The Devils Pet


Are you cringing yet? Read on.

The long awaited summer arrives. We peel off the layers of winter clothing, and exchange it for tank tops and flip-flops. The outside world comes to life. The trees bud and open, dandelions bloom, bees drone, caterpillars crawl, and mosquitos flourish. The world outside is a magical place of color and light. And then… the long-horned wood-boring beetle shows up. I think it must be a mascot to the devil himself, a fang-like mandible insect, which will whirl towards you with the most practiced skill. It’ll swerve and vibrate through the air in an unreadable motion, unnerving the very confidence you have in your own two feet. You might try to escape, but it’s never really apparent which way they are flying. All you know for certain is… if it lands on you… it will stick to you, longer than a cowboy can stick to a bull. Dear God, it will stick like the Brazilian hot wax you were going to get to surprise your husband, and if it bites it’ll be far worse. Holy fleeing buttocks, there are few things in this world which can get a chill Canadian fired up to sprint across the yard, than the sound of an air born beetle with his antennae pointed your way. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the religious folk bring out all their prayers, as they streak across the yard hoping for the safety a little distance can bring.

It’s early summer. The sun sits high in the sky, it’s light spreads far and wide, overseeing far more than the government. That fact alone makes me smile. The heat builds along the outside of the house. The breeze is absent. The leaves hang from the trees, silent. It allows the buzz of insects to dominate. The yellow swallowtail butterflies flutter amongst the lilac trees, and the bee’s buzz along the flowerbeds, hovering from bloom to bloom, slurping up the nectar and pollen. The dragonflies swoop to and fro, picking mosquitos out of the air left and right.

I see Rick, my husband, across the yard and walk towards him. Suddenly, I hear the whirring sound of the most feared insect of the summer season, the long-horned wood-boring spruce beetle.

The reverberating sound ends. I feel it make a perfect ten point landing down my shirt. I can feel its picky sticky legs grasping my soft flesh. I look down to see its long black curved horns in my cleavage. I freeze, recalling the stories of people being bitten, the large chunks of flesh that can be removed by those strong mandibles meant for chomping wood.


Window shot. Peek-a-boo nightmare!

I ran. You might laugh, thinking well what’s the point of that? He’s already inside your shirt? It’s called panic people. Panic. If I lived in the city I probably would have been hit by a bus. You know that term scared stupid? I know it intimately. I then proceed to up my game by screaming, and end it with a flurry of clothing coming off my upper body.

Rick watches me with a dropped jaw as I run across the yard half naked.

I use my shirt to try scraping the clinging beetle from between my boobs. I finally knock him off. Before he munches off a breast.

I proceed to jump up and down, “ Gross, ooh, oh my God! You fricken ugly bastard!” Plus far more grunting and groaning noises.

In a few seconds I settle down and sigh with relief.

I suddenly become aware of a vehicle driving by on our quiet gravel road. It’s our neighbour, a sweet old fellow who usually dawdles by at 30 km/hr in his truck. He is going much slower today.

I struggle to put on my twisted up shirt.

His eyes are bigger than the Tarsier monkey, as he zones in on my topless form. He unwittingly steering towards our house, and then corrects himself before he gets too far down the ditch.

I pull my shirt back on, and feel the blood rise in my face.

“Rick trots up to me, “What was that about?”

“A fricken spruce beetle went down my shirt.” I shiver, and wrap my arms around myself. I look around for a sign of anymore of the devil’s pets. The echoing fear sits in my eyes.

Rick laughs lightheartedly, “Well, at least Mike got a show.”

I force a tight grin, “Yeah, and not a black eye.” I reply with hostility.

See— the Devils pets— creating hostility within family dynamics.

Looking at this beetle from a less dramatic point of view, it actually has an agenda to perform good deeds for the Earth. In Fort McMurray this beetle is nicknamed the Tar Sands Beetle because they swarm to the scent of terpinols in exposed bitumen, the smell is the same as in damaged trees. This year there is a plethora of the long horned wood-boring beetle in Northern Alberta due to all the burnt forest it has begun to reclaim. This beetle lays their eggs in dead and dying wood, when the eggs hatch, the larvae will help break down the wood. It turns fire burnt areas into soil much faster than rotting can accomplish. Good job beetles.

My condolences Fort Mac, on the influx of Tar Sands beetles, on the bright side, running from them is good cardio, and I hear the bee-keepers garb can be quite slimming.


Yoo Hoo Justin, Remember me?



The Right Honourable Kim Campbell 19th Prime Minister of Canada.

Our world is stuffed full of public drama. Am I the only one who feels the news has turned into the National Enquirer with world leader choices? We have a Drama teacher in charge of Canada. A student of expression, who has all the emotional presence of a ventriloquist puppet on a stool. Right across the border is an egomaniacal reality TV boss supposedly in charge of America. Trump and Trudeau, studying their most recent photos together, there are moments it looks like they’re best buds. But then I read the latest headlines, and Trump is naming Trudeau the worst Canadian President in history. Canadian President? What?

Trump and Trudeau, T & T, hmmm, TNT, explosive, isn’t it? I wonder if Trudeau shares his stash with Trump when they’re together? Donald does seem happier in Justin’s company. I wonder if Trump shares with Trudeau too? I doubt it. He’s not really the sharing type. Especially not the nukes— he keeps those in private places. As the world watches, Trump’s advisors scramble in his wake, attempting to do damage control. It’s almost comical. I can’t help but wonder, if Trump ever asks for the nuke launch codes, would his advisors roll up the rim on a Canadian Tim Horton’s coffee cup, and give him the eight-digit prize code instead. I hope so.

For one second, I was praising the wooly wanking gods for Mexico’s President, Enrique Pena Nieto. I was head-down grateful. North America had one decent leader in power. Then I braced my feet, and popped my head up out of the sand. I did a little research on the track record of Mexico’s current president. After all, I shouldn’t assume. My hopes were stomped out like a herd of wildebeest stampeding though the open plains of Africa. There are rumblings of possible corruption in President Enrique’s term— nasty business of an escaped drug lord, murdered and missing students, and most recently gas gouging at the pumps— which seems mild compared to the previous two accusations. Nothing is proven of course, but his popularity rating is down to 17%.

Maybe our selfie taking Prime Minister, who achieved his desired limelight through politics, doesn’t seem so bad now? Let’s see— Stop, breathe, center into calm, and bring up the most recent news on Mr. Trudeau. Nope. It still feels terrible. I see a photo of Mr. Trudeau strutting his stuff on the TV talk show, Live with Kelly and Ryan. He is taking a selfie, with Kelly Ripa and Ryan Seacrest, surprise, surprise. I can’t help but groan aloud.

My husband asks me if I’m dying.

I say, “If I’m lucky.”

Trudeau is questioned by the talk show hosts on how he planned, to keep Canada safe from terrorists, after yet, another attack in Great Britain,  “Keeping citizens safe is the biggest responsibility of any leader.” He said, and went on, “There’s all sorts of different things we need to do, whether it’s investing in safety, security, police officers and investigative national security stuff,” (security stuff?) He continues,  “Or whether it’s in creating a society, in which we’re there for each other, we lean on each other (and) we’re resilient enough to handle bad things happening without falling into a bad space.”

Bad space? Let me tell you, I’m falling into bad space just listening to this interview.

Ryan Seacrest, and Kelly Ripa, question Trudeau on how he would feel about one of his children becoming Prime Minister one day.

Trudeau replies, ” I will say, I have one daughter, and there is something very special about imagining a woman prime minister,” said Trudeau. “I think it is long overdue, I just don’t think we have to wait that long. I think it should be sooner than that.”

I’m of average IQ, even I knew— Once upon a time, we had a female Prime Minister— her name was Kim Campbell.

I cannot relate to our Prime Minister. Every time I see his face, I see a cream puff— fluffy on the inside with a lack of real substance. I see someone who has never struggled with the basics, of life— food, shelter, and clothing. I see a well-practiced façade. He wears a perfectly performed smile, accompanied by an insincere tone of voice. He is someone who has never had to figure out how to pay the next hydro bill, or mortgage, or rent. I bet he’s never had to shop for groceries using sale flyers. He’s probably never had a fifteen-dollar haircut, or bought stale dated food. I would wager my life he’s never had to wait until payday to fill a prescription.

Give me a leader with guts, and with hardship under his belt. I want to know my leader struggled, and came out on top, with a fearless desire to lead people into better times because he has been through tough times. I want my leader to unite our country. I hear murmurings of Western separation here and there. People are frustrated. They have lost faith in these poxy politicians who throw the tax-payer’s money all around the world, as though we have no poor, sick, or hungry to take care of at home.

Dear Mr. Trudeau, we don’t need your fake perfect smile, or hundreds of selfies, or embarrassing performances on talk time TV. Stop preening,— perfect people are an illusion. Show us you have a bit of muscle to get things done in your own country, Mr. Prime Minister. Get a little dirty. Pick up a damn shovel, form a few calluses on your manicured hands, and dig us out of this shithole you’re placing us in. The debt you’re building is beginning to weigh on children who aren’t even born yet. Pull your head out. Perfection is for Photoshop and cheesecake.