Hey Nostradamus! By Douglas Coupland

That aside, I think you can safely say that a guy in West Vancouver facing the ocean writing stuff on a
clipboard in the midafternoon has troubles. If I've learned anything in twenty-nine years, it's that every
human being you see in the course of a day has a problem that's sucking up at least 70 percent of his or
her radar. My gift - bad choice of words - is that I can look at you, him, her, them, whoever, and tell
right away what is keeping them awake at night: money; feelings of insignificance; overwhelming
boredom; evil children; job troubles; or perhaps death, in one of its many costumes, perched in the
wings. What surprises me about humanity is that in the end such a narrow range of plights defines our
moral lives.
Whuppp . . .Joyce, my faithful white Lab, just bolted upright. What's up, girl, huh? Up is a Border collie
with an orange tennis ball in his mouth: Brodie, Joyce's best friend. Time for an interruption - she's giving
me that look.
* * *
An hour later:
For what it's worth, I think God is how you deal with everything that's out of your own control. It's as
good a definition as any. And I have to ...
Wait: Joyce, beside me on the bench seat, having chewed her tennis ball into fragments, is obviously
wondering why we should be parked so close to a beach yet not be throwing sticks into the ocean.
Joyce never runs out of energy.
Joyce, honey, hang in there. Papa's a social blank with a liver like theHindenburg, and he's
embarrassed by how damaged he is and by how mediocre he turned out. And yes, your moist-eyed
stare is a Ginsu knife slicing my heart in two like a beefsteak tomato - but I won't stop writing for
a little while just yet.
As you can see, I talk to dogs. All animals, really. They're much more direct than people. I knew that
even before the massacre. Most people think I'm a near mute. Cheryl did. I wish I were a dog. I wish I
were any animal other than a human being, even a bug.
Joyce, by the way, was rejected by the Seeing Eye program because she's too small. Should
reincarnation exist, I'd very much like to come back as a Seeing Eye dog. No finer calling exists. Joyce
joined my life nearly a year ago, at the age of four months. I met her via this crone of a Lab breeder on
Bowen Island whose dream kitchen I helped install. The dream kitchen was bait to tempt her Filipina
housekeeper from fleeing to the big city. Joyce was the last of the litter, the gravest, saddest pup I'd ever
seen. She slept on my leather coat during the days and then spelunked into my armpits for warmth during
breaks. That breeder was no dummy. After a few weeks she said, "Look, you two are in love. You do
know that, don't you?" I hadn't thought of it that way, but once the words were spoken, it was obvious.
She said, "I think you were meant for each other. Come in on the weekend and put the double-pane
windows in the TV room, and she's yours." Of course I installed the windows.
* * *
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