Category: life

All’s well that ends well, as they say. Our runaway bird situation resolved itself this morning when Bill Shatner made a final attempt to seize the microphone while cleverly disguised as a spotted snow emu.

Our snow emu was immediately intrigued, and in the shade of the giant Christmas Tree, it made… er… romantic advances. Then dropped dead of shock on discovery of the gallant captain under the feathered disguise. Bill was devastated. It was the closest he’d come to “third base” in years.

With that, we dragged the emu directly to the feast igloo, where Carlo Rota plucked and dressed the bird, then stuffed it with open beer cans. Bill looked on enviously, muttering, “I… am… Canadian… too. I… am… Canadian. Spock! Do… something.”

This afternoon the villagefolk and their children will converge on the feast igloo to festoon it with streamers and balloons. Well… strips of rabbit hide and inflated seal bladders, actually. But they impart a festive feeling, nonetheless. Tonight, we’ll pass around the Molson’s and listen to Bob and Doug (the other ones) sing the Twelve Days of Christmas until the wee hours.

And tomorrow… tomorrow Christmas Eve is finally here.

In size, Canada’s population is less than that of certain small islands in the South Pacific. What this means is that everyone knows everyone else — like a small town, but one that straddles the entire continent.

So I talked to Doug about the emu problem, who spoke to the other Doug, who dropped a word to the mayor, who in turn spoke with his twin brother the premier, who pulled some strings to drop a note to the groundskeeper on Parliament Hill, who in turn notified the prime minister of the threat to Christmas Eve. Without delay, Jean called up the entire Canadian Armed Forces to help us in our time of need.

This morning, when their dogsled arrived at the village, all three of them swung into action, combing the streets one-by-one, stopping only for an hour or two at the pub before resuming their anti-emu campaign. No keg was left unturned.

Around the village they stalked the renegade bird, from one side to the other and back again. They worked like a well oiled machine, running this way and that, with shouts of, “It’s over here, eh!” and “Aw geez, ya hosers!”

I could tell they were becoming wearied when they started referring to their leader as “the ossifer” or, worse, “the left-tenant”. When they collapsed, presumably from exhaustion, we gave them beds with a bucket beside each, as they were feeling a little ill.

On another note, the Mounties caught Shatner trying to sneak up to the microphone again. This time he was disguised as a simple wandering minstrel, seeking shelter and a stage from which he could recite I Am Canadian in return for a hot meal.

Shatner was spotted at the village perimeter late last night, trying to woo Céline with the ol’ Kirk charm. He got as far as comparing her to a green slave girl from Orion when she was rescued by a passing Mountie. It was a truly selfless act on the constable’s part — he placed himself in the presence of great danger in order to save our best polar bear deterrent.

Meanwhile, back in the village, Bryan Adams and several unknown famous Canadian musicians rehearsed for the big night. Everyone agreed that Christmas Eve will be the best show since Anne Murray bit the head off a live ptarmigan and threw it into the audience.

During a rehearsal of Summer of ’69, our emu became agitated, and no amount of beer or Doug’s tender attentions could calm it. Eventually it broke loose and ran amok, overturning tables and disrupting 54-40’s rehearsal of that song from the 80s that people still vaguely remember.

As long as we can contain the bird within the village, the Christmas feast isn’t lost. It has yet to take to the air, so we guess that some remaining straps are hampering its wing movement, forcing it to remain earthbound. We could yet save the situation.

It does present a tactical problem, however. We can’t enlist the Mounties’ help, because we need them to guard the village against the polar bears and beavers. It’s time to call in a little extra help.

Last night’s tree-raising party was just ripping along until Bernard Landry announced that he wants to separate Christmas from the rest of Canada. He’ll hold a referendum as soon as he’s guaranteed a “Yes” vote.

This morning Doug, Doug, and I trudged out onto the ice to fish for breakfast. Swatting away the swarms of wolverines, we contemplated a year without Christmas. On the one hand, as Doug pointed out, Shatner wouldn’t harass us any more about hosting the Christmas Eve rituals. I had to agree with that one. On the other hand…

Actually, that first argument seemed pretty conclusive. For a few moments, we felt quite satisfied with letting Landry deal with Shatner, who was from Montréal originally.

But no… how could we tell the children that they could no longer sacrifice hares for Bonhomme? How could we tell them that there would be no emu hunt? No more clubbed baby seals? No more clearcut trees? No. For the sake of the children, we have to keep these traditions going.

Just then, Doug got a bite and reeled in his catch. Today, we eat narwhal.

As I said, I returned home yesterday morning to see how Doug was making out with the emu. He was almost to “first base” when I found them, so I gave them a little privacy.

The evening of the seventh day before Christmas marks the day we trek to the forest to find a Christmas tree. As the Dougs and I were choosing our saws, Premier Campbell dropped in to offer his assistance, which we gratefully accepted. Gordon, you see, is an expert in forestry practices and often astounds the villagefolk with his wisdom. Just last week he revealed that there is more old-growth forest now than there was 100 years ago. Amazing! At this rate we can clear-cut entire mountain ranges for decades and always come out ahead. Gordon is a very clever Canuck, and we’re so proud to have him in our village.

With that, we set out to find the perfect tree. Gordon’s mastery of the saw thrilled us and soon we had a great pile of felled trees to choose from. We left behind the largest of them, and instead chose one less than a metre across in the trunk. Against the cut end of the trunk, we pitched a lean-to and bedded down for the night, falling asleep while Gordon gleefully counted the hundreds of rings of our tree’s great bole.

The Dougs, Gordon, and I arrived home this morning with the tree in tow, and settled in at the Campbell igloo for a hot breakfast of spotted owl poutine. Gordon entertained us during the meal with stories of his rise to power when, suddenly, he began to gag and choke, and turned blue in the face. Luckily, his twin brother, Larry, stepped in and performed the Heimlich, which dislodged the offending object. Somehow, Gordon had choked on the wishbone. That’s what happens when you eat too quickly, I suppose.

I’m looking forward to this evening, when we erect the tree in the village centre, which always puts a warm glow in the hearts of the village men. Then we’ll string it with garish baubles and blinking lights and gather round, sing folk songs, and quaff pints of mulled beer until we fall unconscious.