, Minions. Recognizing Angel Studios from the podcast, I knew wide eyes and round spectacles was the movie we wanted. While I had chosen to search Roku, Brock had decided to search the world. “Siri, where can I watch Bonhoeffer?” Brock asked iPhone like Captain Kirk asking Scotty to find more power. “Got it!” I announced, winning the first leg of this Battle of the Network Stars and hovering the remote control in the air to point at the screen. Brock looked up from his phone. “It’s on Hoopla.” I paused. “Do we have Hoopla?” I paused again. “What is Hoopla?” “No clue,” Brock answered. He paused and then, “Let’s download it.” I clicked “Install” and then clicked “Agree” to a wall of legalese that was Hoopla’s Terms and Conditions and, for all we knew, lifetime rights for this mystery streaming service to sell our data, our house, or our functioning organs. Never mind. We were getting closer to our movie. Within seconds Hoopla was installed, a new button was added to the growing list on Roku, and I was clicking to open it. “Sign in with your library card,” directed the home screen, the orange-font message sitting neatly under a giant Hoopla logo. “Library card?” I reached for my phone. “I’ll get one.” A minute later, I was on the Burlington Public Library page and down that rabbit hole that is called Enter Your Personal Information. I clicked on the first field of seven, thinking this would take no longer than a 1976 commercial break, and typed my name. “I have a library card,” Brock broke my trance. I looked up. The thumbs he had poised over his phone froze. “I don’t remember my password.” I watched as he typed, trying different passwords and finally succumbing to “Forgot My Password.” He clicked into his email, reset his password, and popped back to the library’s website to login. Faster than Hal could lock a pod bay door, Hoopla replaced the orange-font message with a spinning blue and white circle. At last, the screen showed us what we wanted to see, what Roku had promised, wide blue eyes behind round spectacles, and the name, Bonhoeffer. Joy and calm returned. We set down our phones, united our attention spans once again, and relaxed into the sofa. I hit play. Two minutes later, I was reaching for the remote. “This is not the right movie.” What had played was black and white footage of real Nazi soldiers marching, clips of the real Hitler shouting, and the style of dramatic voice-over only found in Gillette razorblade commercials and World War II documentaries. No wide eyes and round spectacles to be seen. I clicked to exit. There was the correct thumbnail: wide eyes and round spectacles. I hit play. Nazis marching. Exit. Wide eyes. Play. Nazis marching. Brock, dismissing Hoopla for the bumbling fool it was shaping up to be, picked up his phone and with a gravitas that would intimidate a Klingon, commenced multilateral talks with Siri and the public library app. “This would never happen with the paper TV Guide,” I grumbled, realizing we could have watched an episode of Welcome Back Kotter by now. Wishing for 1976 but stuck in 2025, I left Hoopla and headed back to the Roku search page to start the battle again. In my mind’s eye, I could see the 1976 version of my father watching us over the buttons of his Zenith Space Command remote control channel changer chuckling at me at one end of the couch Googling, “Stream Bonhoeffer in Canada no marching Nazis” and Brock at the other end asking Siri to forget about Hoopla and find the damn movie. While we grappled with QR codes and two-factor verification, my 1976 father would wrap his arm around my mother and, with a mightiness of thumb not seen since metal gave way to plastic, execute three clicks to reach Laverne and Shirley. Nineteen seventy-six me would dangle my bare feet over the edge of the couch, hoping I could stay up late enough to see Charlie’s Angels. Maybe even O Canada. Or God and my parents willing, those static, coloured bars. This is a public episode. 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Why I Am Writing a Book About a 1930's School Car

In 1954, on a grey winter day, five-year-old Jackie McKee snowshoes along a railway track somewhere north of Sudbury in Canada. The photo, one of many that have captivated me at the Canadian National Railway School on Wheels Museum in Clinton, Ontario, Canada, is taken from behind. Jackie’s wool pants balloon around his tiny frame as he starts his three-quarter-of-a-mile walk home for lunch, alone. After lunch, Jackie will strap on the snowshoes and walk the track again, moving as fast as his short legs can carry him so he will be on time for afternoon lessons. I am standing in one of seven rail cars, operated by Canadian National and Canadian Pacific Railways, that brought education to remote Northern Ontario communities from 1926 to 1965. I am here because my Nana, Aggie Chéné, attended school this way when, in 1931, my great-grandfather lost everything, moved his family to a cabin in the Ontario bush, and taught his kids how to hunt and fish for their food. For five days, the school car parked on a siding, attracting children of all ages from communities too small to be called villages. At the end of the week, the teacher assigned homework, strapped down the chalk and books, and moved to the next stop on his route. Four weeks later, the car returned. One of these stops was within snowshoeing distance of Aggie’s cabin. The kids came on foot, snowshoes, dog sled, and skis. Before the rivers froze, some came in canoes. Some lived less than a mile away, some more than twenty. Some had lived in Northern Ontario for generations, including many Native kids. More were new to Canada, children of European immigrants hired to maintain the railway and isolated from the country they now called home. Some, like Aggie, were escaping poverty in other parts of Canada. A few spoke English. Most did not. Another photo shows two boys, aged 9- and 11-years-old standing outside a canvas lean-to they pitched in the snow beside the rail car. While their father tended animal traps, sometimes leaving them for months at a time, these boys decided an education was worth the hardship of winter camping. A student quote on the school car wall reads: “Nothing was going to keep us from going to school.” Aggie and her siblings hiked four kilometres each way to the school. My uncle told me she always wore a 25-caliber rifle over her shoulder in case they spotted a pheasant. Aggie was the best shot and most likely to bring home dinner that night. He also told me she did not like going. However, I know enough of the rest of her story to guess that while she may not have always liked school, she might have been as determined to be there as the student quoted on the wall, those boys in the lean-to, and five-year-old Jackie McKee. While moving to a cabin in the Northern Ontario woods might seem romantic, there was nothing romantic about it for Aggie. My great-grandfather sexually abused her from the time she learned to read to the time she was old enough to pack a bag and leave. Hiking to the school car for five days every four weeks was an escape. She learned to read, write, and draw. She learned history, civics, art, and science. She learned the world was bigger than a cabin in the Ontario bush. This was the goal. As a school board inspector commented in 1927 when assessing the program’s inaugural year, “Good citizenship is contagious. The advent of the school car has made these people contented and hopeful.” For kids living with a daily struggle for survival, climbing the ladder to the school car meant aiming at something that transcended themselves and life in the bush. Last week, Charlie Kirk was shot dead on a college campus in Utah. Soon, we might know with certainty why his assassin did what he did. However, media and social media responses to Mr. Kirk’s murder provide clues. There was one day of shared shock and grief. Barely a day. Then, so-called journalists and social media influencers fled back to their political and ideological camps, shuttered the windows on our shared humanity, and pointed barrels of rhetoric through the foxholes, firing blame, threats, and insults at the other side. Some even cracked jokes. When I read the following from the CBC on September 11th, I thought, here we go again. “ [https://www.cbc.ca/news/world/charlie-kirk-controversies-1.7630859]Some of Charlie Kirk's most controversial takes [https://www.cbc.ca/news/world/charlie-kirk-controversies-1.7630859] Charlie Kirk, who died after being shot during an appearance at Utah Valley University Wednesday, had a long history of contentious views and often courted controversy with statements that seemed designed to provoke those who disagreed with him.” [https://www.cbc.ca/news/world/charlie-kirk-controversies-1.7630859] Charlie Kirk was a Christian. And what were his contentious views? That the nuclear family matters. That human life matters. That a baby matters. That the truth of male and female matters. That a government that takes care of its citizens matters. That being able to afford a house and food matters. And most importantly, that dialogue matters. Are these contentious views? These are my views. And not too long ago, these were largely shared views and ones we could credit for creating a country people would want to call home. Show those views to the children in the school car and they would wonder what we find so contentious. Those views put the school car in their midst, and nothing could keep them from it. The CBC story offended me. And yet, it did not surprise me. I converted to Christianity two and a half years ago. Conversion did not mean I chose a new “look”, philosophy, practice, or creed. Conversion meant a cloak dropped from my eyes and plugs came out of my ears so I could see the world God created and hear about my place in it. There were sacrifices and big changes but there was also huge upside. Anxiety and despair were replaced with peace and hope. Feeling overwhelmed and afraid were replaced with feeling comforted and strengthened. Like many new converts, I was what you might call “a bit much”. I listened to worship music and smiled at the sky. I turned every conversation into a sermon about God. “What’s for dinner, Colleen?” “Stir fry, Brock. But only after we thank God for what he has given us today! And speaking of God…” I dropped $300 at a Catholic supplies shop, “Let me get you a box for all of that,” and hung crucifixes around the house. I also decided to wear a cross around my neck. While the other stuff was happening at home, wearing the cross was a public display of my newfound faith. I was nervous on my first Zoom call with a client. I knew the dominant script had flipped – that being a Christian went against the culture. And I knew that going against the culture could cost me. Would I lose clients? Would I lose friends? Would I lose family? Never did I wonder, would I be shot? When I think of what offends us, and what situations and ideas we decide are so contentious that they are deemed to be violence, I know none of that would matter if we were living the life my Nana did. Or the lives of so many who struggled to survive in real ways. In life and death ways. I want to write my Nana’s story because being reminded of where we were might put some perspective on where we are. It might remind us that these traditions that we now label contentious, even hateful, are the very traditions we most need right now. It might remind us that we come from stock that is too tough and resilient to let a difference of opinion cause us to rage. A captivating story about a bunch of children in a Canadian school car might just bring some of us together. I still like to laugh. God gave me a sense of humour and a talent for writing. He also gave me a cat, two children, a husband, and a tendency to be impulsive sometimes. Great fodder for a humour column on Substack. So, I will keep writing articles when the ideas hit me. However, something or someone is also waking me up at four o’clock in the morning with scenes from a 1931 Canadian school car in my head. That might be God too. So, when there are long breaks between humour articles, know that I am answering a call to write a book based on Aggie and those children who snowshoed to school all those years ago. That picture of Jackie McKee is not my Nana, but it could be. They say hard times create strong men. My Nana was strong, and I will bet Jackie was too. We are not in the same hard times Aggie experienced in the 1930’s, or Jackie experienced in the 1950’s, but we are in times that are hard. However the book turns out, I pray it will be a story that points to God and, by doing so, reminds us that with Him, we are strong. This is a public episode. 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A Walk in The Woods

For my readers who are craving another Dash, Brock, or Colleen story, have no fear. There is a hike and a homemade chilli sauce adventure to write about. But now, a rant. This is not so much tongue-in-cheek as gnash-my-teeth while I pull at my hair and ask Brock to search for single family homes in Warsaw, Poland. The provinces of Nova Scotia and New Brunswick have delivered perfect rant fodder, and Canada’s rant king, Rick Mercer, is nowhere to be found. So, short of me delivering this on video and in perfect staccato while I wind my way through a graffiti-bedizened alley, I give to you a Mercer-style rant. The thing needs to be said. Not to be outdone by the City of Toronto’s Great Tobogganing Ban of 2024, Canada’s province of Nova Scotia has issued a ban on walking in the woods until the middle of October. To prevent wildfires. In a province where the woods cover three quarters of the land, where it is difficult to spit and not hit woods, and where seventy per cent of the woods sit on private land, one million residents have been ordered to find space on the remaining treeless patches to walk, fish, pitch a tent, or hold a family picnic. Using a capacity for reason found only in public service bureaucracies, the government is allowing an estimated one hundred and thirty-seven homeless people to remain in the woods, where they are walking, fishing, pitching tents, and cooking over open fires. “Most wildfires are caused by human activity,” said Nova Scotia Premier Tim Houston justifying the ban by conjuring up vivid mental pictures of, well, nothing. Leave it to the rest of us to wonder if human activity means arson and illegal bonfires or, as the ban’s scope suggests, a guy in gators, knee-deep in the rushing waters of the Musquodoboit, waiting for trout to bite. Those who are not homeless and dare to step into the woods God created for them face a fine of up to $25,000.00, equal to a Lexus sedan on Auto Trader and more than the recent fines levied against those who have set woods on fire. Unlike their Toronto counterparts, who may have been too busy tobogganing to hand out tickets, Nova Scotia authorities are enforcing their law. Six days into the ban, CBC reported that nearly $300,000.00 in tickets had been issued. The writing is on the wall for Nova Scotians desiring the shelter of trees. Seniors seeking shade must confine themselves to darkened, air-conditioned rooms. Children wanting to play outside must bake on sun-drenched play structures or beaches. And radical environmentalists wanting to demonstrate their zeal must trade hugging a tree for gluing themselves to the pavement, confident they will be able to pay the $25.00 mischief fine with the loose change exasperated drivers hurl at them. In a shameless act of “keeping up with the Joneses”, Nova Scotia’s neighbouring province, New Brunswick, has issued a woods ban of its own. This is not only to stop wildfires, New Brunswick Premier Susan Holt said, but also to prevent, from Saint John to Nigadoo, and from Edmundston to Sackville, the possibility of falling down and hurting yourself. Falling down and hurting yourself? Welcome to my life since I started walking. Thank goodness walking in the woods was not banned in the small Ontario town where I grew up in the mid-1970’s. Such a law would have been the undoing of my mother’s summer parenting strategy of sending me to the woods until the streetlights came on. After a winter of being wrestled into a snowsuit and told to go and play in a snowbank until the streetlights came on, I was unfazed by the independence and thankful for the warmer weather. Finishing my Corn Flakes and hopping on my bike, I pedalled to the forest up the street to spend hours imagining fairies in the moss, hoping my best friend, Kim, would show up, and praying the boy who liked putting garter snakes down our t-shirts would not. And because knowing when the streetlights went on was the sole responsibility of my seven-year-old self, I would occasionally trudge out of the trees to check them. Unbeknownst to me or the woman putting me through outdoor survival training, a few activists had an environmental movement on slow simmer, waiting for the right time to declare this awesome planet that is barely understood by us to be a used-up and decaying invalid in need of saving by us. On April 22, 1970, Earth Day Round One attracted twenty million Americans who strapped gas masks to their faces, chanted, “Act or die!” at anyone who would listen, and waved signs that read “We have met the enemy, and he is us” at fellow humans trying to complete the commute home so they could put the potatoes on. The slow simmer came to a boil when, in 1990, Earth Day Round Two spanned 141 countries, involved 200 million people, and started a global panic that would turn a fight-the-man effort to remove garbage from the parks and chemicals from the water into an obey-the-man offensive seemingly aimed at removing humans from the earth. The government announcements are impacting Nova Scotians as they would any group of humans whipped into a frenzy of fear, told their fellow citizens are to blame, and promised a pat on the back if they report anyone with a toe past the treeline. Neighbour is shouting at neighbour, citizen is calling out citizen, and anyone unwilling to dispense shame to someone’s face is posting on Facebook, a virtual town square stockade where Nova Scotians are busy exposing the “idiots” in their midst and declaring that “people suck.” That is not burning woods we smell over the Atlantic seaboard, but a scorched cloud of censure and judgment of one’s fellow man. Truth be told, I would like to have a bit more 1970’s, when people were less suspicious of human activity and cared more about the state of their neighbourhoods. I have seen enough black and white photos of 1970 Earth Day activists picking garbage up from city streets and parks to wish that even some of them were around today. They could march through the green space across from my house and pick up the Coke cans crushed against tree trunks, the McDonald’s napkins fluttering in the bushes, and the Tim Horton’s coffee cups littering the grass like double double landmines. Since today’s government officials and environmental activists are too busy saving a 4.5-billion-year-old gargantuan planet from human activity to worry about picking up the garbage, I will grab my rubber gloves and kitchen catcher again and pick it up myself. That is okay. It means I get to go into the woods, wonder at the beauty God created for us, and remember that while He is asking us to keep the place clean, He is not ordering us to keep out. While I am there, I might even imagine fairies in the moss. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit colleenstewart.substack.com/subscribe [https://colleenstewart.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

An Hour At The Vet

It was when Dash vomited a mass the size of a baby camel that I decided I should take him to the vet. Thankfully, my black American short hair is equipped with two features not mentioned at the animal shelter when, five years ago, I decided a cat might fill the void left by the aloof 18-year-old boy who had left my home to start university. The first is what I have come to call the Barf Alarm. I have only heard the Barf Alarm a few times but when I have it has been consistent. About two minutes before stomach expulsion, Dash emits a piano forte yowl that would wake a banshee and have it complaining about the noise. For symphony orchestra conductors wanting to beef up their woodwinds section, I can recommend Dash’s Barf Alarm as one capable of ascending the harmonic minor scale at Largo tempo, enough time for a violinist to change a string, a cat owner to understand the animal is about to puke, and a cat to high tail it to the perfect spot for puking. The second feature can only be called a gift from God, and it is Dash’s preference that the perfect spot be a flat, cool, and smooth surface, Mercifully, this disqualifies carpets, bedspreads, furniture, and cashmere sweaters left out to dry. On this day, I found him in the upstairs hallway, crouched over the hardwood and in violent spasms. A minute later, the baby camel was on the floor and Dash was sitting up, flicking his tail, licking his chops, and eyeing me with an air of, “Well, that feels better. Glad I don’t have to clean it up.” “Maybe it’s nothing,” I thought trying to ignore the fact that my cat had expelled twice his body weight. “He might be okay.” Then, Dash sneezed. I went for the paper towels, wash cloth, and garbage bag, remembering that Dash had been sneezing all week and the day before I had caught him hugging the bottom of the suitcase I was packing so he could threaten it with dry heaves. Now this. My spirits sank as I realized with horror the truth of the situation. I would have to take Dash to the vet. My goal for vet visits is once a year, for Dash’s mandatory rabies and flu shots. Remembering that we have a vet appointment the next day inspires a feeling of dread akin to remembering that I have a multi-leg discount-airline work trip with tight connections the next day. I plan wake up times, mealtimes, travel times, and wrestling with Dash times. I plan the latest I can let Dash outside and still be confident he will return in time to be chased, cornered, and seized. I plan where to place the carrier so I can get him into it with a minimum amount of wrestling, hissing, and scratching. Something dramatic must happen for me to change the vet schedule. Scooping the last of Dash’s expulsion into the kitchen catcher I begrudgingly allowed that this might constitute dramatic. An hour later, after crossing the parking lot with a carrier that was now bouncing and swaying like a bag holding an octopus, I found a seat in the waiting room and placed Dash on the floor between my feet. The vet had squeezed our visit into a full Friday afternoon docket which meant several excited dogs and their owners were already crammed into a room half the size of my kitchen. The carrier had felt large swinging from its handle in the parking lot. Now, it seemed small, surrounded by canines scratching the linoleum, tugging on leashes, sniffing chair legs, and barking at airborne entities invisible to the human eye. Sympathetic to the fact that if he were not trapped in a plastic bucket on the floor, Dash would be clambering to a quiet hiding spot in the ceiling, I slid my feet further under my chair and with them, the carrier. A young German Shepherd across from us pulled on his leash, all paws, ears, and, unfortunately for Dash, curiosity about the container between my feet. Lurching and sliding towards us, nails tapping on the linoleum, Young Shepherd shoved a nose bigger than Dash’s head into the space below my chair and sniffed at the wire lattice that was the carrier door. After failing to nudge the animal away with my shin, I suggested to the man holding the leash that he might want to pull the dog away. He was a large man in a loose t-shirt and baggy shorts, squeezed into the narrow plastic seat and looking hot and dishevelled. Next to him sat his wife or girlfriend, equally large and dishevelled. Her Aerosmith tank top and flip flops completed the impression that these two had been called away from a backyard barbecue and several cases of beer. He squinted in my direction while she looked at me with wide eyes. Then, pushing his thick legs into the linoleum for leverage, he dragged the unwilling puppy back towards him. “The cat isn’t well,” I explained. “I don’t want to stress him out any more than necessary.” The man laughed. “We have two cats,” he said with a lazy grin. “We haven’t seen them in two months since we brought her home.” He indicated who “her” was by gesturing to Young Shepherd who was now sniffing the bottom of the receptionist desk. I stared at him incredulously. He nodded and chuckled. “She came home, they ran upstairs, and we haven’t seen ‘em since.” He shrugged, giving Young Shepherd more lead so she could investigate the food shelves. “Oh well.” The woman next to him widened her eyes more and nodded her silent confirmation that this was true. Suddenly, illustrating the need for cats to hide from her, Young Shepherd bolted towards the hallway leading to the examining room, yanking on the leash and managing to get her front paws off the floor before the man caught her and shortened the slack. For a moment before she was forced back to his chair, she was half suspended, lolling her tongue excitedly and bicycling her front paws in the air. The reason for the excitement came around the corner and filled the remaining space in the tiny waiting room. Two massive dogs, Bears One and Two I will call them, each pulling a woman behind them. I silently asked God to give the older of the two women strength when I noticed her sandal slip on the linoleum as Bear One tried to drag her to the door. Young Shepherd sprang and barked. The man, giving clear evidence for why two hiding cats might not trust him to keep the new dog from mauling them, invited Young Shepherd, in a tone one might use to encourage babies to walk, to stop barking. Young Shepherd declined the invitation. “Just give me a minute!” the receptionist cheerfully yelled over the barking to the woman as Bear One heaved on the leash. “I’ll get your bill ready in just a minute.” “A minute?” I thought watching this woman’s arms shake. “She won’t last ten seconds!” She turned to the younger woman behind her; a woman I took to be her daughter and who was under an equal amount of stress trying to prevent all thirty-eight inches and two hundred and forty pounds of Bear Two from following Bear One’s lead. The receptionist again called, “One minute!” before sitting at her computer to prepare the bill. While I imagined what it would look like if either woman released a hand to fish a credit card out of a purse, the women started discussing how they were going to exit. A dog had just appeared outside the office door, pressed its nose against the glass, and started barking at all of us inside. The Bears were now in a frenzy. I instinctively gripped Dash’s carrier more tightly, thanking God that at least Young Shepherd now seemed content to sit and pant quietly at the drama. Outside Dog’s owner, a middle-aged woman who cupped her hands around her eyes and scrutinized the office like a rodeo rider scrutinizes a bull, spoke to someone out of view, handed this person the leash, and pushed the dog away from the door. She swaggered into the office, confident and grinning. “Can’t bring mine in here!” she drawled loudly to all of us. “This place would be NUTS if I did that!” I marvelled at her choice of words and wondered how she would describe the room at this moment. The carrier between my feet caught her attention. “A cat!” she cried gaily. “She must be loving this!” Before I could answer and correct her on the matter of Dash’s sex, she continued by shouting at the receptionist, “I’ll wait outside and bring Sheba in when the coast is clear.” The receptionist nodded and smiled gratefully before turning to her computer to prepare the bill for the Bears. At this moment, another woman, like the hat stand hidden in Mary Poppins’ carpet bag, emerged from the examining room. Small, slight, and timid looking, she carried a thick blanket in her arms. Poking out of the blanket was the tiny head of a grey miniature poodle in a state of terrified palsy. The poodle’s trembling head swung from side to side taking in the waiting room mayhem. Its owner did the same before screwing her face up in worry and addressing the room. “I’m coming through!!” the slight and timid lady cried shrilly as she took a step towards the Bears. “I was attacked by a large dog! I suffer from anxiety and so does my little dog!” The poodle stared at us with bulging eyes and vibrated its corroborating testimony. The women, digging deep and finding Hercules, held the writhing Bears firm while the shivering poodle was air lifted past them. Barbecue couple squinted and stared wide-eyed, as lady and poodle approached Young Shepherd who was as curious about the blanket as she had been about the carrier. Now, she was pinned to her owner’s leg. The timid lady hoisted the poodle higher as she tentatively stepped around Young Shepherd. “She’s just had a shot!! She’s quite anxious!” she cried again to the entire room. Now she only had the door to contend with. Through its glass peered that swaggering old rodeo rider, Sheba’s owner. Sheba, still out of view but perhaps sensing the imminent arrival of another dog, started barking again. Now wide-eyed herself, timid lady shrieked at the door and quite possibly the entire parking lot, “We’re coming through!!!” before pushing the door open and fleeing the office. I looked back to reception in time to catch Bear One’s keeper single-handedly restraining the dog and snapping her purse closed. I was happy God had answered my plea for strength for this woman but disappointed I had missed watching her pay her bill. That is the way of the circus; sometimes you do not know where to look. Ten minutes later, I stood watching the vet try to give Dash a pill for what he had diagnosed as an upper respiratory tract infection. His assistant, who had earlier tried to ply Dash with a piece of kibble, as effective as trying to ply a toddler with a Brussel sprout, desperately tried to pin Dash’s body onto the table and keep his claws away from her skin. The vet was in full fencing mode, approaching with his hand and then darting away when Dash snapped at him with his jaws. After four attempts, he managed to seize Dash’s jowls, squeeze his mouth open, and drop the pill into his throat. He blew into Dash’s face, forcing the cat to close his mouth and swallow. For one glorious second, the vet’s face shone with victory. And then it filled the room. Half a measure of the Barf Alarm. A moment later, Dash was licking his chops, and the pill was back on the table. After three more fencing rounds – Dash: 3; Vet:0 - the vet threw in the towel, giving his assistant permission to lift her torso off Dash’s back, straighten her fur-covered top, and fix her glasses. He wiped his brow, taking a moment to find his composure and muster a smile. “I’m going to let you do this at home,” he said as nonchalantly as he could, eyeing Dash warily as he retrieved the bile-soaked pill from the table and keeping his hands well away from Dash’s mouth. “You’ll give him one pill a day for fourteen days. Oh, and there’s another pill. Once a day for five days.” I nodded, silently vowing to never give Dash a pill and rely instead on God’s miraculous design we call the immune system. There was a pause as everyone caught their breath and took stock of what had just occurred. Then the vet asked, “Are you brushing his teeth?” This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit colleenstewart.substack.com/subscribe [https://colleenstewart.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]