2020 Deaths of Notables
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Diane Ford remembered as family's 'guiding light' at Celebration of Life
Jane Stevenson
Published:
January 12, 2020
Updated:
January 12, 2020 10:29 AM EST
A framed photo of the late Diane Ford at her Etobicoke home on Jan. 8, 2020. (Ernest Doroszuk, Toronto Sun)
Politicians and members of Ford Nation showed up Saturday morning to pay their respects to Diane Ford, the “special” matriarch behind the Etobicoke political powerhouse Ford family.
The Celebration of Life was held at the Toronto Congress Centre for Ford, who died last Sunday at 85 after a long battle with cancer, and Ontario Premier Doug Ford shared a hilarious example of his mom’s “heavy foot,” recalling how she got a speeding ticket on Dixon Rd. after moving to Etobicoke 64 years ago with his dad, Doug. Sr.
“A couple of weeks later, sure enough, my Mom’s on Dixon Rd. again, and a police cruiser went flying by her,” Doug Ford explained while eulogizing his mother.
“Well, that was it. My mom was in hot pursuit right after the police. And they pulled over. And she marched out of the car and said, ‘Do you know how fast you were going back there?’ Back then we only had one car so needless to say my dad got pulled over every week for the next three or four weeks after.”
Ontario Premier Doug Ford (centre left) reacts during a rendition of “Amazing Grace” performed by the CCC Greater Toronto Gospel Choir during the funeral service for his mother Diane Ford in Toronto on Saturday, Jan. 11, 2020. (THE CANADIAN PRESS/Chris Young)
Premier Ford was one of five people to deliver eulogies, the others coming from former Ontario Premier Mike Harris and various members of the Ford clan, who entered the Congress Centre behind a lone bagpiper playing Skyeboat Song and the casket of Diane Ford.
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The Premier, who spoke for just over 20 minutes, estimated after all the family’s famous Fordfests, which began in 1995 when Doug Sr. was elected as an Ontario MPP, his mother had hosted at least 250,000 people in their home and backyard.
WARMINGTON: Diane Ford was a 'larger than life' public servant
Premier Doug Ford reflects on mom's impact, plans fitting tribute
“That is absolutely staggering and she made the connection with every single person,” said Ford. “The last party that my mom hosted was a barbecue for all the consul generals from around the world. It was just in June. And she was dancing up a storm, and it was so appropriate that my mom, at her last party hosted the world after all those years.”
Throughout the proceedings, the CCC Greater Toronto Gospel Choir sang Amazing Grace, Soon and Very Soon, Hallelujah, Psalm 23, The Prayer and When The Roll is Called Up Yonder.
There were also two readings by Ford family members and a final prayer by His Eminence Thomas Cardinal Collins.
Ford said his socially-active and politically astute mother “guided us through the good times and through the tough times. And until her last day, our family never made any decision without her. And my mother was always guided by her three principles — family, community and giving back through charity.”
Aside from being the wife of an Ontario MPP and mother of the province’s current premier, one of her other sons, the late Rob Ford (who died from cancer in 2016), served as Toronto’s mayor and her grandson, Michael Ford, is a current city councillor.
Former Ontario Premier Mike Harris attends the funeral service for Ontario Premier Doug Ford’s mother Diane Ford in Toronto on Saturday, Jan. 11, 2020. (THE CANADIAN PRESS/Chris Young)
Also attending was former Ontario premier Ernie Eves, Alberta Premier Jason Kenney, Ontario Lt.-Gov. Elizabeth Dowdeswell, Toronto Mayor John Tory, Toronto Police Chief Mark Saunders and former Mississauga mayor Hazel McCallion.
A slide show of the Ford Family was shown on large screens before the 90-minute service began while an organist softly played. And the bagpiper returned at the end of the memorial to perform Going Home as the Ford family and casket made their exit.
“Mom, I love you — I’ll always love you,” the Premier said as he wrapped up. “Look after Dad and Rob, up there in heaven, and I know the three of you are already planning Rob’s re-election campaign as the Mayor of heaven.”
jstevenson@postmedia.com
http://torontosun.com/news/local-ne...-familys-guiding-light-at-celebration-of-life
Jane Stevenson
Published:
January 12, 2020
Updated:
January 12, 2020 10:29 AM EST
A framed photo of the late Diane Ford at her Etobicoke home on Jan. 8, 2020. (Ernest Doroszuk, Toronto Sun)
Politicians and members of Ford Nation showed up Saturday morning to pay their respects to Diane Ford, the “special” matriarch behind the Etobicoke political powerhouse Ford family.
The Celebration of Life was held at the Toronto Congress Centre for Ford, who died last Sunday at 85 after a long battle with cancer, and Ontario Premier Doug Ford shared a hilarious example of his mom’s “heavy foot,” recalling how she got a speeding ticket on Dixon Rd. after moving to Etobicoke 64 years ago with his dad, Doug. Sr.
“A couple of weeks later, sure enough, my Mom’s on Dixon Rd. again, and a police cruiser went flying by her,” Doug Ford explained while eulogizing his mother.
“Well, that was it. My mom was in hot pursuit right after the police. And they pulled over. And she marched out of the car and said, ‘Do you know how fast you were going back there?’ Back then we only had one car so needless to say my dad got pulled over every week for the next three or four weeks after.”
Ontario Premier Doug Ford (centre left) reacts during a rendition of “Amazing Grace” performed by the CCC Greater Toronto Gospel Choir during the funeral service for his mother Diane Ford in Toronto on Saturday, Jan. 11, 2020. (THE CANADIAN PRESS/Chris Young)
Premier Ford was one of five people to deliver eulogies, the others coming from former Ontario Premier Mike Harris and various members of the Ford clan, who entered the Congress Centre behind a lone bagpiper playing Skyeboat Song and the casket of Diane Ford.
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but your article continues below.
The Premier, who spoke for just over 20 minutes, estimated after all the family’s famous Fordfests, which began in 1995 when Doug Sr. was elected as an Ontario MPP, his mother had hosted at least 250,000 people in their home and backyard.
WARMINGTON: Diane Ford was a 'larger than life' public servant
Premier Doug Ford reflects on mom's impact, plans fitting tribute
“That is absolutely staggering and she made the connection with every single person,” said Ford. “The last party that my mom hosted was a barbecue for all the consul generals from around the world. It was just in June. And she was dancing up a storm, and it was so appropriate that my mom, at her last party hosted the world after all those years.”
Throughout the proceedings, the CCC Greater Toronto Gospel Choir sang Amazing Grace, Soon and Very Soon, Hallelujah, Psalm 23, The Prayer and When The Roll is Called Up Yonder.
There were also two readings by Ford family members and a final prayer by His Eminence Thomas Cardinal Collins.
Ford said his socially-active and politically astute mother “guided us through the good times and through the tough times. And until her last day, our family never made any decision without her. And my mother was always guided by her three principles — family, community and giving back through charity.”
Aside from being the wife of an Ontario MPP and mother of the province’s current premier, one of her other sons, the late Rob Ford (who died from cancer in 2016), served as Toronto’s mayor and her grandson, Michael Ford, is a current city councillor.
Former Ontario Premier Mike Harris attends the funeral service for Ontario Premier Doug Ford’s mother Diane Ford in Toronto on Saturday, Jan. 11, 2020. (THE CANADIAN PRESS/Chris Young)
Also attending was former Ontario premier Ernie Eves, Alberta Premier Jason Kenney, Ontario Lt.-Gov. Elizabeth Dowdeswell, Toronto Mayor John Tory, Toronto Police Chief Mark Saunders and former Mississauga mayor Hazel McCallion.
A slide show of the Ford Family was shown on large screens before the 90-minute service began while an organist softly played. And the bagpiper returned at the end of the memorial to perform Going Home as the Ford family and casket made their exit.
“Mom, I love you — I’ll always love you,” the Premier said as he wrapped up. “Look after Dad and Rob, up there in heaven, and I know the three of you are already planning Rob’s re-election campaign as the Mayor of heaven.”
jstevenson@postmedia.com
Terry Jones: A comedian who made you think as well as laugh
https://www.salon.com/2020/01/22/monty-python-terry-jones-dead/
He made me laugh a lot. RIP
https://www.salon.com/2020/01/22/monty-python-terry-jones-dead/
He made me laugh a lot. RIP
KOBE BRYANT DIES IN HELICOPTER CRASH
https://www.tmz.com/2020/01/26/kobe-bryant-killed-dead-helicopter-crash-in-calabasas/
Sad news. RIP
https://www.tmz.com/2020/01/26/kobe-bryant-killed-dead-helicopter-crash-in-calabasas/
Sad news. RIP
Tragedy as father of British student Meredith Kercher murdered in Amanda Knox case dies after 'hit-and-run' smash yards from his home
John Kercher was found collapsed yards from his front door in London
Daughter Meredith was murdered at 21 on an exchange trip to Italy in 2007
Her American flatmate Amanda Knox and then boyfriend were jailed but cleared
By Lara Keay For Mailonline
7 February 2020
The father of murdered British student Meredith Kercher has died after being involved in a suspected hit-and-run.
John Kercher, 77, was found collapsed on the pavement yards from his home in Croydon, south London, three weeks ago.
He had no memory of what happened but suffered multiple injuries, including a broken arm and leg. He then died in hospital on Saturday, reports The Sun.
His 21-year-old daughter Meredith was murdered on a student exchange trip to Perugia, Italy, in 2007.
Her American flatmate Amanda Knox and her then-boyfriend Raffaele Sollecito were convicted of murdering her but were later cleared on appeal.
John Kercher, 77, was found collapsed on the pavement yards from his home in Croydon, south London, three weeks ago. He is pictured with his daughter Meredith who was murdered in 2007
John Kercher is pictured with Meredith's mother Arline and sister Stephanie at a press conference in Italy in November 2007
Drifter Rudy Guede was jailed for 16 years for murder and sexual assault.
No arrests have yet been made in relation to her father's death but an investigation is now underway.
Murdered: Meredith Kercher
The Met Police's detective sergeant Steve Andrews said: 'Despite thorough enquiries made so far, including speaking to witnesses and examining potential CCTV opportunities, we've not as yet been able to establish how he came to sustain his injuries, which included a broken arm and broken leg.
'We are keeping an open mind as to the circumstances of his death, including whether he may have been involved in a collision.
'Please make the call to us, or anonymously via Crimestoppers if you can help us determine what happened.'
A Met Police spokesman added: 'Police are appealing for witnesses and information following the unexplained death of a man in Croydon.
'Officers were called at approximately 7.30pm on Monday, 13 January to reports of a man found collapsed suffering injuries on Windmill Road in Croydon.
'The 77-year-old man was taken to a south London hospital for treatment. He remained in hospital but died from his injuries on Saturday, 1 February.
Her American flatmate Amanda Knox (pictured being escorted by Italian police in 2008 ) and her then-boyfriend Raffaele Sollecito were convicted of murdering her but were later cleared on appeal
'His next of kin have been informed. A special post-mortem examination will be scheduled in due course.'
Amanda Knox served four years behind bars in Italy for Kercher's killing.
She was released and returned to the US in 2011 after her conviction was initially overturned.
She was retried in 2014, but did not return to Italy for that trial, and was convicted for a second time.
But in 2015, Italy's Supreme Court overturned her second conviction and brought an end to her legal saga.
Since settling in Seattle, Knox has taken part in a Netflix documentary about her case and has written books and articles advocating for people wrongfully convicted of crimes.
Her ex-fiance Mr Sollecito recently announced he is enagged to his new girlfriend Andreea Burtea.
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/ar...chers-father-John-dies-suspected-hit-run.html
John Kercher was found collapsed yards from his front door in London
Daughter Meredith was murdered at 21 on an exchange trip to Italy in 2007
Her American flatmate Amanda Knox and then boyfriend were jailed but cleared
By Lara Keay For Mailonline
7 February 2020
The father of murdered British student Meredith Kercher has died after being involved in a suspected hit-and-run.
John Kercher, 77, was found collapsed on the pavement yards from his home in Croydon, south London, three weeks ago.
He had no memory of what happened but suffered multiple injuries, including a broken arm and leg. He then died in hospital on Saturday, reports The Sun.
His 21-year-old daughter Meredith was murdered on a student exchange trip to Perugia, Italy, in 2007.
Her American flatmate Amanda Knox and her then-boyfriend Raffaele Sollecito were convicted of murdering her but were later cleared on appeal.
John Kercher, 77, was found collapsed on the pavement yards from his home in Croydon, south London, three weeks ago. He is pictured with his daughter Meredith who was murdered in 2007
John Kercher is pictured with Meredith's mother Arline and sister Stephanie at a press conference in Italy in November 2007
Drifter Rudy Guede was jailed for 16 years for murder and sexual assault.
No arrests have yet been made in relation to her father's death but an investigation is now underway.
Murdered: Meredith Kercher
The Met Police's detective sergeant Steve Andrews said: 'Despite thorough enquiries made so far, including speaking to witnesses and examining potential CCTV opportunities, we've not as yet been able to establish how he came to sustain his injuries, which included a broken arm and broken leg.
'We are keeping an open mind as to the circumstances of his death, including whether he may have been involved in a collision.
'Please make the call to us, or anonymously via Crimestoppers if you can help us determine what happened.'
A Met Police spokesman added: 'Police are appealing for witnesses and information following the unexplained death of a man in Croydon.
'Officers were called at approximately 7.30pm on Monday, 13 January to reports of a man found collapsed suffering injuries on Windmill Road in Croydon.
'The 77-year-old man was taken to a south London hospital for treatment. He remained in hospital but died from his injuries on Saturday, 1 February.
Her American flatmate Amanda Knox (pictured being escorted by Italian police in 2008 ) and her then-boyfriend Raffaele Sollecito were convicted of murdering her but were later cleared on appeal
'His next of kin have been informed. A special post-mortem examination will be scheduled in due course.'
Amanda Knox served four years behind bars in Italy for Kercher's killing.
She was released and returned to the US in 2011 after her conviction was initially overturned.
She was retried in 2014, but did not return to Italy for that trial, and was convicted for a second time.
But in 2015, Italy's Supreme Court overturned her second conviction and brought an end to her legal saga.
Since settling in Seattle, Knox has taken part in a Netflix documentary about her case and has written books and articles advocating for people wrongfully convicted of crimes.
Her ex-fiance Mr Sollecito recently announced he is enagged to his new girlfriend Andreea Burtea.
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/ar...chers-father-John-dies-suspected-hit-run.html
Orson Bean, 91, hit and killed by car in LA
https://www.msn.com/en-us/entertain...ean-91-hit-and-killed-by-car-in-la/ar-BBZMFsI
Always enjoyed his TV appearances. RIP
https://www.msn.com/en-us/entertain...ean-91-hit-and-killed-by-car-in-la/ar-BBZMFsI
Always enjoyed his TV appearances. RIP
Robert Conrad, Star of 'The Wild, Wild West,' Dies at 84
https://www.nytimes.com/aponline/2020/02/08/us/ap-us-obit-robert-conrad.html
Always fun to watch. RIP
https://www.nytimes.com/aponline/2020/02/08/us/ap-us-obit-robert-conrad.html
Always fun to watch. RIP
Lorrie Goldstein: Christie Blatchford was simply the best
This is a column I never thought I’d have to write, an obituary for my colleague and friend of 40 years, Christie Blatchford.
I thought she’d live forever.
Or at worst keel over at her computer from a heart attack at the age of 95, having gone out for a run with her dog before pounding out her latest must-read column, about any subject she took on.
Christie isn’t supposed to be gone. We were supposed to be laughing, swearing and throwing buns at each other when we were inducted into the Canadian News Hall of Fame together in November.
She wasn’t supposed to be in hospital fighting cancer and I wasn’t supposed to be accepting the honour on her behalf.
I tried to speak for Christie, as she’d asked, and her friends who were there were very kind in their compliments, but we all knew that nobody could speak for Christie Blatchford, except Christie.
Christie was a big story reporter, a once-in-a-generation journalist and one of the most talented and hard-working writers I’ve ever known.
She was fearless, with an uncompromising sense of justice. If you had been wronged, you could have no better ally than Christie.
When I was a reporter and later a columnist, I read Christie to learn how to become a better one.
When I became her editor, she taught me how to be a better one by demanding the same passion and commitment to the written word she demanded from herself.
Christie wasn’t a saint. She had a temper and didn’t suffer fools gladly, as I would hear on occasion, expletives not deleted, when I was the fool.
But that’s because there was no BS with Christie. She told you exactly what she thought, every time.
This is a column I never thought I’d have to write, an obituary for my colleague and friend of 40 years, Christie Blatchford.
I thought she’d live forever.
Or at worst keel over at her computer from a heart attack at the age of 95, having gone out for a run with her dog before pounding out her latest must-read column, about any subject she took on.
Christie isn’t supposed to be gone. We were supposed to be laughing, swearing and throwing buns at each other when we were inducted into the Canadian News Hall of Fame together in November.
She wasn’t supposed to be in hospital fighting cancer and I wasn’t supposed to be accepting the honour on her behalf.
I tried to speak for Christie, as she’d asked, and her friends who were there were very kind in their compliments, but we all knew that nobody could speak for Christie Blatchford, except Christie.
Christie was a big story reporter, a once-in-a-generation journalist and one of the most talented and hard-working writers I’ve ever known.
She was fearless, with an uncompromising sense of justice. If you had been wronged, you could have no better ally than Christie.
When I was a reporter and later a columnist, I read Christie to learn how to become a better one.
When I became her editor, she taught me how to be a better one by demanding the same passion and commitment to the written word she demanded from herself.
Christie wasn’t a saint. She had a temper and didn’t suffer fools gladly, as I would hear on occasion, expletives not deleted, when I was the fool.
But that’s because there was no BS with Christie. She told you exactly what she thought, every time.
She was always on the run — literally, as a marathon runner — blazing a trail through Canadian journalism, whether it was at the Sun, National Post, Globe and Mail or Star.
She made every paper she worked for better.
She was Canada’s first female sports columnist.
She won a National Newspaper Award.
She won the Governor General’s Literary Award for non-fiction writing for her book about the war in Afghanistan — Fifteen Days: Stories of Bravery, Friendship, Life and Death from Inside the New Canadian Army.
She won the George Jonas Freedom Award.
She’s a member of the Canadian News Hall of Fame.
Christie changed court reporting, turning it from a dry recounting of the proceedings by taking us inside the courtroom, with her vivid descriptions of the accused, witnesses, defence lawyers, crowns and judges.
When she joined Toronto’s Newstalk 1010 as a daily radio commentator, she became an audience favourite, with her combination of common sense, wisdom and wit.
The great journalists are like dogs with a bone when they get hold of a good story. They just won’t let go.
That was Christie and she wouldn’t be insulted by the comparison because she adored dogs, just one of many examples of her great and good heart.
There’s an old saying that when a dog lover dies and goes to heaven, all the dogs they’ve ever loved and lost come bounding out to greet them at the Rainbow Bridge, all jumping on them at once and demanding to be petted and scratched. Then all of them, restored to perfect health, cross the bridge into heaven together.
That’s what I’ll think of when I think of my friend, Christie Blatchford.
nationalpost.com/news/canada/lorrie-goldstein-christie-blatchford-was-simply-the-best
Fare Thee Well, Christie. My sincere condolences to your family and friends. Canadian journalism was better for your place in it.
I thought she’d live forever.
Or at worst keel over at her computer from a heart attack at the age of 95, having gone out for a run with her dog before pounding out her latest must-read column, about any subject she took on.
Christie isn’t supposed to be gone. We were supposed to be laughing, swearing and throwing buns at each other when we were inducted into the Canadian News Hall of Fame together in November.
She wasn’t supposed to be in hospital fighting cancer and I wasn’t supposed to be accepting the honour on her behalf.
I tried to speak for Christie, as she’d asked, and her friends who were there were very kind in their compliments, but we all knew that nobody could speak for Christie Blatchford, except Christie.
Christie was a big story reporter, a once-in-a-generation journalist and one of the most talented and hard-working writers I’ve ever known.
She was fearless, with an uncompromising sense of justice. If you had been wronged, you could have no better ally than Christie.
When I was a reporter and later a columnist, I read Christie to learn how to become a better one.
When I became her editor, she taught me how to be a better one by demanding the same passion and commitment to the written word she demanded from herself.
Christie wasn’t a saint. She had a temper and didn’t suffer fools gladly, as I would hear on occasion, expletives not deleted, when I was the fool.
But that’s because there was no BS with Christie. She told you exactly what she thought, every time.
This is a column I never thought I’d have to write, an obituary for my colleague and friend of 40 years, Christie Blatchford.
I thought she’d live forever.
Or at worst keel over at her computer from a heart attack at the age of 95, having gone out for a run with her dog before pounding out her latest must-read column, about any subject she took on.
Christie isn’t supposed to be gone. We were supposed to be laughing, swearing and throwing buns at each other when we were inducted into the Canadian News Hall of Fame together in November.
She wasn’t supposed to be in hospital fighting cancer and I wasn’t supposed to be accepting the honour on her behalf.
I tried to speak for Christie, as she’d asked, and her friends who were there were very kind in their compliments, but we all knew that nobody could speak for Christie Blatchford, except Christie.
Christie was a big story reporter, a once-in-a-generation journalist and one of the most talented and hard-working writers I’ve ever known.
She was fearless, with an uncompromising sense of justice. If you had been wronged, you could have no better ally than Christie.
When I was a reporter and later a columnist, I read Christie to learn how to become a better one.
When I became her editor, she taught me how to be a better one by demanding the same passion and commitment to the written word she demanded from herself.
Christie wasn’t a saint. She had a temper and didn’t suffer fools gladly, as I would hear on occasion, expletives not deleted, when I was the fool.
But that’s because there was no BS with Christie. She told you exactly what she thought, every time.
She was always on the run — literally, as a marathon runner — blazing a trail through Canadian journalism, whether it was at the Sun, National Post, Globe and Mail or Star.
She made every paper she worked for better.
She was Canada’s first female sports columnist.
She won a National Newspaper Award.
She won the Governor General’s Literary Award for non-fiction writing for her book about the war in Afghanistan — Fifteen Days: Stories of Bravery, Friendship, Life and Death from Inside the New Canadian Army.
She won the George Jonas Freedom Award.
She’s a member of the Canadian News Hall of Fame.
Christie changed court reporting, turning it from a dry recounting of the proceedings by taking us inside the courtroom, with her vivid descriptions of the accused, witnesses, defence lawyers, crowns and judges.
When she joined Toronto’s Newstalk 1010 as a daily radio commentator, she became an audience favourite, with her combination of common sense, wisdom and wit.
The great journalists are like dogs with a bone when they get hold of a good story. They just won’t let go.
That was Christie and she wouldn’t be insulted by the comparison because she adored dogs, just one of many examples of her great and good heart.
There’s an old saying that when a dog lover dies and goes to heaven, all the dogs they’ve ever loved and lost come bounding out to greet them at the Rainbow Bridge, all jumping on them at once and demanding to be petted and scratched. Then all of them, restored to perfect health, cross the bridge into heaven together.
That’s what I’ll think of when I think of my friend, Christie Blatchford.
nationalpost.com/news/canada/lorrie-goldstein-christie-blatchford-was-simply-the-best
Fare Thee Well, Christie. My sincere condolences to your family and friends. Canadian journalism was better for your place in it.
Christie Blatchford: I have had dogs my whole life, but Obie Blatchford was my 'one'
I’ve never subscribed to the wedding-industry credo of “the one,” the idea that there is only one right man for a woman.
With personkind, as the PM says, it just doesn’t ring true for me.
But with dogs, it does: I have had dogs my whole life, and loved every one of them, but Obie Blatchford was my one: I was made for him, and he for me, and that was that.
He died on Tuesday, if not quite in my arms then at my feet.
He had a seizure, but these had become frequent enough that both of us were pretty good at handling them.
He’d crumble to the ground; I’d get down with him and talk and sing to him; my friend and neighbour Karen, whose dog Charlie was Obie’s best friend, would come running with a cold cloth and cluck over us both.
And sooner or later, Obie would get to his feet and we’d carry on as if nothing had happened.
I knew why he could react like this; he didn’t remember the seizure. But I was in deep denial, even as I could see the end around the corner.
At first, I was scared to death, but then seizures were our new normal and I began thinking that part of this was that he would always bounce back. He was so brave and resilient he fooled me.
But for two weeks, when I went to Scotland, we were together pretty much 24/7 since May. My longtime dog walker had moved out of the city, so I took the summer off to be with the big white lug, “magnificent bastard” as one of my friends once called him.
I realize now, in the awful still of the apartment, how attuned to one another we were. If I got up, he got up; if he got up, I was instantly alert and watched with a slit eye (anything more and he’d know I was awake) to see if he settled down. I moved with uncharacteristic stealth around the place, listening to his breathing, for his sighs and twitches and dog noises.
We spent the summer in the living room, me on the couch, him on a growing pile of blankets and pillows on the floor, or if I was lucky, on the couch with me.
By the end, he was held together by drugs, duct tape and will.
He had cruciate disease, which meant basically the ligaments in his back legs were shot, and his rear quarters dropped low and his gait was wobbly. He had kidney disease. And he had the seizures, likely, his great vet Ryan thought, caused by a tumour in his head.
(They don’t do brain surgery on dogs, so there seemed little point to getting a CT scan. Besides, I liked imagining whatever it was would go away; a scan would have stomped hard on that dream.)
My days were measured by a 12-hour pill, an every-eight-hours pill, and the ones he got morning and night. As long as they were covered in his reeking special-kidney-diet canned food, which cost more than steak, he took them without complaint.
But I wasn’t just his nurse and he wasn’t just a patient. He was still a dog. He was happy. Or that’s what I think and hope.
We took a tennis ball out with us at least once a day. He’d stretch out on the grass, nudge the ball with his nose and bat it about with his front feet, a far cry from the days of his youth, but it was something. We walked with Charlie and Karen every day; Charlie was his best medicine, because to him he was still a regular dog. God love Chuck; he still attacked him if he got too close to his food bowl.
We didn’t look alike, as the myth that owners and dogs grow to resemble one another has it. He looked like the actor Richard Gere, all lovely schnozz and small, smart, dark eyes; I looked like me.
But we were the same being. We looked tough, sometimes, but mush on the inside. The qualities he had in spades — goodness, kindness, clownishness — are nowhere near as abundant in me. I could only aspire to be as fine as him.
I am consoled somewhat by the fact he had a pretty big life.
We went to St. Andrews, N.B., a couple of times. He loved road trips, and would periodically bolt over the top of the passenger headrest and end up in the lap of whichever friend I was with. He loved hotels, especially the Lord Elgin in Ottawa: He’d bound into the lobby, properly confident in his irresistibly.
As an indication of how human beings can so resolutely believe in happy endings, despite all the evidence, I even found a new dog walker for him, Antoinette, because I’m back at work now. (I am of course haunted by the fear he knew that.) She had lost her own bull terrier, Stolee, last December; he was white, just like Obie, and she burst into tears at the sight of him.
She got to take him for all of one walk, on Tuesday. She videoed it for me: He was an outrageous show-off. Clearly, he wanted to impress her.
He was sleeping when I got home.
Two hours before he died, he was in the kitchen, barking at me for more lunch, leaping as best he could on those gimpy legs.
I had him for 13.5 years. Forever wouldn’t have been enough.
With personkind, as the PM says, it just doesn’t ring true for me.
But with dogs, it does: I have had dogs my whole life, and loved every one of them, but Obie Blatchford was my one: I was made for him, and he for me, and that was that.
He died on Tuesday, if not quite in my arms then at my feet.
He had a seizure, but these had become frequent enough that both of us were pretty good at handling them.
He’d crumble to the ground; I’d get down with him and talk and sing to him; my friend and neighbour Karen, whose dog Charlie was Obie’s best friend, would come running with a cold cloth and cluck over us both.
And sooner or later, Obie would get to his feet and we’d carry on as if nothing had happened.
I knew why he could react like this; he didn’t remember the seizure. But I was in deep denial, even as I could see the end around the corner.
At first, I was scared to death, but then seizures were our new normal and I began thinking that part of this was that he would always bounce back. He was so brave and resilient he fooled me.
But for two weeks, when I went to Scotland, we were together pretty much 24/7 since May. My longtime dog walker had moved out of the city, so I took the summer off to be with the big white lug, “magnificent bastard” as one of my friends once called him.
I realize now, in the awful still of the apartment, how attuned to one another we were. If I got up, he got up; if he got up, I was instantly alert and watched with a slit eye (anything more and he’d know I was awake) to see if he settled down. I moved with uncharacteristic stealth around the place, listening to his breathing, for his sighs and twitches and dog noises.
We spent the summer in the living room, me on the couch, him on a growing pile of blankets and pillows on the floor, or if I was lucky, on the couch with me.
Obie passed away on Tuesday. Supplied
By the end, he was held together by drugs, duct tape and will.
He had cruciate disease, which meant basically the ligaments in his back legs were shot, and his rear quarters dropped low and his gait was wobbly. He had kidney disease. And he had the seizures, likely, his great vet Ryan thought, caused by a tumour in his head.
(They don’t do brain surgery on dogs, so there seemed little point to getting a CT scan. Besides, I liked imagining whatever it was would go away; a scan would have stomped hard on that dream.)
My days were measured by a 12-hour pill, an every-eight-hours pill, and the ones he got morning and night. As long as they were covered in his reeking special-kidney-diet canned food, which cost more than steak, he took them without complaint.
But I wasn’t just his nurse and he wasn’t just a patient. He was still a dog. He was happy. Or that’s what I think and hope.
We took a tennis ball out with us at least once a day. He’d stretch out on the grass, nudge the ball with his nose and bat it about with his front feet, a far cry from the days of his youth, but it was something. We walked with Charlie and Karen every day; Charlie was his best medicine, because to him he was still a regular dog. God love Chuck; he still attacked him if he got too close to his food bowl.
We didn’t look alike, as the myth that owners and dogs grow to resemble one another has it. He looked like the actor Richard Gere, all lovely schnozz and small, smart, dark eyes; I looked like me.
But we were the same being. We looked tough, sometimes, but mush on the inside. The qualities he had in spades — goodness, kindness, clownishness — are nowhere near as abundant in me. I could only aspire to be as fine as him.
I am consoled somewhat by the fact he had a pretty big life.
We went to St. Andrews, N.B., a couple of times. He loved road trips, and would periodically bolt over the top of the passenger headrest and end up in the lap of whichever friend I was with. He loved hotels, especially the Lord Elgin in Ottawa: He’d bound into the lobby, properly confident in his irresistibly.
As an indication of how human beings can so resolutely believe in happy endings, despite all the evidence, I even found a new dog walker for him, Antoinette, because I’m back at work now. (I am of course haunted by the fear he knew that.) She had lost her own bull terrier, Stolee, last December; he was white, just like Obie, and she burst into tears at the sight of him.
She got to take him for all of one walk, on Tuesday. She videoed it for me: He was an outrageous show-off. Clearly, he wanted to impress her.
He was sleeping when I got home.
Two hours before he died, he was in the kitchen, barking at me for more lunch, leaping as best he could on those gimpy legs.
I had him for 13.5 years. Forever wouldn’t have been enough.
I still get tears in my eyes when I read this column. All of us who love our pets know the heartbreak of seeing them cross to the Rainbow Bridge but few can express it as well as Christie did when she wrote about Obie's passing.
Jens Nygaard Knudsen, who designed the iconic Lego minifigure with interchangeable legs and torsos, has died while in hospice care from amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), his former colleague said Saturday.
The former designer, 78, died on Wednesday at a hospice centre where he had stayed for a week, according to Lego designer Niels Milan Pedersen, a former colleague of Nygaard Knudsen.
Milan Pedersen said: ‘His imagination was so fantastic. If we had a brainstorm it was more like a brain hurricane, because he had so many ideas.’
Nygaard Knudsen, who died at the Anker Fjord Hospice outside the small town of Hvide Sande on the Danish west coast, was a designer at the Danish toy brick maker from 1968 to 2000. He worked with developing the now legendary minifigure with movable arms and legs in the 1970s, before it was first released in 1978.
https://www.google.com/amp/s/metro....ns-nygaard-knudsen-dies-aged-78-12297033/amp/