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.