Part 2 In Support of the Muskoka SPCA

A quiet moment with our cat Zappa

PART TWO

A Series of Post in Support of the Muskoka Animal Shelter

The Mission to Compose, and the Cats and Dogs That Moved The Stories Along

     This short series of articles (more like fuzzy stories) profiling our family's relationship with formerly abandoned and surrendered pets, was prepared as a tribute to the staff and volunteers of the Muskoka Animal Shelter, of the Society For Prevention of Cruelty to Animals; indeed inspired by our own recent adoption of a wee dog named "Pooh Bear," a new friend for our other family canine, named "Muffin," adopted by our son Robert two years ago this coming January. If you can spare any time as a volunteer at the Bracebridge shelter, or have a place in your home for one of these wonderful pets, please contact the Shelter for information on availability. If you would like to make a cash or food (or pet supplies) donation, they would love to hear from you, as their resources are always being stretched by new demands, to look after the animals they are so kindly sheltering.
     There was a time when I could write a book in a week, with the good company of a Smith Corona typewriter, a room with an inspiring view, bags of munchies, and a bountiful supply of liquid courage. Yes, it's true. I was living the life of many of the world's best known writers, and pickling myself for inspiration. It wasn't too long before I was paying a heavy price for my profession, which was beating me down day by day. I would re-read the material written the night before, and get knotted in my stomach for two significant reasons. I was hungover and the copy was horribly composed. Sometimes my deadline would be compromised and I'd have to work twice as hard with a colossal headache, to catch-up my work. Over months, and years, in fact, I wrote with the companionship of a nice view and way, way too much booze.
     When I adopted "Animal", the tabby tossed from a speeding car, passing in front of The Herald-Gazette office, on Bracebridge's Dominion Street, (reference to this is contained in yesterday's post in case you missed it), sometime in the fall of 1980 or so, it was the dawning of a new reality for me. Now this isn't to suggest a cat cured me from the drink, because that's not the case at all. What the arrival of Animal the cat did herald, in fact, was a budding period of self-loathing, loneliness, and a personal preparedness to change my lifestyle, to save my life. I was on a wickedly dangerous path back then, and it was this portly little cat that got in the way, almost as if a matter of providence, to save me from myself. Instead of only being focused on myself, and my writing craft, as a starving artist, being a new pet owner, meant I had to divide my loyalties. My priorities had to change, and although it was slow to transform the barbarian's lifestyle, it did arrive pleasant enough for both parties.
    Here's how it intermingled in the realm of the creative process. As a fledgling writer / poet in the early going, I couldn't produce a typewritten line, without music playing somewhere in the apartment. I could only write when classical music was playing, and it always had to be at some distance, so I couldn't easily change the channel. If I felt in need of changing the station, it meant I was being distracted from the task at hand. Stopping in the middle of a paragraph, a thought, a scene, a feature news story, could be catastrophic to a still-maturing writer without a lot of self discipline. If it was music I didn't particularly care for, I would simply adjust my concentration and write through the din, hopeful the next music would be better suited to my enterprise. Like the superstitions of ball players and hockey goaltenders, writers have some pretty strange rituals, and mine demanded music and separation from it, so as not to engage temptation, to change stations every ten minutes or so.
     The problem for me, once I moved on from the poet laureate stage, was recognizing that the type of music I was listening to, especially the more melancholy pieces, was adversely influencing what I was writing about, and the aura it came to possess that I hadn't intended. If the music was passive and calming, this is how the copy read. If the music was aggressive, such as a Wagner piece, cripes, the copy would read like lemon juice stings the eyes. I was fluctuating with the music, and it was badly influencing my editorial output, especially copy being prepared for one of our Muskoka Publication's newspapers of which there were several. When I'd re-read the copy, prior to submitting it for typesetting, I was aghast at the severe contrasts in what should have been a pretty straight-forward handling of the facts of, for example, a typical news story I had brought home to work on for the next day's paper.
     Well, simply stated, I had to swear off music while writing from that point, because it was unacceptable to have such influences, when all I had been looking for in the first place, was a bit of background inspiration. Yet without my knowing it, I had switched my sources of inspiration, beyond just a nice view, and the nice sunglow coming through the windows of the old McGibbon homestead. I had never given thought to the reality, my new apartment-mate, "Animal," had been curled up on my lap, or on my sock feet, almost every time I sat down at the typewriter during this same period. I didn't remove myself from its passive influences, because frankly, I didn't think there were any to worry about. Well, it wasn't much worry, because what this cat had created, was a sense of warmth and comfort, and gentle solitude, that made up for the fact I wasn't listening to Mozart on the old radio in the living room. The cat's purring, and warmth against my body, wasn't affecting the pace or theme of the story, or its content in any real way, while at the same time giving me a welcoming, yet intrusive feeling of security, that seemed to integrate with my soul without my suspicions being raised I was being manipulated. I didn't recognize it for a long while, until one day I stopped at the end of a chapter, that I thought had been written rather well, and sensing my feet had fallen asleep under the weight of the cat, wondered out loud if there wasn't anywhere else Animal could rest, other than against my legs. Looking down, and trying to wiggle my blood's circulation back in my toes, it struck me that this little creature was more a part of my life, and enterprise, than I had previously imagined. Instead of music pleasing my ears, and invigorating my innermost ambitions, the purring and warmth of her little body, had been the new driving force of creativity, and I was the beneficiary of this newfound energy.
     This was a scene, or chapter you might say, from the very early 1980's. It is now the closing days of 2016, and nothing has changed in this regard. Oh yes, there's the family thing of course. A charming bride and two lads part of the maturing Currie clan. But here now, in the studio of our Gravenhurst vintage music and antique shop, are two little dogs, one at my feet, and the other on the sofa where some of this country's fine musicians have sat to visit with us, on a break from their latest road-trip. Muffin is snoring to my right side, and newest arrival from the Muskoka Shelter, "Pooh Bear," is sing-songing it away, with a different sort of dream inspired snore, all music to my ears. Well, I am after-all, writing about them, so if I'm being manipulated by their sounds and animal presence, it's fitting the circumstance wouldn't you say?
     I haven't in all these years, written a single piece of editorial copy, for whatever publication, or online purpose, without the pleasing influence of cats, dogs, or both, in and around my desk, or on my lap. I have never had a single instance, whereupon re-reading copy, composed under the magic spell of these wee beasties, when I felt the integrity had been compromised, and the honesty of the pieces pinched by the charity of calmness these pets have inspired.
     I have been working as a writer since the late 1970's, and have been published, even in Icelandic translation, most of the content of forty plus years, always in the company of our pets, each of them rescued from unfortunate circumstances and afforded a second chance to live a comfortable, healthy home life. I have felt blessed because of their contributions, and when I sit down several times each week, and work on my own biography as both an antique dealer and writer, I never forget the little souls who got me from there to here with so much joy in my heart. In fact, their influence on my work, has been so entrenched, and welcomed over the decades, that I can't write a single page of copy, in this same biography, that I don't reflect back to all the pets we've shared the homestead with, and how much they've afforded us those creature comforts in exchange for food and shelter. I'm not sure how many writers would make this claim, or be willing to admit their editorial work was influenced daily by a snoring or scratching dog, or kneading or purring cat on the chair beside. I have no problem with such an admission.
     If you approve of today's story, you will then understand what I mean by pet influences. The two good friends here at my side, Muffin and Pooh Bear, have instilled their gentle charm upon the mindset of a crusty old writer, who used to depend on booze and a nice view, to get the job done. To the point, I can't imagine a single day in creative endeavour, having to sit at this keyboard, and not having the life-forces of these two pleasing pets connecting with my needy soul; and in kind, helping me along so generously, with the progressive pursuit of a meaningful story-line, and only rousing when its time for a walk outside, or a treat from the pouch I keep at my side.
     We have adopted many pets from the Muskoka SPCA, and have benefitted entirely from the experience, which has time and again, turned out to be the happy ending we all like to achieve. Please help the SPCA by offering a donation of money or needed supplies, and if you have a place in your home for a homeless pet, give them a call for more information. Feel like volunteering. I'm sure they'd like to hear from you.
     Please join me tomorrow on this facebook page, for the story of "The Great Bacon Heist," featuring our former dogs, Alf, Kramer, and Bosco, who loved breakfast at Birch Hollow.