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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Citizen, 2008-07-03, Page 5THE CITIZEN, THURSDAY, JUNE 26, 2008. PAGE 5. Bonnie Gropp TThhee sshhoorrtt ooff iitt Don’t be cruel Do you have an Inner Animal? Of course you do – we all do. Sometimes it’s just a little tricky to figure out which animal it is. Pierre Trudeau was a slam dunk – a Siamese cat. Or perhaps a wolf. Paul Martin was more of a beagle. Don Cherry? Junkyard dog. Some professions have honourary Inner Animals. Judges get owls; policemen get bulldogs; politicians get weasels. Lawyers? That’s too easy. I, too, have my Inner Animal. His name is Shane. He is a buckskin palomino with a black mane and glinty eyes, not real high, but stocky. I first met him when I was just a pup and Shane was not much more than a big colt himself. I remember our first encounter well. I grabbed a big tuft of sweet green grass and walked up to Shane, proferring my gift. He swung his great head down, chuffed noisily, then whisked my grass bouquet out of my hand. I stood there while he ate it down. Then he swung his velvety muzzle over my head and began to snuffle in my hair. “He likes me,” I shouted excitedly to my friends. Then Shane lifted me off the ground. By my hair. It hurt quite a bit, but it was at least a frank introduction to Shane and his wily, unpredictable ways. He was a horse you could never take for granted. And he was always testing, testing. I remember the time a farrier was cleaning out Shane’s front hooves. He had the horse’s left front foreleg securely between his thighs, and he was facing astern. This is the classic farrier position for cleaning front hooves. The horse is effectively immobilized by having one foot off the ground. In such a position there’s nothing the horse can do to retaliate or resist. Usually. Shane waited until the farrier was thoroughly engrossed in his chore, then leaned over and gracefully bit the farrier’s ear. Horses don’t bite people on the ear. Shane did. The expression ‘pushing the envelope’ was invented for Shane. He could always surprise you, no matter how familiar you thought you were with him. I looked after Shane as I was growing up, feeding him, bedding him, grooming him. I figured we were pretty good pals. Then one day when I was shovelling out his stall I got a little impatient because he wasn’t moving over fast enough to suit me. I gave him a little bunt in the haunch with the handle of my manure fork. I can still summon up the vision of that rear hoof whizzing by at eye level just millimetres from my head. It was one of the few times Shane missed. We could never figure out where Shane got his attitude. He wasn’t a stallion, but he acted like one. Put him in with a herd of strange horses and in no time he was in charge, rounding up the mares, bossing the foals around and settling the hash of any other geldings or even stallions that dared to question his kingship. Then there was my personal Shane moment of truth. It was a sunny winter afternoon. I had finished mucking out the stalls. Shane was outside in the corral. What a perfect day, I thought, to ride him – bareback. He bucked me off 12 times and I only lasted that long because there was a foot of snow on the ground and the landings were relatively soft. Weird enough that I kept coming back for more – Shane did too. He would actually come and stand in place so that I could mount him more easily – and he could buck me off again. The 13th time I climbed aboard he was as gentle as a hamster and sashayed me around the corral as if I was driving a Cadillac. I don’t know if he was tired or bored or just being careful not to discourage me from future exciting afternoon outings. You could never be sure about much of anything with that horse. Our lives diverged and I lost track of Shane. I heard he got sold a couple of times, finally ending up on a dude ranch riding stable north of Toronto. The very last thing I heard came from a cop I knew who told me about his weirdest emergency call – a buckskin palomino leading a herd of horses down Highway 27. “Damndest thing,” the cop said. “Most horses jump over fences to get away, but this palomino, he just went around leaning his big bum against the rails until he found a weak spot. Then he not only escapes, he takes the whole herd with him. It was like a prison break.” Had to be Shane. Arthur Black Other Views A horse is a horse, of course, of course Premier Dalton McGuinty did not arrange for a plane he was on to get in trouble and plunge frighteningly 20,000 ft toward ground, but it could still do wonders for his image. The Liberal premier was returning with five of his staff from selling high technology in California when the Air Canada jet they and 130 others were on suddenly lost cabin pressure because a seal burst and had to dive quickly and steeply to 10,000 ft., so they could breathe again. Some passengers ignored warnings and stood and fell, others vomited as the plane twisted and turned, and some in McGuinty’s group said they feared for their lives. But the premier sat calmly, even while the aircraft flew over the Nevada desert for three more hours, burning off excess fuel that made it dangerous to land, before touching down at Las Vegas. McGuinty’s staff said they were stressed and looked it, but the premier posed with the flight crew for pictures and assured TV watchers it was an adventure and “all’s well that ends well.” This could help McGuinty, because voters like their premiers, who have always been men, showing a dash of fortitude and backbone when the need arises. William Davis, when Progressive Conservative premier, was on a plane hit by lightning over northern Ontario during an election in the 1970s. Those on board, including this reporter, felt severe turbulence and saw the lightning, but did not know it had been hit until after the plane landed, and Davis said he did not feel in danger. But this picture of a politician who risked his life to take his message to the public probably helped him with some voters. Premiers liked to show they were tough, often through sports. Davis and his Conservative predecessor, John Robarts, played football for their universities, and their staffs were not above reminding news media. Davis often reminded further by betting with reporters on football matches. Robarts provided the most notable serious example of fortitude, when he became ill at home in London and was so weak he could not fasten his tie. A doctor ordered an ambulance to take him to hospital. Robarts refused to get in it and went by car with the ambulance following. He was diagnosed as suffering from severe hiatus hernia and spent three weeks in hospital. Mike Harris was known as a hard driver in golf, not as bruising a game as football, but he had been a professional. Pictures of him playing, muscular in a sports shirt and with a cigar clenched between his lips, showed him very much a man’s man. Harris’s reputation for being tough, however, was based more on his standing up to hostile demonstrations against his cuts in public services, in one of which even his wife was jostled. Harris seemed to relish them and claimed they never forced him to change a policy. Many admired him for it. McGuinty often is called a policy wonk, interested most in social issues and not known for any sports in which he could display his grit. He derided Harris’s passion for golf by saying “the only deadline he ever keeps is his tee-off time,” although, as premier, he plays golf to raise money to fight elections. McGuinty has said he writes poetry to his wife, Terri, to while away long nights when he is on road, politicking. The Liberals in recent elections got more votes from women than the Conservatives, but this probably was because of their focus on social policies, while the Conservatives have been tighter with money and seen as harsher. McGuinty, slim to the point of looking fragile, has an image as tender and gentle. Women would probably like to mother him. He has not been seen as a man of action. Voters will not flock to McGuinty because he kept his head on a plane. But some may feel he is the kind of steady, unflappable leader – to parody the U.S. presidential election – they would want to answer the phone at three o’clock in the morning. Eric Dowd FFrroomm QQuueeeenn’’ss PPaarrkk Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted a better picture. A group of youngsters, barefoot and carefree enjoying a summer idyll. While some clustered by the rusted legs of an old swingset, stealing mysteries unearthed from the emerald lawn and the dark soil beneath, others circled around on proudly care-worn bikes. They were my friends. And this was a day like many others. In my early, early youth the neighbourhood in which I lived was blessed with a plethora of potential playmates. Boys, girls, we spent our carefree summers in various forms of entertainment, from pick-up baseball to late evening games of chase or hide and seek. Sometimes there were many, sometimes only a few. But everyone always knew they were welcome to join in. Well, with the exception of one girl. Though she often took part, she was also often the target of cruel pettiness. In the impossible to understand way of children, she had been labeled annoying – and that was reason enough. On this particular Rockwellian day she had bravely ventured over to involve herself in our fun. While others teased I decided a stronger message needed to be sent that we found her irritating, and rode my bicycle into her. She was thankfully not hurt, and I, I’m happy to say, was sorely ashamed. It is a dismal feeling I remember strongly to this day and try never to repeat. I hope, and if I’m wrong I apologize with more heartfelt certainty than you could ever imagine, that I have never since intentionally tried to hurt someone by word or deed. Others, apparently, don’t find it such a problem. Any businessperson dealing with the public will tell you that that public can be downright churlish. That people can be petty, unkind, childish and unfair, was a recent topic of discussion between a friend and me, prompting the thoughts here. We get some pretty interesting accusations at this office, including one some years ago. What had vexed the person so greatly was her misspelled name and the not exactly obvious assumption from this that I choose someone each week to humiliate. Thinking she was kidding, I chuckled. She then deemed me to be a mean-spirited person and told me so in a rather mean-spirited manner with plenty of just plain mean descriptives. I have always hoped she felt better at the end, because I most certainly did not. There are ways to state how you feel without sacrificing someone else in the process. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always work the way it should. When angry, frustrated or beleaguered it can be difficult to always divest one’s self of these feelings appropriately. Sometimes we lash out because of a feeling of impotence. Unfairly, we occasionally shoot the messenger rather than target the direct source of the problem because they are not as close at hand. And, of course, everybody has bad days. But it’s the schoolyard bullies, victims of little man syndrome now all grown up who offend. For them it’s not a rare occurrence. You can tell, they’re far too good at it. It’s not about considering whether insults are necessary, either, but that they are in their misguided mind at least, absolutely justified in saying them. And usually do so with the smart-aleck’s smug sneer on their face. It’s sad there are those who seek the humiliation of another on the path to their satisfaction. That is what I did that day so long ago when I distorted that picture-perfect summer day. But I was a child. That adults can be so mean is nothing short of pathetic. McGuinty helped by air fright Letters Policy The Citizen welcomes letters to the editor. Letters must be signed and should include a daytime telephone number for the purpose of verification only. Letters that are not signed will not be printed. Submissions may be edited for length, clarity and content, using fair comment as our guideline. The Citizen reserves the right to refuse any letter on the basis of unfair bias, prejudice or inaccurate information. As well, letters can only be printed as space allows. Please keep your letters brief and concise.