Joey (short story) by Leanne Dyck

Joey purred her way into my life just when I needed her the most.

photos by Leanne Dyck

I was exhausted from pouring energy into my career, my volunteering, my studies, my... All of that coupled with the death of my mom left me a mere shadow of my former self. 

Did Joey sense how much I needed her soothing presence?

The search for a place to heal brought me to Mayne Island--to a house on Wood Dale Drive. My husband was working on the mainland and so I alone meet with Barb--my potential landlady. The house was spacious and well-constructed. Tour over, Barb led me back into the living room. She offered me a seat on the chesterfield. 

"Your house is... is..." Searching for the prefect word but not finding it, I settled for, "We'd love to live here."

A voice plummeted down the stairs. "Where's my...? I can't find my...? Ugh!"

"Just a sec." Barb climbed the stairs.  

"But Mom..."

Mom--that name conquered memories and... I felt so alone. 

A fluffy grey cat pranced into the living room.

"Oh, hello. Aren't you beautiful," I told her.

She looked at me as if to say, Why yes I am beautiful. How nice of you to notice.

"Here, kitty. Come here," I softly called.

With regal flare, the cat claimed my lap and curled up into a clump of purring grey fur. I was no longer alone.

Barb came back and sat down beside me. "Joey is usually very shy around strangers, but she chose you."

Sam and Joey on our porch

First Joey and then her brother, Sam, joined my husband and me in that house on Wood Dale Drive. They were adults and so they taught us how to live with cats. 

A skilled hunter, Joey introduced us to an array of Mayne Island wildlife--mice and birds, even a hummingbird. Most of them became additions to her diet. 

A patient sister, Joey attempted to teach her brother to hunt. She'd bring him a half-dead mouse. She served it like a mother cutting her child's meat. Sam toyed with the poor little creature, but he just didn't have it in him to kill. The mouse limped away. And the look Joey sent me, Honestly, males! I just can't teach him anything. 

A devoted companion, Joey helped me heal. I folded her into my arms and wet her grey fur with tears. She never seemed to mind; she never left my side; she was always there.

On August 21st, Joey slipped out of my life as gracefully as she had slipped in. 

"She has lived such a long life," I told the vet. "If she were a human we would celebrate her."

Sharing my author journey...

A born storyteller passes away

My mom had three sisters. Unfortunately, the eldest moved away before I could get to know her. The other two served as "foster" mothers when my mom wasn't around--which was rare, but happened. 

Back row:  me and my mom

Front row:  Aunty Lil, Grandma, Aunty Helga

Nurtured in this large nest, I grew. Until, one day, I met a man. He swept me off my feet. When I regained my footing, I stood on B.C. soil--two provinces away. People here don't know anything about my past. I find this freeing but at times lonely.


Ten years ago, my Aunty Helga moved from Manitoba's Interlake region--where she'd been born and raised--to Salt Spring Island, B.C. She was 79. I travelled to that neighbouring island to visit her every opportunity I got. These visits usually extended over a two day period. It was fun to become reacquainted with her, now as an adult. My aunt and I shared many common interests--crafts,  storytelling and pride in our Icelandic-Canadian heritage, to name but three. People from many corners of the earth have been the receipts of my aunt's quilts. And, of course, most members of her family have at least one.

When people ask me how my writing is going I've learned to self-edit. I've learned to answer, "Fine."
But that answer wasn't sufficient for my aunt. She listened attentively as I outlined my latest plot.
"Remember to leave room for humour," she'd often advise.
In turn, she'd entertain me with stories about her life--growing up on a farm, working in Winnipeg, life as a newly wed, raising her children... My favourite stories featured my mom. The sisters had always been close. And by the things Aunty Helga said I know she took my mom's death very hard--as did I. Sometimes Aunty Helga accompanied her stories with a snapshot or two. She was our family archivist--her camera recording every major event. 
Contrary to what I told myself, Aunty Helga made me feel that my writing was important and that becoming an author was a worthy profession. In fact, occasionally, she said, "You know, I think I could have been an author."

In 2009, I self-published Maynely A Mystery. It was my first novel and I was very happy that it did so well on Mayne Island. With that title, I didn't expect it to do well elsewhere. But I took it to Salt Spring Island, anyway. A few days after I made my deliver, I was surprised to receive a phone call from a bookstore owner. 
"You have to bring us more copies. We've sold out," he told me.
Upon further inquiry, I discovered the source of my success. My aunt had picked up several copies for our family.

Our friendship soared to new heights, when, in 2007, my husband led us from Canada to Iceland. This was my Aunt's second visit to Europe. She'd visited Ireland ten years early--when she was 72.

My aunt recently passed away... She was 89. 

This is my tribute to a mothering aunt, supportive friend, dynamic senior citizen, proud Icelandic-Canadian and true storyteller.
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Guest:  mystery author Sharon Rowse

Sharing my author journey...