Shortly after my parents moved us from Winnipeg to Vancouver in 1950, they took me to the Cloverdale Rodeo. I do not remember most of that experience, but I do remember, vividly, my response when we were sitting in the grandstand and the "show" began. I remember the visceral feeling I had when the first calf was choked by a rope and pulled of its feet and had its head twisted 180 degrees and then tied up. I didn't know enough not to cry. It was one of my first (if not, the first) feelings of total empathy that I experienced. My parents thankfully took me home. I have never returned. The torture continues to this day.

I had an aunt whose name was Rita. I loved her house. It was always full of animals: dogs and cats who had been abandoned "right down" to spiders that she treated with respect. I did not realize what she taught me until I was much older and recognized what compassion really is. That took me a long time.

I am not a patient driver. It quite often takes about two or three minutes behind the wheel before I am upset with stupid drivers (those other than me) who frequent our roads. Needless to say, I rapidly reach the point where I feel it necessary to express my frustration with their stupidity, verbally. I have recently noted that just before or after this juncture I am confronted by a dog on the street or in the car next to me, or somewhere, and I cannot help but smile and forget about the idiot who did the most foolish thing a driver could possibly do only seconds before. These beings, other than human, reach me instantly. I can't help it. It's like Ebenezer on Christmas morning. They make it impossible to stay unhappy.

When I moved to Saskatchewan to study at the University, I met some friends from rural areas, kids raised on farms. I was driving in a pick-up with one of them on a grid road when he suddenly stopped the truck, grabbed a rifle from the window immediately behind his head, jumped out of the pick-up and shot a little red fox that was running across one of the fields. I watched the fox quiver to his death. I did not say anything. I did, however, experience that death in my spine. I am unable to fully describe that feeling verbally, but I assure you that I felt it and will never forget it either.

Last night I watched a documentary about the rescue of animals in New Orleans after hurricane Katrina. I watched as long as I was able.

Last week I read The Guardian, the AAS newsletter. I read as much as I was able. It's brilliant. It's true. I know first hand, as example, Nermal's story. I empathize with what The Guardian reports to the point of tears. But it goes further than that: it affects my stomach, my spine, my eyes and even my nose. My whole being gets to the point of aching.

The point? It is my sincerest, my fondest, my most anticipated hope that the BCSPCA will reach the ethical and compassionate place where it is able to work with all the animal welfare groups in B.C.; be their leader, maybe even subsume them all and, where I can again work with it.