For all you fathers out there, surfing the internet on your very special day.

Happy Father’s day.

And Dad?

Thanks.

I love you.

My husband told me all about you. How you showed up in his life, unannounced and with little fan fare, shortly after our son died. You knew nothing about my husband, about us, yet you clicked with him in a forever way. The two of you became inseparable and I only found it mildly annoying at first.

You were my husband’s first man-crush.

I’d tease him that he was trading me in for a manlier model and Boo would get indignant and huffy and say, “That’s not funny, Tanis.”

(It kinda was. I enjoy ruffling your feathers dear husband. You ought to know that by now.)

You showed up on my doorstep on a hot sunny afternoon, with a smile and a six pack of beer. You weren’t what I was expecting to meet. I knew you were tall and blonde and funny but I didn’t expect to find kindness in your eyes or such intellect hidden underneath that that baseball cap you always insist on wearing.

You became my friend too, over that hot summer, and you wound yourself deep into the heart of our family at a time when we were still hurting, still fragile. You made life seem a little brighter with every lame joke you told, every smile you bestowed upon my children.

You became, and still are, the other man in my life. My husband’s best friend and one of my own.

This Friday, you will be across the country receiving an award I know you would rather not accept.

I know you don’t think you did anything heroic. I know you flagellate yourself every time you think of that fateful day. I’ve seen the pain in your eyes and the sorrow on your face as you wonder if you could have done anything different, anything to change the outcome of that long ago afternoon.

My husband was witness to it all and his voice shakes with pain and admiration when he retells the story of your actions. How you unflinchingly pushed past security and lowered yourself into a boiler where two men were trapped with no way of escaping the heat of over 140 degrees Fahrenheit.

They were boiling to death in their own skins and no one was around to help them.

Except you.

You risked your life to try and save theirs. You broke every rule and safety guideline that was established to heed the desperate calls of two men who were dying a horrible heated death. You lowered yourself into that boiler, that cauldron of heat, and helped get those men to safety.

You held that man’s lifeless body in your own as you pulled him out of the heat and whispered to him over and over again that it would be okay. You stayed by his side until the paramedics arrived to take the two men to the hospital in a desperate bid to save them.

You wept with frustration and anguish knowing you couldn’t have done more, that for every second you took to reach them was one more second of torture for those men.

You were wrecked with grief when you learned one of the men did not make it, and the other man is permanently damaged from the heat.

You have held yourself accountable personally, for a work accident that had nothing to do with you, for a tragic outcome that would have been worse if it was not for your quick unflinching actions that afternoon.

You reject the title ‘hero’ because you can’t escape the image of that man’s face as you held him in his arms, you can’t forget the feeling of his heated skin in your arms. You can’t forget the image of his wife and loved ones as they surrounded his casket.

But heroes don’t wear spandex or drive Batmobiles.

Heroes are everyday people who put others before themselves. Heroes are people who try and help with little thought or regards to their personal benefit or even safety.

Heroes come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. I’ve been blessed to meet several in my life and I’m here to tell you they don’t look like they do in the movies. Just look at the little kid in the cancer ward, inspiring adults and children to live better, to do better with every second of their sick life. Look at the mother who puts her child before herself, or the father who would move mountains to protect his family.

Heroes aren’t always doctors or police or fire fighters.

Heroes are everyday people, like you my friend, who take the time to reach out to help someone with out thinking about how they themselves will benefit.

Your bravery (and stupidity…yes what you did was stupid, but I’ll forgive it,) amazed me that fateful day.

Your courage to stand up for further safety checks and change the system to ensure no person would ever have to suffer such a fate again on a job site, inspires and reminds me that no matter how up hill the battle seems, it can always be won.

You don’t see the ripple waves your actions have produced; you can’t see past the horror of that moment. But your coworkers see, my children see, your own son sees. They see the example you have set with your actions and they know. They know a hero when they see one.

The Governor General of Canada is going to ensure that the entire country knows what you did was heart breakingly difficult when she pins the Medal of Bravery on your chest this Friday.

Boo and I can’t be there in person, but we will both be by your side in spirit, waiting for your arrival back home, where we will lift our beer bottles and toast the fact we were lucky enough to find you and smart enough to keep you around.

You are a hero Mack. You are our hero.

And every time I think of you, my friend, I’m going to hear the theme song to Hercules play in my head.

Maybe, with a few beer and some luck, I’ll be able to convince you to wear Herc’s toga for me.

Congratulations Mack. Boo and I are so damn proud of you.

*To any Albertan ladies reading this, why yes, Mack is single. And I can personally vouch for him. Wink, wink.*

*And why yes, Mack, I did have to post that yummy picture of you up above. I consider it my duty as a woman to share the eye candy.*

Friday night, I fell into bed exhausted.

It’s hard work cheering a hockey team to a Stanley Cup victory, especially when that team isn’t your beloved home town heroes, the Edmonton Oilers.

But cheer I did, and as my son and friend watched the agonizing defeat of their beloved Redwings, I whooped and hollered and thanked the Hockey Gods I had the foresight to challenge the Queen of Spain to a hockey bet.

You can all thank me when she posts pictures of herself online wearing a viking bustier in the near future. I’m sure she’ll have some colourful words to say herself.

So two beers, a slew of hockey tweets and a couple of Neener Neeners to my Redwing loving fans, and I fell face first into my pillow and waited for sleep to take me away.

This is the redneck bed. Tis where magic happens.

What I didn’t know when I tucked myself in that night was that the Fates had a night planned for me worse than I could imagine. Worse than when my cat opened her cooter and a bunch of tribbles clawed their way out in all their slimy glory right on top of my bedspread.

Because my husband is never home and I have this weird obsession with sleeping with a warm body next to me, my lovely dogs were soundly curled up beside me. I like sleeping with my wee little dogs because they remind me of my husband, what with Nixon’s snoring and Diera the Dope’s constant hogging of my pillow.

(Sidenote: My husband is less enchanted with having animals in our bed. He would much rather I act like an animal while in it with him rather than having the entire animal kingdom fight with him over prime bed real estate. He’s a bit of a stodgy grump that way.)

Around three in the morning, I was bounced awake by one of my dogs readjusting their sleeping position. “Settle down,” I murmured while reaching out to stroke which ever dog was closest to me. I was entirely too sleepy at this point to bother opening my eyes.

A few minutes later, the lovely and pregnant Diera got up once again and readjusted herself so that she was draped on my chest, her hot breath warming my neck.

“Shove off Diera,” I muttered and pushed her away.

She waited thirty seconds and then promptly crawled right back into the spot I pushed her from.

I tried going back to sleep because it was now past 3 in the f*cking morning but she kept putting her face on my neck and panting loudly and nudging me as if to say, “Do something bitch, make me feel better.”

Because I am an attentive animal owner at three in the morning, I chose to ignore her and her gentle nudges and soon enough the soft snoring of Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog, Ever, lulled me back to sleep.

I really wasn’t overly concerned about Diera’s desires at this time of night, mainly because I’m self-absorbed while sleeping, but also because according to my calculations, she wasn’t anywhere near due to give birth. She wasn’t that large and I figured she still had four more weeks to bake those babies inside her.

You see where I’m going with this, right?

About 30 minutes later, I noticed in a sleep-derprived haze, Diera was panting really hard. Whatever. Go pee on the floor I thought to myself and leave me alone. (Yes, I really am that lazy at night.)

Suddenly there was something WET crawling up my neck mewing in my ear.

I just about jumped out of bed from fright thinking I was about to be eaten by a killer Slug when I realized it was a puppy. A black puppy. Covered in fresh doggy birthing  juice as her mother lay half on me, half on Nixon (who at this point was still fast asleep and oblivious to the whole process) trying to give birth to her next pup.

A f*cking puppy. Fresh from the cooter and dripping with puppy schmegma trying to suckle my ear.

The morning after shot of my bedspread. I have now burned that bitch. Way too many things have been born on it.

I didn’t even know what to do, so I just lay there, still as a board when all of a sudden the second puppy was born. On top of Nixon. Who was a dumbass male and sound asleep. I mean, who doesn’t notice a dog giving birth on top of you?

Oh right. Me. And Nixon. We are a pair, the two of us.

Then the first puppy who was obviously very disoriented and kept confusing my earlobe for a nipple started making puppy noises.  Nixon woke up and FREAKED RIGHT OUT.

If he could talk I’m sure he’d say, “Holy fack lady! Why am I covered in puppy Schmegma and what the hell is she doing giving birth on my bed?”

I know he’d say this cuz Nixon is my bitch and him and I think alike and that’s what the hell I was thinking.

Nixon looked at me in horror and started shaking.

“I know buddy, this is freaking trippy,” I whispered to him as Diera continued to labour.

So then for the next hour, Nixon and I watched in horror as two slimy jet black puppies mewed and crawled around trying to suckle off my ear and Nixon’s dick as mommy Diera continued to be in puppy labor.

Lick, lick, lick. She did a lot of licking.

After seeing what a cat placenta looked like I was really grateful it was pitch black outside and I didn’t have to see just exactly what it was she was licking.

After a while Diera stopped panting, stood up and readjusted herself. Making sure her twat was two inches from my nose.

I looked over at Nixon and joked to him that at least he didn’t have this angle to stare at as he sat there in wide eyed disbelief at the evening’s events.

Of course at this point I was against the very far edge of the mattress and scared to move because my comforter was soaked in puppy va-jay-jay juices and I didn’t want to roll into that disgusting mess.

I felt trapped. But somewhat relieved that she seemed to be done. When all of a sudden she started panting hard again.

“Oh no you don’t,” I gasped and gently tried to push her hind end away from my face. Ever try to move a dog in the middle of dog birth? She growled loudly and snapped at my fingers so like the big baby I am, I cowered under my blanket and said, “Okay sweetie, have it your way.”

I could feel her body contract so I told myself to buck up and opened one eye while the other one remained tightly shut just as she literally squeezed out the third and Final puppy. It plopped out like an oversize poop from her twat and almost touched my nose.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groaned as I quickly squeezed my eyes shut and tried to ignore the fresh baby batter slime oozing in my general direction.

A normal person, upon realizing her dog is popping out puppies like a ten year old pops balloons, would have at least relocated to a puppy free bed.

I’ve never claimed to be normal. Or coherent at what was now almost five in the morning. So Nixon and I kinda vomited a little in our mouths, looked each other in the eye and vowed never to speak of this moment to one another again. Then we sorta rolled over (carefully to avoid smushing alien slime puppies and what was now a very large wet spot) and went to sleep, both of us shaking like leaves as Diera lick, lick, licked herself clean.

Mah alien babies whom I’ve named Shawn, Shannon and Kate. Cuz I’m bad like that.

When I woke up a few hours later, on the very far edge of the bed where I had carefully positioned myself hours earlier, I discovered Diera had moved her pack of black bandits to snuggle up against my pillow and Nixon was perched on the foot of the bed shivering. Poor dude was traumatized that his sister gave birth on top of him and still very pissed off that she was on his side of the bed.

Of course, I also woke up covered in puppy pussy juice and in need of a shower. I had never been dead sexier I tell ya.

Nixon giving Shannon a once over. He’s got a thing for little bitches. Even if they do steal his pillow.

One has not lived until one comes nose to nose twat as a dog squeezes out fresh life let me tell ya. I’m trying to think of the bright side and how my animals must feel really safe around me to constantly use the place where I CREATE life to give birth, but I’m having a hard time seeing past the image of a slimy little alien almost crawling up my nose as it shot itself out the birthing canal.

All I really know is that as of late my bed has seen entirely too much action. What was once a safe haven for me to get my freak on has now turned into the spot where I could start producing animal kingdom documentaries.

And I’m never ever going to be able to complain about having to sleep in my husband’s wet spot.

Thanks alot Diera. You ruined a good thing on so many levels.

You are very welcome. Who’s the Bitch now?

I mean, I’m a slow learner, but not that slow.***