I have a three inch scar on my left forearm, winding thin and white across my yellow-brown skin. The pup who gave it to me, with his jumping retriever excitement and sharp toenails, died of cancer almost three years ago now. Every time I look at it I feel the dusty, desert-like heat of a Prairie summer that never brought rain, and I’m reminded of the choices we have and choices we make, and what can happen when we think we have no choice at all.

This is Prairie. Plain and simple. (Photo: S Boon)

That scar marks the beginning of loss – only a few at first, but gathering speed like a Prairie windstorm pushing piles of tumbleweeds ahead of it. Loss of first one young dog and then the next a mere nine months later; loss of confidence from constantly having to prove yourself to colleagues, students, and…