Rose's Cantina

Mike Sloan died today at 1:25 p.m. He opted for MAID, medically assisted death, and left this world peacefully with his friend, Bob, holding his hand while his cat snuggled nearby. He was sad for his cat, whom he loved unconditionally. He worried about that damned cat and that is why Mike opted to die at home instead of in hospice. He said the other day that hospice wasn't an option because they didn't allow cats or beer. I told him, I knew for a fact, they allowed beer. I brought my friend a 40 pounder of vodka when she was delivered to hospice, all eighty pounds of her. He liked that story. Mike Sloan was the bravest man I never knew. I didn't know him at all. Never shared a beer with him, never met him for coffee. That's because, like thousands of Canadians, I only knew Mike from Twitter. And I'd only seen him in person when he was on television after he became a reality sensation. After he discovered that he was dying of Anaplastic thyroid cancer...

John Simpson is one of the kindest, most caring, people I know. But he's just about at the end of his rope. It's been nearly three years come April since his daughter Ashley disappeared after having a fight with her boyfriend. His families still has no answers, or closure. There haven't been answers, either, for the families of the other women who have gone missing and are now presumed to be murdered in the area of Enderby/Salmon Arm.  It's cold comfort for the families that the justice system released Curtis Sagomeon, under a probation order, in December even though he was found guilty of three charges of uttering threats, intentionally discharging a firearm and terrorizing a woman near his farm, which is a short distance away from where Ashley and the other women disappeared. And it chills John to the bone that a body was found near Sagomeon's farm last year.  The RCMP have reassured the public that there is nothing new to see here, that these ...

"You finally got rid of all the kids," my landlord said. "Why on Earth do you want three dogs?" ...At my age.   He almost said it, stopped short of insulting me in my own backyard. I shrugged. "I'm here by myself," I explained. "I like the company." What I wanted to say was that I prefer the company of dogs to landlords who come around every bleeding day in the summer, and hammer while my husband is sleeping off his shift work.  Like the dogs, there's no point talking to Doug. Scott asked him not to come over on my birthday, and he showed up with his girlfriend and chatted up my entire family over the fence. Doug is like the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz -- tall, made of straw, and with few brains.  He doesn't have any kids or dogs. He is, it seems, allergic to anything with a heart.  The next time Doug encountered my dogs, he found himself pinned to a wall with Viggo, the Chocolate Lab, licking his ears, ...

It's always heartbreaking to celebrate Christmas without a loved one. But most of us cannot imagine what it is like to live without a child who was taken by violence, and whose body has never been found. In April 2020, it will be four years since my cousin Ashley Simpson disappeared without a trace, and for her family, it never gets easier.  There is no closure. No resting place where they can visit her. No idea how she met with her demise. And so the wound reopens every time the family gathers, on birthdays, on holidays. And this year, the sadness drove her dad, John Simpson, nearly to the brink. And it led him to a very sad decision.  Please read his post on Christmas Day, and say a prayer for this family.  Hmfffl. Well Merry Xmas and all that jazz that goes with it. Hope ur season is better than ours and it should be for most...hoping next year will be better, and it should be. So the reason for this post. It's been three years since we heard the new...

On the National Day of Remembrance,  I remember Ashley Simpson, my cousin who was murdered in Salmon Arm three years ago. Her murderer is still on the loose. Let’s help find him. 

As I watched my 50 pound puppy lean over the bed at 4 a.m. and barf yet another dishcloth, I began to question my sanity. Had I finally lost what was left of the marbles rattling around in my brain? Had my Trump Derangement Syndrome hit fevered pitch, and turned me into the crazy lady who pays for dog food with pennies? At 63, what was I thinking inviting a chocolate lab puppy to join the roster. Did I really need a third dog? Me, with a wonky hip and knee combo, a husband who can barely walk thanks to old football injuries, and an errant one and a half year old Pearl, the Mini Aussie from Hell who acts like a sergeant major scaring small children as they dismount the school bus. It was Scott's fault. After we lost Finnigan, he claimed he couldn't do another big dog, so we got Pearl. Then he started literally bawling because he missed the big nose giving him a wet willy while he sipped his Scotch at night. Truth be told, I missed the big goof, too, and I eagerly a...

Against our better judgement, three months ago, we decided to get a third dog. Viggo is a chocolate lab. We purchased him over the Internet, and we picked him up at a chicken auction in Winchester. A farmer had advertised two chocolate puppies, Viggo and his fat brother. Scott picked Viggo; I wanted the fat brother. But Viggo was a present for Scott, so he got his way. The kids thought us insane. Once again. For the most part, they dislike the dogs. Sophie the pug is the exception, but then pugs are more like cats, and the kids like cats better than dogs. Except for Stef, who has the moribund Belle, who is a Bassett Hound, and 80 pound paper weight. We got Viggo to stop Scott from crying. He was still pining for Finnigan, our Black Lab, who died two years ago at the tender age of six after suffering from a series of strokes. Scott adored Finnigan, and I tolerated him. He was genuinely insane. He used to sit in the living room and bark at me, for no apparent reason, for hou...