thejenhill reblogged
Poetry Comics Month, Day 22: Abecedarian
I am very sorry to share that Chancho, my very good friend and most bosom pal of 12 years, passed away earlier this week. Chancho was a mountainous soul crammed into a mailbox shaped dog. Stubborn as a broken down tractor, he was the most joyous and recalcitrant creature I ever met. He delighted in the simplest pleasures: a new ball—or even better a stolen one; a piece of cheese “accidently” dropped on a kitchen floor; or a stranger stopping to scratch his bum. He taught me that every moment of every day has room for silliness and laughter, even if you're running late or feeling down. He taught me to walk with my head held high, and to look all strangers in the eye— because you will often be met with a friendly smile. Out in the world are hundreds, and hundreds of photos of that furry potato with legs that I will never see. Nearly every time I left Chancho outside a store or shop, even for just a moment, I would come out to someone taking his photo, or attempting a selfie. Sometimes I would catch a stranger having a quiet conversation with him. Sharing a moment together. I would always wait at a distance until they gave him a gentle pat on the head and said their goodbyes. Chancho taught me more about patience, empathy, and humour than any other person in my life. He taught me to appreciate simple pleasures, and to try to bring more kindness into the world. He taught me that a lazy afternoon under a blanket on the sofa is magical. He taught me that even if you can’t swim, faking it can be just, if not more, fun. —“just because you can’t, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t”. There isn’t much to more to say—beyond the weight of sadness in my heart is lessened with knowing that he is no longer struggling. We said goodbye on Tuesday evening, and since then I have been wondering what to do with all my leftover toast crusts and sullied ice-cream bowls. My home is quieter and far more absent of life since he left. I will never know his like again. -jen Chancho Diane Marie Francis Candice Bergen Phylicia Rashād Hill (aka Reliabull’s Han Chancho) September 17, 2007 – September 17, 2019 #chanchomyhoncho https://www.instagram.com/p/B2p2-3wBLNR/?igshid=1geokcasdv9jf
Beast Wagon Adventure: Journal Entry— Today's exploration around the neighbourhood was a success. After many attempts, I managed to jump out right at the corner of Granville and 12th, but the Tall One scooped me up and immediately placed me back in. She pinched my bottom, so I knew I shouldn't do that again. The Tall One also forgot grocery bags, so I had to guard the juicy beef bones in a plastic bag all the way home. I feel proud of my efforts. The Tall One also complained that "I am still freakin' heavy for a dog that's lost 15 lbs!". So we stopped at a store that sells nothing but liquid in bottles. The Tall One brought home some cold bottles and said that those were her rewards for being my Sherpa. Also, I did not chase the squirrel that ran in front of Beast Wagon, and for that I was rewarded with some tasty lamb bits from Pete's Meats. #chanchomyhoncho #fuckcancer https://www.instagram.com/p/B2H-z2MB3C8/?igshid=81keez5mwq61
Ladies and Gentlemen may I present 'Sister Chancho Diane Marie Francis Candice Bergen Phylicia Rashād of the Holy Order of Flatulence and Spiritual Oddities'. —marching to his own drummer since 2007. #chanchomyhoncho https://www.instagram.com/p/B1sfc1iBCP8/?igshid=5y5w5yeyl6bw
Chancho has ALWAYS been a masterful ball thief. And cancer be damned, just last week, he (very slowly, yet intentionally) went after this ball as it rolled away from its less-than two-year-old owner. The (now very deflated) ball has become an item of great pride for #chanchomyhoncho. He carries it around like a wrestler hoisting the championship belt. I believe the phrase is 'dogged determination'. https://www.instagram.com/p/B1hjBpxhwOb/?igshid=11ah176bkwim8
Chancho has ALWAYS been a masterful ball thief. And cancer be damned, just last week, he (very slowly, yet intentionally) went after this ball as it rolled away from its less-than two-year-old owner. The (now very deflated) ball has become an item of great pride for #chanchomyhoncho. He carries it around like a wrestler hoisting the championship belt. I believe the phrase is 'dogged determination'. https://www.instagram.com/p/B1hjBpxhwOb/?igshid=z3g5k6xn8uvr
"It's the most awkward time of year!" 🎵🎶 #backtoschool https://www.instagram.com/p/B1Zky_QBKg_/?igshid=d0qahl153fbm
#chanchomyhoncho #bulldog
I ain't I no foodie. I ain't messin' with cookin'. But I love me some food, fool. Made pesto for the first time in my 45 years. So, basically I'm Italian now. Yo. https://www.instagram.com/p/B0ztPPuB4ib/?igshid=of4a4rstvnuu
Thank you and much ♥️♥️♥️ to @jacquelinesinclair for spending a manic (and crazy hot) morning with me and 🐶Chancho! You captured a few beautiful (and a few wacky) moments of my grumpy potato. I will treasure these always. ❤️❤️❤️ #bulldog #igbulldogs_worldwide #chanchomyhoncho #seniordog #seniordogsofinstagram (at Vancouver, British Columbia) https://www.instagram.com/p/B0tuGMuBPxD/?igshid=1nesxw0b4tcad
Coffee! Bakery! Local artists! Chanchos! This place has everything! #chanchomyhoncho (at Deadwood Junction & Tarnished Turkey Cappuccino) https://www.instagram.com/p/B0hYY3YhV3P/?igshid=mp9s2pyyi78o
Coffee on the lanai with #chanchomyhoncho 🐶☕️♥️ (at Nelson, British Columbia) https://www.instagram.com/p/B0bjh88h0Rm/?igshid=65j57z2hl9sj
Been thinking a lot about power lately. Power we relinquish. Power we hold. Power we covet. Power we abuse. Power we ignore. Power we hide. Somewhere I created a belief that power is bad. That power brings pain and shame and a whole heap of trouble. But power holds strength and the earth beneath our feet. Power holds our energy and our movement. Power is what transforms us and creates space to become our full selves. #thinkingoutloud https://www.instagram.com/p/B0CGvkiBP4K/?igshid=47s41q1zy7hn
This is a guy who is happy. Happy beyond all his troubles. Beyond his pain or discomfort. Will he be sick from the "too much" of it all? Probably. Do I care? Not really. #fuckcancer #chanchomyhoncho #igbulldogs_worldwide #seniordog #seniordogsofinstagram https://www.instagram.com/p/BzuYKwThJqm/?igshid=142us4hayj2yt
Locked in a Room with Death
This song has been in my head a lot lately. It is a song that has complex meaning and memories for me. Some of you will also know it as I do.
This final journey with my friend Chancho is a remarkable experience.
One way I find have found peace is to return to writing. I’m rusty and so are my words. But there is a healing that writing brings me. It smooths the angry edges and shines light into the darkened chambers.
So indulge me. I wrote this with old friends, and sick old pups in mind.
Dancing before the Party
Is it waiting for Death.
Is it inviting him in? Her in? Is it making tea? Set out the good china? — well fuck, I don’t have good china Busy-making until the scythe tap, tap, tappity taps on my door.
Are They hurrying to get here, or taking the milkrun bus? Does Death have a Google Cal? What colour tab are we? What do you call the space between sending the invitation, and waiting for the party to arrive? Is this Limbo? Stasis? Static cling?
I cook, and clean, and you sleep and shit out our last days And we wait. And Dread. And Hope. And Dance. And Cry. And Laugh. Until Death comes. And then we dance once more.
After 27 redials I ended up having a conversation with a fellow who called himself an "alien on the other side of the world", and didn't understand why I cared so much to keep redialing. I was wasting my time, he said. I can't stomach the people are making money off the struggle and pain and confusion of others, I said. What he and his colleagues do hurts people. He said it was just a job. I should not worry so much and just ignore it. Please, he said. Just ignore it. I said I would stop calling (today) if he did one thing nice for one person, or animal, before the sun went down in his next day — it's 1:30am where he is. He promised, if I promised to stop calling back. I won't matter, someone else would take his place if he left, he said. It's not worth getting upset about. You can be better, I said. We need to do better. We need to be better.
Sunday Movie Night. #filmnoir #thethirdman #orsonwelles ...and me without my zither.