I am a bad speller. I am also poor with the whole thought arrangement stuff. Don't get me started on Grammer (Kelsey, or any trivia relation to Frasier) or grammar. I am a particularly lazy editor, and hardly read half of the posts I write before I publish them. It may come across like I don't care, but I would like to dispel those rumors now. I do care. I really do care, and I know that there are no excuses for neglecting literary styling and etiquette. But hear me out.
I am the youngest member of my family. This has certain ideas and expectations. When company visits, I give up my bed. When we are riding in a car (even if it is my own) I ride in the backseat. Along with everyone having (and voicing) their unsolicited advise on what I should, and should not be doing with my life, I came a little late to the game. My eldest sister became a nurse like my mother. My eldest brother because a railroad man, like my father. My sister has always loved children, me included (which guaranteed my survival up until the age of five) My other sister (I am sure she hates being called that!) is a writer. And unless I wanted to be like my brother and join a trade (which would spell certain death for me) All the positions were filled. I never wanted to be a nurse, living on the wrong side of the tracks made me hate trains, I hated kids when I was a kid, and electricity scares me. I never thought about being a writer. That position was filled. My good, hardworking prairie parents, I suppose, could only stand to foster one literary mind, and after that they were finished. Not that I ever cared. Ever since I was little I was destined to become a veterinarian. I dreamt of being a vet. I loved animals, and I cared for animals. I could wipe the puss away from a poor inbred barn-kitten's eye before I could read. I once saw a calf being born. At the time I had no idea what was happening, or what placenta was but I thought it was really cool (which led to later disappointment) that we had a purple calf! It was my calling.
I don't know if my mother suffered a nervous breakdown, saw visions of veterinary-sized pay cheques, or simply couldn't resist my adorable face (which I sadly grew out of!) but she started to indulge my passion for animals. First I was allowed to buy a bird in a co-ownership agreement with my "other" (ha ha) sister. It was a fairly standard agreement in which I would feed, water, clean, and care for our bird, and in return she would own half of it. Little Petey the budgie was a single drop before the damn dam burst. Because next, although she swore they were the devil and would chew her curtains to pieces, my mother allowed me a hamster. Herman was his name and he was very very special. Birds don't like to cuddle. Hamsters don't really have a choice. Where birds have sharp teeth, and small brains, hamsters have sharp teeth and slightly larger brains that comprehend that the reaction to a bite is to squeeze one's hand into a fist, and even a ten year old hand could cause serious harm. We got along splendidly.
Next came two hedgehogs, as refugees from a moving family. Next a set of guinea pigs. Then a set of opposite gender rabbits, that commenced in... well, what rabbits do best. Then two more birds, numerous fish, another hamster, a lamb, more lambs, and then sheep, sheep, and more sheep. My room was a zoo. And unlike other adolescent boys, I had a legitimate excuse, I was housing a tiny pet store.
Things escalated very fast, and as it did, so did my passion for veterinary medicine. I longed to get out of hellish middle years, and on to university, where due to my dim understanding of such things, I would focus on just the subjects I choose. Namely I would engage in snuggle times with cats and dogs, and play time with small rodents. This was before I realized that my mental capacity for mathematics would limit how far I would get in life, but I was young, and I had my dreams. I was living the life.
Sadly the rodents, aquatic life, and those of the feathered persuasion - weren't. One by one, despite the many snuggles, rides on the swings, and desperate pleading with the almighty, my little friends departed for the great big hamster wheel in the sky. And as a result I had to face the hard facts of life. Sick animals are sad. Dying animals are even sadder. And walking in on a mother rabbit eating her own young on your twelfth birthday, really puts damper on the easter dance. So just as easily as their souls seemed to depart their furry little bodies, my interest in caring for, never mind even seeing a sick or dying animal again, departed forever.
So I lost my little pets one at a time, and I lost the sweet memories of my childhood (not to mention memories of a certain grade seven dance) but I had also lost my career. I was not going to be a vet, not even a vet assistant, or even a dog walker. I closed that chapter of my life for good. Years later, when I would discover that maybe I too, would like to be a writer, it dawned on me that when I was busily planning charts on my bedroom door indicating when I would play with Herman, talk with Daphne, or give Wendy and Ripper some cottage cheese, and generally ignoring my studies, teachers were teaching important things. Things like grammar, punctuation, spelling. You know, things that would help someone wanting to be a writer someday. Or even a successful member of society.
So I guess what I am trying to say here is that it really isn't my fault for how poorly written, edited, and organized this blog is. Do what I do: Blame my mother.