Chihuahua Count

When out on the street, I can’t help but notice dogs. They pass by and I observe their gait. Or note their gear, whether the harness or collar is adequate to their size and walking style. I grit my teeth when I see a strong dog, collar damaging their windpipe as they pull on the lead. Attitudes fascinate me, too; I pay special attention to the rapport between the dog and their person. Sometimes dog-people scenes jump right out at me. I say this because, lately, I’ve been spotting quite a few men walking chihuahuas. Often exceptionally large men, the ones that leave huge ripples in their wake. I’d see bulky torsos and swaying shoulders, and then there, a meaty hand clutching a teeny lead onto which they attach a miniscule ball of pure attitude on four spindly legs. Fascinating.

It’s a jarring juxtaposition: ginormous and minikin, cumbrous and nimble, size 45 sneakers and pitter-pattering paws. After noting this repeatedly, I decided to put my observations to a to a test.  For one week I would record every chihuahua I saw. And the sex of the person holding the lead. I’d also note if the man was significantly proportioned or not. Put my theory under scientific scrutiny, so to speak.

The first few days were disappointing, for not one chihuahua crossed my sight. But on the third day I noted four chihuahuas, of which two were walking with men. On the fourth day I saw a few more, and then something I hadn’t bargained on: couples walking chihuahuas. Since I had no idea who the dog belonged to, I recorded which of the two, male or female, held the lead. By day seven I counted the tally: there was a tie between the sexes.  And no sizeable men among them!

The numbers were lower than I had originally expected, so I gave the experiment a few days more. Where were the large-sized, chihuahua-walking men I had so assiduously noted before? Perhaps more time would bring them outdoors. By day 10 I grew tired of the experiment and had to admit that my original premise was unfounded. I had seen seven women walking chihuahuas (two in the company of men) and eight men with the runts (three with a female companion). And not even one male was exceptionally large. So much for my theory.

Until two weeks after the street count, what do I see but a behemoth of a man with a miniscule chihuahua proudly strutting down the street. Oh well.


Saying a last goodbye to an old friend is tough. Words provide an awkward riff on a wounded heart. So, I’ll just ponder the delightful times we had. Shizuka was a little white dog, a mutt both quiet and demanding, timid and bold. She and I did things together—quite the variety of adventures. Here you’ll find a link to her acting job, playing the part of “fearful dog” in one episode of Fundación Affinity’s program “Mas Que Perros y Gatos”. Or look at a story about her that appeared in Dog Heart Magazine issue number 2. It highlights her astounding ability to wander off—thus accidentally or willfully separating herself from her people—and head home again safely. Except nine months ago when deaf, cloudy-eyed and with signs of dementia, her wandering got the better of her.  By chance, kind people read her dog tag and called us to pick her up at a farmhouse quite a distance over the mountain.

So many stories. But I hold them close. At the very end she stopped wagging her tail and looked up at me as if to ask, “Hey, what am I doing here?” So, I gave her the succor she needed, and a gentle veterinarian helped me do it. Farewell Shizuka. Gone, but not forgotten.

Who is Smooshi? And why is she haunting my dreams?

I hate these animal documentaries.  A friend might recommend one—knowing I love animals—and I run the other way. But as much as it pains me to say it, I can’t recommend The Walrus and the Whistleblower enough. So, here goes: Friends, please watch it. Open your eyes to reality, as painful as it may be.

I’ve been following Phil Demers for a while; on Facebook, Twitter, the Joe Rogan Experience podcast, various newsfeeds. Give him a platform and watch him run. I knew that viewing this doc was inevitable. And necessary. I needed to know more about him, to learn why someone would put their livelihood, their reputation, and their mental wellbeing at peril, to save a walrus.

Phil Demers (b. 1978, Welland, Ontario) was a Canadian marine animal trainer at the Marineland of Canada in Niagara Falls, Ontario. (It’s quite a popular tourist spot. Admire the waterfalls, then spend big bucks at Marineland. Otherwise, there’s not much to do in Niagara Falls.)  The entrepreneur John Holer first opened the park complex in 1961. It was a simple operation in the beginning—two water tanks housing three sea lions—but gradually it expanded, adding dolphins, orcas, and other sea mammals. Today business is booming, thanks to the elaborate show that draws enormous crowds every year.

In 2000 Phil was looking for work, when the offer to become an apprentice at Marineland came up. He stayed in this dream job until 2012. In 2004 a contingent of walruses arrived, Smooshi among them. While carrying out a veterinary procedure, Phil imprinted strongly upon her, cementing an exceptional connection. The world celebrated their bond on the news, on talk shows and throughout public imagination. The love story between a walrus and a lad was the favourite of everyone.

Things seemed to go well, until 2012, when a breakdown occurred in the complex’s ozone generator. Instead of replacing it, the owner increased the chlorine content in the water. The effects on all the sea animals was disastrous: burnt eyes and skin, hair and weight loss, decreased appetite, and lethargy. It hit Smooshi hard. Fed up with animal neglect by Marineland, Phil quit. They agreed that he would return regularly to visit Smooshi, since it had become clear she suffered in his absence. This agreement didn’t last, and the more Phil heard of Smooshi and the other animals suffering, the greater his resolve. He became a whistleblower.

Marineland hit back hard, using scare tactics, threats, and legal action; they sued Demers, claiming he was trying to steal Smooshi for his own financial gain. The fight elevated and in 2017 Demers brought the issue before the Canadian Senate.

In recent years Canada has altered its stance regarding wild sea animal confinement. They banned Orca captivity in Ontario and put better conditions and care practices in force from May 2018. In summer 2019 Canada passed Bill S-203, banning the trade, breeding and display of cetaceans (whales, dolphins and porpoises) for entertainment.

Since then, Marineland has justified the continued use of these animals by calling them “educational presentations”.  Smooshi remains in captivity, apparently destined to go to a marine park in Germany. More recently she has given birth – a dangerous practice at her advanced age.

Phil Demers continues to fight for her. He hasn’t seen her in years and he wants her freedom.

The Walrus and the Whistleblower, directed by Natalie Bibeau, won the top prize at the Canadian Hot Docs international documentary film festival in June 2020.

I hated watching this documentary. But I want you to see it too.

“Just Watch Me”

In May 2020, a Guardian journalist, curious to know how folk were keeping strong during the Covid-19 pandemic, asked people to name the world leaders or public figures they found most reassuring. Oft mentioned was the name of my own emotional anchor: Canada’s Prime Minister Justin Trudeau. At the start of the crisis I scrolled through site after site on my phone, looking for meaning to this madness. Then I found Trudeau’s video messages to the Canadian people. He put on a brave face as he stood in front of his home in the cold, allaying our anxieties with firm guidance. As the threat became real and dread’s slow wick burst into giant anxiety flames, his bid to remain calm grounded us. He didn’t forget the nation’s children either, mentioning his own little ones’ eagerness to return to their routine. Don’t worry, he said, all would be normal soon.

I don’t particularly admire this Prime Minister. His overly liberal, social-justice-warrior guise has always irked me. But, watching him, I realised that his reassurance had strong roots in my psyche. Another Trudeau came to mind, another dramatic crisis and series of events that unfolded during my impressionable adolescent years.

In 1967 Canada celebrated the 100th anniversary of the confederation of provinces that created our country. I threw myself into the Centennial Year preparations and events with all the fervour of a 10-year-old discovering her roots. Historical re-enactments shone a golden light on the past; I still remember the interior of the museum train that crossed the country. (To my mortification, my Uncle Norman took on a personal initiative: dressed in period costume he retraced the trails of his ancestors at the helm of a cart pulled by his favourite bull. They blocked highway traffic for miles.) But by far my best patriotic manifestation was the school’s Centennial Choir. Day after day we practiced “O Canada”, “This Land is Your Land” (the Canadian version), and that year’s hit, “CA-NA-DA”. Into the collars of our white blouses we stuck maple leaf pins, representing our new flag, designed and adopted just two years before. (To this day you show me the Maple Leaf and my chest still swells with pride.)

In 1968 Canada’s Justice Minister, Pierre Elliot Trudeau, a French-Canadian intellect and bon vivant, entered politics with a bang. He had “charisma”. It was the first time I’d heard the word, and I’ve never wasted it on anyone else since. I, along with millions of Canadians, was smitten. He was radical, unpredictable, and devoted to serving our nation. Trudeau-mania crossed the land like rolling thunder. I was among thousands who thronged into the local arena to see Trudeau’s campaign rally, awed by his fiery rhetoric and wit. Potent stuff for an eleven-year-old. His poster went up there on my wall, alongside David Cassidy and the Beatles.

The political rhetoric fueled by national events became part of my growing vocabulary. I scanned the newspapers, watched the evening news on TV, was fascinated by his policies and his shenanigans alike. And I, like most Canadians, had my eye on what was happening in Quebec. Another dynamic politician, René Lévesque, had founded the Parti Quebecois and was mining a swell of separatist sentiment within that province. Threatening to break up our country. How thrilling to see two brilliant minds—who were once allies—face each other as adversaries, each as passionate as the other.

By 1970 the Parti Quebecois had split into opposing factions and a storm cloud was looming. Levesque was trying to keep the FLQ (a radical separatist group) from turning his peaceful demands for separatism into a violent revolution. And he was losing. The nation watched with apprehension as the FLQ took brutal action that developed into the unprecedented October Crisis of 1970. Every Canadian watched the news, gripped with horror.

Trudeau was quick to respond with a display of force unheard of in recent Canadian history. He astonished peace-loving Canadians with strong-arm tactics, calling in troops, and limiting movement, including that of the press. The press, on behalf of the Canadian people, questioned his strategy. One impromptu interview, now available in TV news archives, show a tight-lipped, barely courteous Trudeau questioned on his use of military force—in the space of minutes he appears bemused, resolved, uneasy and self-assured. But he answers with certainty, honesty and compassion. Asked if more brutish tactics were likely to come, his answer is cold: “Just watch me”. Like it or not, we had to agree that someone was in charge.

Trudeau resorted to the unthinkable when the FLQ kidnapped two prominent English-speaking people in Montreal, James Cross and Pierre Laporte. He invoked the War Measures Act, a political weapon invoked on only two previous occasions, during the two World Wars. (The second invocation of the WMA led to the shameful internment of ethnic Japanese. Canadian citizens of Japanese descent, many of them born here, lost all privileges, livelihoods, and belongings. It’s one of the biggest blots on Canadian history.)

Canadians uphold democracy; we pride ourselves on our freedom of speech and movement. This was a hard ask: a nationwide curfew, arrests without warrants, without impunity. Suddenly 100 years of political freedom were being stripped away. But we allowed ourselves to be led. Most willingly complied with Trudeau’s request: a minor loss of freedom to beat this threat. I was thrilled and cooperate I did.

And we got through it, but not without pain. The FLQ murdered Pierre Laporte—and no one can forget the haunted look on Trudeau’s face as he announced the loss of his friend. But they apprehended the murderers and freed James Cross. They defused the FLQ threat. Later, polls revealed that as uncomfortable as Canadians felt with the War Measures Act, 80% of the nation admired Trudeau’s handling of the situation.

I think of this now, as we enter the 14th week of the pandemic-induced lockdown. All over the world people are struggling to make sense of a volatile, ominous threat. 50 years ago, the tactics used by the FLQ were visible, somewhat predictable, and comprehensible. If he had serious doubts on how to respond, Trudeau hid them well. He was swift, brave, and acting upon his own volition.

Where are today’s leaders of nations? Today the blind lead the blind. Most people in charge have let political interests, the threat of bad poll readings, looming economic doom, reign over protecting their people from illness and death. We look at our leaders and wonder, should we laugh or cry? It’s so reassuring to see the shadow of Pierre Trudeau in the demeanour of his eldest son. Enough to make me remember, we got through difficulties 50 years ago, we can do it again.