Dogpiss

It was some time during the winter of '98 that I tried to establish dogpiss as an adjective:

Dogpiss 'däg-pis (adj): When the only colour in a grey world belongs to something patently unpleasant.

It snowed that winter, and copiously. That's strange for Vancouver. Most years, we only get a day or two with snow, and then it's back to puddles and brollies till the summer. On those odd occasions when it does snow, the city's pants-down unprepared. Come the eight o'clock rush, the snowplows are still cozied up in their berths, with the drivers standing about scratching their heads: "Ey, how do we get out of here, with all this snow in the way?" The streets are full of ice, but you don't have to worry about accidents. Everyone's looked out their windows, seen half an inch of snow on the ground, and taken the day off.

Everyone but me, that is. It's December '98, and I'm in a rotten mood. Seven-thirty in the morning, and here I am wading through not half an inch, not one inch, but four inches of snow. Four inches of snow, in Vancouver. My feet are soaking wet, but that's all right--I can't feel them, anyway. I won't feel them for a good hour, at least. They'll thaw out in the middle of my anatomical illustration class. They'll itch and burn and itch and burn and itch and itch and itch and burn, and, oh, I won't be able to concentrate! We're drawing skeletons this week. Mine are liable to resemble fenceposts, or snarls of barbed wire. I'm paying three hundred and fifty dollars (plus the cost of materials) so I can get an F. By lunch, the itching and burning'll have subsided into a sort of protesting thrum, which I'll put up with through my twentieth century art survey, and a meeting with my painting teacher re: my nonexistent painting skills. Then it'll be four-thirty, and time to go to work. I won't be home till one, maybe two in the morning.

I hate my life. I hate my shoes. It's like they've got sponges in their soles, which are out to suck the city dry. I swear I can hear slurping, with every step I take. Every step I take. Every--

Every breath you take (SLRP! SLRP! SLRP!)
Every move you make (SLRP! SLRP! SLRP!)
Every bond you break (SLRP! SLRP! SLRP!)
Every step you take (SLRP! SLRP! SLRP!)
I’ll be (SLRP! SLRP! SLRRRRRRRP!)

I am slrping my way down Richards Street, towards Granville Island. I am carrying a large portfolio case, a sloppily-stretched canvas, my purse, a duffel with work things in, and two sandwiches in a bag. Combined, this lot weighs more than I do. If I could feel my shoulders, I'm sure they'd hurt quite badly. Sooner or later, the sandwich bag will slip, or the canvas will come untied from the portfolio case, and I'll have to stop and rearrange everything. I am dreading that moment. I hate having to stop. I want to be at school--no, scratch that. I want to be at work--no, at home already, with this whole rotten day behind me. In my mind's eye, I'm bent over the stove, warming apple cider in a saucepan. My hands are fanned out in the steam, pink and tender. My eyes are closed. My--my bloody canvas has slipped, and there go my sandwiches, and what an awful day!

I pick up my things. All around me, the city is grey. The sky is grey. The sea is grey. The road, the buildings, the people, the snow--all shades of grey. My hands, brushing snow off my sarnies: frozen and grey, like last night's bangers. My canvas, with its thin layer of gesso: gull-grey. My coat, my hat, my gloves, my shoes: grey, grey, grey, meant to be black, but really grey. Faugh. I search for colour, any colour, to break the monotony. I find:

* Pink: that stupid neon shoe, advertising Madame Cleo's massage parlour;
* Red: the nose on some old boozehound, who's been following me for the last three blocks;
* Yellow: a dogpiss-crater in the snow. My duffel is touching it.

"Dogpiss," I tell the boozehound. "This is a particularly dogpiss morning, don't you think?"

"Spare some change?" he goes, underlining my point rather nicely.

I meant to say "dogpiss" more often, that winter--spread it around, sort of thing--but it got lost in the shuffle. There were too many things to do, more important things. Too much school; too much work; too many long walks with inadequate footwear. Towards the end of February, I bought new shoes, but it was too late. The snow had gone for the year.