Snapshots

Illustrations by Iryna Presley

Puppy Hendrix

I’m convinced my dog, Hendrix, understands everything I say. Hendrix is six years old and I’ve had him since he was a tiny baby (he is still a baby, just much larger). So here’s my logic:

By the time a human is six years old, they understand a lot of, maybe even most of what we say, and we know this because they can communicate with us through words. Hendrix on the other hand, doesn’t communicate with me through words, although it definitely seems like he’s trying to speak sometimes. I talk to Hendrix about everything, and I even make an effort to teach him the meaning of words. When he chases birds at the beach, I say, “those are called birds.” When we go for a walk in the snow, I say, “this is called snow,” and it really seems like he understands. He even seems a bit annoyed at times, as if he’s thinking, Mom, I know these are called birds, you’ve told me a thousand times.

And, I’m sure there’s probably a study out there proving I’m wrong, but if there is, this ignorance of that study is bliss. And I hope that if that study does exist and I’m proven wrong, that Hendrix at the very least understands the immense love I have for him.

Aasha Khoyratty A purrfect birthday

It was Mosey the Calico’s 14th birthday over the holidays. I don’t remember the exact date; it’s near the end of December, and after Christmas, but before New Year’s so she doesn’t get overshadowed by the big holidays.

Mosey didn’t get any wrapped gifts under the Christmas tree or a specialty dish served for her; she is a cat, after all, and is unaware of big celebrations and special occasions. But as one in need of daily routine attention, Mosey was given the gift of my mother and uncle visiting over the holidays. The two provided laps for Mosey to nap on whenever she desired. Mosey was more than happy to spend her winter and birthday holidays taking turns sleeping on either my uncle, as he sat in our big brown leather armchair, or on my mother, with her books and knitting. If neither my mother and uncle were quite the comfort level Mosey wanted, her second favourite chair was in perfect range of the heater with a view of our complex for her people watching. Her favourite birthday gift was the extra can of food she got by tricking them into misunderstanding her meal schedule.

Teryn Midzain

My spikey, charming friend

I’ve had the joy of making several new acquaintances since returning to inperson classes. My newest friend started her first year at UFV this past fall semester. I met her during orientation day, since I was there to report on it for The Cascade. I had interviewed her and then ended up running into her again in a class… and then again at The Cascade office. I actually kept running into her until we decided we are clearly fated to become companions. She is often wearing leather jackets covered in studs and spikes of varying sizes. She claims it helps keep people away, but unfortunately for her, it didn’t work on me. I happily give out hugs and am fully okay with the gentle stab to the face I get from her studded jackets. If anything, I’m now stuck on her spikes and she can’t get rid of me. Our friendship spawned by chance, but it’s one I look forward to maintaining as life goes on.

Emmaline Spencer The tale of the missing sock

They look alike but there is only one like her. The preference lies not in my heart, but in his. Although they both seem similar, from their softness to their scent, he never seems interested in her twin. The twin I find is ever predictable, laying where she’d been left. She brings warmth and reassurance to any cold feet. Her soft touch reaches to my sole at every turn. And most importantly to me, she is whole.

But the other, she is different. One would think she was cut from a different cloth than her twin if they witnessed the effects she has on him. He cares not for her warm, solefull twin. In his eyes there is none other. In his nose, no other scent is as sweet. And in his mouth, she is the only one who tastes right.

Fight for her, I must. I try bargaining first, “leave her to me and I’ll give you a treat.” The blank stare tells me he won't give in so easily. I show him the treat and he is ready to run. Acting quickly I make a quick reach and grab her. He won't let go. The tug of war goes on. He leaves me no choice. I flick his nose. He lets go. I slip my foot into her saliva soaked interior and grimace. I won the tug, but he won the war.

Marie-Ange Routier