Category: writing

The search for Peter Mansbridge continued until about ten o’clock last night, when somebody noticed that Peter was reading the news on The National. Baffled by this, we abandoned the search.

This morning, we walked over to the prime minister’s place to get some answers. We arrived to find Jean and Aline stringing up their arctic hares for Bonhomme. It was a touching moment, and we hated to intrude on their Christmas preparations, but this was important.

As any Canadian knows, it’s tough to get a straight answer from Jean. Doing so usually involves sitting around the fire listening to Jean babble incoherently while he waves his Inuit sculpture threateningly. Jean likes reliving the glory days when he could personally attack citizens at will.

Eventually we got some answers, but only after agreeing to let him throttle Premier Campbell. It seemed like a good deal to us, but things got messy when Gordon pulled out his pepper spray, making Jean cry, “Dat’s no fair! For me, pepper, I put it on my plate!”

As it turns out, the Peter Mansbridge we had seen on the National was a clone. Moreover, we haven’t had a real Peter Mansbridge since the 80s. Well, the clones are doing a fine job — possibly better than the original, although, according to Jean, they have a repulsive habit of polishing their forehead with oolican oil.

Amazing. I’d just assumed that Peter liked Old Spice.

With that settled, we trudged home to continue our Christmas preparations.

Tragedy struck in the night. Several beavers broke through the Mounties’ defenses and dragged off Peter Mansbridge. There was a short delay before launching a search and rescue attempt — apparently some people felt that Ralph Benmergui deserved more airtime anyway, while others didn’t think we should direct more public resources towards the CBC.

In light of the morning’s events, we chose to forgo tonight’s planned festivities. The dwarves are disappointed, but I think they understand our reasons.

Success! After a long vigil behind the emu blind, our quarry took the bait. The spotted snow emu emerged from its burrow only long enough to drag the keg underground. An hour later, armed with shovels, we extracted the giant avian from its hole and lashed it to the largest of our dogsleds. The feast would be very flavourful this year — the emu had consumed the entire keg.

The trip home was full of song and laughter. Our arrival at the village was marked with fanfare and cries of G’day, eh! After unhitching the dogs and lemurs, Doug slipped off to see his family, while the other Doug and I beat the emu senseless with the Barenaked Ladies box set.

Tonight, Sunday night, will be a quiet one. That is, as long as the Mounties can defend the village perimeter from the roving packs of beavers, which, at this time of year, leave their dams to raid villages for food.

By nightfall, the Dougs and I set up camp near the habitat of the spotted snow emu. We quickly built a roaring campfire on which I prepared a quick meal of back bacon, smoked salmon, and poutine. After the meal, Doug (the older one) pulled out his accordion and played a beautiful rendition of Be My Yoko Ono with the other Doug accompanying him on the spoons. We fell asleep with the silence broken only by a distant whistling marmot. I think it was whistling Stormy Weather, but I couldn’t be certain. That wouldn’t bode well for the hunt.

We awoke to strong winds that made the lemurs nervous. Camp coffee and a brief meal of bison jerky started the day before we set out on snowshoe.

The best way to hunt the spotted snow emu is to surprise it with a free keg of surprisingly strong Canadian beer. We placed the bait and settled behind the blind to wait for darkness to fall.

I imagine that the villagers of Steveston have almost completed their igloo. Even as I write this, the children are probably preparing the offerings of arctic hare. Making an offering of a hare, it is thought, will appease the wrath of Bonhomme: the fearsome snow creature that wears a sash and toque stained red with the blood of naughty children. At the coming of Bonhomme, all children must chant the refrain, “Salut Bonhomme, Salut le Bonhomme cannibale…”, lest they be carried off to Bonhomme’s kingdom and eaten on snow with hot maple syrup.

Dusk approaches. I should stop writing and help Doug and Doug with that flask of CC.

Canada, a land frozen for ten months of the year and infested with blackflies for the other two, is very fond of its Christmas tradition. In the days leading up to Christmas, all Canadian villages are bustling with preparations for the big day. This year, I’d like to share with you the twelve days leading up to our Canadian Christmas.

12 days until Canadian Christmas

Today began at the crack of dawn as my brothers and I prepared the dog sleds for the hunt. Normally, we use six to ten dogs per sled, depending on the size of the animals we hunt. Today, we supplemented the dog team with a handful of lemurs, for our quarry is the spotted snow emu, which can grow to at least 4 metres in height and weigh about 300 kilograms. Its wingspan dwarfs a small airplane. The snow emu is a dangerous predator while in flight, and emus tend to flock together in squadrons of three or four. For safety, we hunt them at night when they’re sleeping in their burrows.

Normally the task of leading the hunt falls to the eldest son, but since my brother, Bob, moved to the village of Winterpeg, which is near the arctic circle, the task has fallen to the second eldest, Doug. My younger brother, also named Doug, has taken part in the hunt ever since he was old enough to complete the rites of ascension.

Meanwhile, at the family home in Steveston, my parents and the other villagers are building the communal feasting igloo, which is much larger than a normal igloo. When complete it will accommodate all 34 of the villagers, the fire pit, and a stage where Anne Murray will sing Snowbirds and selections from Anne Murray’s Classic Christmas. We used to have Mr. Shatner host the evening, but his rendition of I Am Canadian began to wear on us after his fourth encore. We politely suggested that he remain in California this year and enjoy a little sun on behalf of all his fellow Canucks.

Céline, on the other hand, is always welcome to our village at Christmas — her vocal talent can frighten off even the most vicious of polar bears, thus keeping Christmas safe for all.

Having loaded the sleds with supplies, Doug, Doug, and I donned our parkas and snowshoes and set out into the snowy wastes, in search of the burrows of the spotted snow emu.