The Bloody Doors Off

It’s a crisp fall night at the end of January (thanks climate change). After midnight, the only sounds come from a passing streetcar to the Distillery Loop. Our street has just enough light to be atmospheric.

I’m walking Missus Maisie. She’s having a blast. We started out back in our condo because I’m doubling up my activity with taking out the organics to the bin. Maisie waits until she’s past the final recycling bin to squat and relieve herself. I’m a proud poppa. (The building manager sent out a building-wide email with a complaint that dog owners were allowing their pets to pish by the bins and residents have complained because allegedly they stepped in the liquid and carried the smell back to their unit. The email came the morning after I’d taken her down and she did exactly that, so it’s pretty clear he looked at the security footage and sent a subliminal ‘fuck you’ to me through the internet.*

*I don’t know why, but I get the feeling he doesn’t like me. On January 1st, we had a small flood in the bathroom (late in the evening) and had to call the emergency number. They routed the call to him and he asked me to ping him on WhatsApp to send photos. So when the Fucking Debacle That Was the First Attempt to Deliver the Washer/Dryer went down**, I hit him up on WhatsApp to tell him we needed the cleaner to stay past 3pm so I’d still have access to the elevator I booked. And boy did he lay down the law on that one after.

**Because of the snowstorm the night before, the delivery guys were running late. I had a noon to 3pm window, and they weren’t going to be at the condo until closer to 4. The cleaner — who doesn’t speak English but I lucked out and a resident was there on the other end of the call and she translated. After securing his overtime, I got another call from the delivery guys confirming their approaching arrival and asked nonchalantly if the w/d had been disconnected. As they were going to install the unit after delivery, I thought they would disconnect the existing. I was wrong. They turned the truck around and I had to rebook. (Ultimately, I had to rebook 4 times.)

So we’re walking.

Along the little strip of road from the back of our building, that empties onto Trinity Street. But what was once a car park to the north is now a beast of an ‘urban planned’ condo construction and we are separated by a flimsy metal fence with a blue tarp draped over it. (Were they embarrassed at how chintzy the ground floor looked?) Maisie loves, loves sniffing around that area. She pulls the leash hard so that I have no choice but to follow, and it’s killing my feet because my plantar fasciitis hasn’t eased that much.

But as I said, she was loving this. Down the cobblestones between our companion condo and a boarded up remnant of when the Distillery District was a distillery, Maisie zeroes in on one of the concrete planters that are bereft of life. This doggo spends a good two minutes sniffing one wall and a spot on the ground. Clearly another dog left an opus to be deciphered and responded to.***

***I’m reminded of a sketch the late Frank McNulty performed with 500 Miles Off Broadway back in the ’90s. He enters the stage on all fours, clearly playing a dog who comes upon a pish that was just left by another canine. As he sniffs, a voiceover booms something akin to “Please leave a message” and then Frank lifts a leg and another voiceover with a staggeringly funny blow line that brings to the lights and the audience down. {If there’s anyone who remembers this, it’s gonna be MJ Jacques. She was there during the golden age of sketch and improv in Toronto.

As we turn back onto Mill Street and head back to the condo, a thought. Remember how I said earlier that it was a crisp fall night for the middle of winter? I was wearing an unzipped hoodie and loved that slight chill that perks you up and makes you want to do something. (What, only me?)

I think how wonderful it would be to sit on the bench in front of the building and wrap myself in this feeling of bliss. I’ve made my decision.

But then.

I have no phone so I can doomscroll Twitter (NEVER calling it by it’s new name). It would be an eye strain if I were to get a book. Plus, if I came upstairs for a book, I probably would talk myself into not going back.

Which means. I’d be alone with my thoughts.

And someone says (probably Harold, that fucker’s been MIA for a good long time, of course now he’d drop his bags and announce an extended stay), “that’s really not a good idea.”

I know it to be true.

And that kinda scares me.

And that’s where this post ends. Because I scurried up the stairs and through the vestibule. Had to distract with TV and throwing this out to the internet to be judged and trolled, probably.

But that’s nowhere near as bad as being along with my thoughts right now.