London, July-September, 2015. Roommates, like family, you can’t always pick them. In what would be my last months on the Island of Lost Souls, I rented a room in a rundown house in one of the many the low, low class areas of London. This spot had three Springer Spaniels jumping all around a small living space, and one little kitten with claws and moves that earned him the moniker, Ninja Kitty. The primary renter was a dynamo — holding down a full-time job, running an online and bricks and mortar business in knickknacks and bric-a-brac that she bought low, stressed them or remade them, then sold high. And, she was part of a Springer Spaniel rescue group, so she had two when I first arrived in June of 2015, then had to add one more when the guy’s girlfriend said no. This one was a basket case, must have been beaten as a pup, and most probably when it rained and thundered because when this rolled through he would shake for hours, pant out of his mind, and try everything he could to get into my room. He’d start pacing and shaking even during the slightest drizzle. It was so sad to watch.
After this, I nailed a contract in Toronto, and left the Island of Lost Souls.