One series dripping with cheesy goodness is called The Whistler. The genre is the aforementioned mystery drama, but the stories are all book-ended with narration by the mysterious “Whistler”, a man who, at the start of every show, whistles an ominous tune to signal the start of another tale filled with mystery and suspense. Each show’s climax reveals an unexpected twist in a final line of dialogue, capped with a two-note beat of a kettle drum to punctuate the drama (and inform the audience that the drama has ended).

A particular favourite of mine is the show from January 9, 1949, titled The Tell-tale Brand. Starting at 10:43, there’s two and a half minutes of hilarious dialogue in which a jilted woman informs her lover–who’s just suggested that they “call it a day”–that despite his efforts to brush her off, “I don’t brush”. As it’s a crime drama involving cheating lovers and murder, it’s all played very straight, and this in combination with her whiskey voice, her incredulous response to his attempt to end things (“Call it a DAY?!”), and the general silliness of it all, it makes for thirty minutes of time wasted in the best possible way.

I have to hear her surprised reaction to calling it a day, all the time. I just have to. So I made an iPhone ringtone of thirty-odd seconds of the juiciest part of this dialogue, and capped it with those booming kettle drums, and The Whistler’s signature whistle. Please enjoy it as much as I have (though I doubt anyone could).

For good measure, please also enjoy a tidier ringtone featuring Johnny Dollar, another show from the era (showcasing the “fabulous world of insurance investigation” — this is no joke), which is preceded by a fifties-style ringing telephone.

Week three

On Saturday, September 10th, two weeks and one day after surgery, Alex and I decided it was time to get back to the trail. We left early and went to Speyside, and spent the day hiking. I moved slowly — very slowly. But I had a chance to find some lovely mushrooms, and spend time in a part of the trail I truly love.

We hiked for about five hours, and covered only about six kilometres, a fraction of the distance we would normally hike in that time. By the end, I was somewhat sore, but the day had been worth it.

This emboldened me, and I felt ready for swimming. On Monday, we went to Angela Coughlan Pool in the evening. I was very apprehensive, although I would only use a pull buoy so I wouldn’t have to kick. It felt strange getting in the water (carefully), and it took about five minutes before I attempted my first length. It was tentative, and I could immediately feel the surgery area.

I did about five laps in total, resting after each length. When I left the pool, the area felt strange, like a pulled muscle, or a strain. I was a bit concerned, but it looked the same. I considered it a success.

I tried again on Tuesday at Centennial Pool, and it went just as well. On Friday, I was back at Centennial, and managed one or two more laps than previously, including a few one-hundred metre laps, and one without the pull buoy.

There was a definite straining sensation on one of the lengths, and I had to quit. Getting out of the pool was difficult. I felt as though I’d have to forgo swimming for the time being.

That evening, I noticed what looked like a slight hernial bulge in the area where the sac had been before surgery. Had the hernia recurred?

Week four

It was difficult to determine what was going on. On the one hand, I was fairly pain-free at the hernia site. However, I’d definitely felt strain at the site while swimming, and there was what appeared to be a sac that was invisible in the morning and appeared later in the day, only to reduce again — sometimes while I looked at it.

It was impossible to decide if I was seeing a natural part of my anatomy, or something anomalous, and the only solution was to see Dr. Chemparathy. I was asked by the surgeon to follow up with him at some point, so I decided to wait until four weeks had passed, after which I’d make an appointment.

On Sunday, September 18, we spent the day in the Niagara wine region. Everything seemed fairly normal, although I was slightly sore. On Tuesday, Alex’ father Serge came to stay with us for a few days. A hike through Bronte Creek Park was not as comfortable as I’d hoped it would be, or indeed, as it had been previously.

The bulge still seemed to come and go over the following few days, with no serious indication that the hernia had recurred. I made the follow-up appointment with my regular doctor for the following week.

I had progressed fairly well up to this point, with no severe pain issues, and perhaps some expected discomfort while engaging in more strenuous activity. The presence of what appeared to be a bulge was only slightly concerning, as recurrence so soon after surgery is very rare. It seemed that I had, indeed, recovered completely at week four’s conclusion. I was satisfied with the entire experience.

Until that weekend.

The day after

On the day immediately following surgery, a Saturday, I had quite a bit of discomfort on waking up. Getting out of bed from a half-prone position was probably the most difficult and time-consuming part of being active, but walking had its discomforts. Going downstairs was also fairly painful. I took ten milligrams of Ketorolac for pain and swelling.

I started eating normally right away, but changed my diet to one of mostly fibre, including fruit, vegetables and whole grain. I increased my water intake to at least ten glasses per day. This was essential to maintain bowel function, which, if interrupted, would be quite painful.

At 10:00AM, or about twenty-four hours after the surgery, I removed the dressing. The wound had bled somewhat throughout the preceding day, and the dressing was blotched on the outside. I understood that to be quite normal, and it had stopped bleeding entirely by the time I removed the dressing, so I wasn’t concerned.

My activity was seriously reduced on the day following surgery. The pain was more severe, perhaps a six out of ten. The local anesthetic had completely worn off, and I was not going to take the Percocet prescribed to me. I needed to keep moving, though, to ensure a quicker recovery time, and so I walked when I could, and moved around the backyard somewhat.

At some point, I needed to move my bowel. Unfortunately, I hadn’t anticipated that the manipulation of the bowel during surgery would lead to a disconcerting halt in peristaltic activity — not quite ileus¹, but something too close to it to be encouraging. Any kind of straining was perfectly out of the question, as the pain was excruciating. It wasn’t painful at the site, but in an area about five centimetres above the highest point of the incision. That seemed worrisome.

There were more than a few frustrating and fruitless visits to the bathroom, and the scenarios I was imagining for the future were not pleasant. Warnings in the literature I received from the hospital, together with the totality of despair brought on by some (ill-advised) online reading of patient experiences, conjured up images in my future of an intimate afternoon with the surgical equivalent of a corkscrew. I was not happy. As a safety measure, I started taking the Docusate Sodium tablets as prescribed, though potentially they would not activate for another three days.

Happily, all was resolved by day’s end, at least for the time being.

By the time I went to bed, I had needed all four doses of Ketrolac, for a total of forty milligrams for the day. The pain, once again, was not always excruciating, but it was bad enough to medicate.

The rest of Week One

I was feeling cooped up already by the third day, a Sunday, and Alex took me to Bronte Creek Park. I couldn’t walk very far. There was terrible cramping in the area five centimetres above the wound. I couldn’t walk upright, and couldn’t keep moving for more than a few minutes. Unhappy, and shuffling around like a ninety-year-old, I aborted the walk in the park, Alex’ face all drawn with worry.

What seemed to accompany pain in this area was an extreme feeling of bloat. I had never felt so completely bloated before. Although I also have IBS² and thus experience bloating, this was unlike anything I’d ever gone through. With what I could only deduce was pressure from bloating at the interior surgical wound, the pain was the worst I had experienced yet — at least a seven out of ten. Walking became harrowing. Three steps were all I could manage before having to stop, half hunched-over like an osteoporosis patient.

I decided that perhaps the Ketorolac was to blame for the bloating, and so my first ten milligram dose on Sunday was to be my last. I also refused to take Advil, or any other NSAID. In total, I took eighty milligrams of Ketorolac over three days before stopping all medication. I even stopped taking the Docusate Sodium.

The bloating continued nonetheless. Frustratingly and frighteningly, bowel function did not improve over the weekend. Finally, on Monday, it returned completely to normal with the help of psyllium cereal.³

We tried the park again on Monday, but the pain and bloating were unbearable. There was also severe pain near my left hip, far above the surgical site. It seemed distressingly unrelated to the wound or the hernia site, but was just as intense. At times, it was excruciating, and made walking very difficult.

As an avid hiker, one who can easily walk twenty or twenty-five kilometres without stopping, who loves the outdoors, who loves trekking the Bruce Trail, being debilitated in this way, even temporarily, was depressing. I decided to stay away from my beloved Bronte Creek Park until I was well enough to walk properly.

Each day brought minimal improvement. I could walk more quickly, and by Tuesday or Wednesday, I was walking the stairs normally, albeit slowly. In the evenings, I forced myself to walk around the block. It was uncomfortable, but it helped me to improve. Sometimes while walking, I found that if I held my hand gently but firmly against the part that hurt the most, I could walk more easily.⁴

However, progress seemed too slow. The bloating and cramping continued. It seemed to be minimally getting better, but at least it wasn’t getting any worse. When September 2nd came around, seven days after surgery, I wasn’t as far along as I’d hoped, although I had started driving again that day.

Week Two

We tried the park again on Sunday September 4th, but we didn’t get far due to rain. On Monday, I seemed to relapse somewhat. The bloating and cramping was really terrible, and I was feeling stranded at home. Out of frustration more than anything else, I decided to go to Bronte Creek Park in the evening, on my own. Alex was a little worried, but I decided I just had to start moving a little further.

It was a complete success. The bloating, cramping, and pain began as badly as ever, but I kept walking, making my way into the woods. As I searched for and found my beautiful mushrooms, I relaxed quite a bit. The pain eased. I got caught up in taking pictures, and enjoying the autumnal solitude of the woods, which I’d been haunting for thirty years. I felt home. The trees, the leaves, the mushrooms, what summer songbirds were left, the other animals, were all important in helping me forget the discomfort and get moving. It was activity that ultimately healed me of the cramping discomfort I was going through. I was out for more than an hour that evening, and I returned home rejuvenated. I repeated the trip and stayed out longer the next evening.

Follow-up with surgeon

On Tuesday September 6th, eleven days after surgery, I had a follow-up appointment with Dr. Prodger to remove the staples. The pain and cramping were normal, he told me, and so long as it wasn’t getting worse, it would eventually dissipate. I asked about the site of pain a few centimetres above the wound. He said it too was normal, as was a hard lump I found under the skin in the area, where, it seemed, scar tissue was forming. The pain near my hip was probably a result of bruising where the local anesthetic needle was inserted in an artery after I was put under general anesthetic. He said that overall, the expected swelling in the whole area was far less than what is usual, and that I could return to all normal activities, including swimming.

Needless to say, it was very encouraging. I was sure I would start swimming again shortly, and I did, in week three.

But swimming that soon was probably a mistake.

1. A morbid obstruction of the bowel caused by a halt in the natural waves that pass food through the digestive tract.
2. Irritable Bowel Syndrome; a chronic, usually lifelong condition that causes some bloating and bowel dysfunction, and which is thought to be activated by mood and diet. The instance of IBS I have is mild to moderate.
3. I used Kellogg’s All-Bran Buds with Psyllium. I’d recommend anyone having this surgery to use it, and to start eating it a day or two before surgery. A third of a cup in milk once a day is sufficient. Drink a full glass of water during the meal, and finish the entire box over the course of two weeks. Surprisingly, it was one of the best things I did to help myself recuperate, aside from walking.
4. This is known as “splinting” the hernia site. It should also be done by hugging a pillow snugly against the area when coughing, sneezing, or vomiting — none of which, by everything in the universe that’s good, I had to do during all the time of my recovery.

I developed left inguinal hernia in late 2010, and did the usual online searching about the condition. I came across story after story of people whose lives were disrupted, sometimes in horrible ways, from their hernia repair surgery. But the chances of complication were generally reported to be very low. In addition, hernia cannot heal on its own. The only “cure” is surgery. It seemed I had no option, so despite the online warnings, I decided I would go ahead with surgery. This and subsequent articles detail my experience with hernia repair surgery, and how it compares with others.

Discovery and diagnosis

In December 2010, while showering, I discovered a medium-sized painless lump just above the left side of my groin. I thought at first it was a very enlarged lymph node, but soon decided it was a hernia, which was confirmed after a visit to my GP, Joseph Chemparathy. He scheduled an appointment with a general surgeon named Dwight Prodger.¹ “He’s the best,” my doctor said, “though you may have to wait longer for an appointment.”

I finally managed to see Dr. Prodger in May 2011, after my initial appointment in April was moved by his office. A quick and uncomfortable exam confirmed hernia. He warned of an approximate 2.5% chance of infection, and a greater than 3% chance of bleeding. He said recovery time would be four weeks. No other complications were hinted at. I decided to schedule the surgery.

I opted for a date of August 26, so that my planned summer of hiking toward the Bruce Penninsula would not be interrupted. If I had to do it again, I would opt for the soonest surgery date available. Over the course of nine months, the hernia got progressively worse, probably exacerbated by weekly seven hour, twenty-plus kilometre hikes along the Niagara Escarpment. I had almost continuous pain through August, and increasingly acute incidents while bending when I could feel a portion of the small bowel move in and out of the hernial sac, the visible protrusion of the hernia.

I also swam up to two kilometres a night three nights a week, but I actually think that helped the reducibility of the hernia. That is, the intestine and other tissue usually returned to the abdominal cavity from the hernial sac after swimming, probably due to the horizontal stretching action taking place.

Day of surgery

My procedure was open repair of left inguinal hernia, with a prosthetic plug-and-patch mesh installed. It required general anesthesia, which surprised me, since it seemed to me that most repairs were done with only local anesthetic. When I asked Dr. Chemparathy about this, he suggested that my mesh repair required “extensive dissection” which required general anesthesia.

Mesh was placed behind the abdominal wall at the site of the hernia, a mesh plug was inserted into the hernia, and mesh was placed over the abdominal wall at the site. The surgical wound was closed with seven staples. The procedure took about forty-five minutes.

Immediately after waking up in the post anesthetic recovery ward, I could definitely feel the surgical site. It wasn’t excruciating pain, but it wasn’t comfortable. It felt almost as though I had a severe cramp in the area.

The nurse asked if I felt pain, and I answered that I did. “Are you sure?” she asked. “You got quite a lot of anesthesia in surgery.”

“I feel pain, but it’s tolerable,” I answered. She offered morphine, which I accepted. I got the sense that her question about pain was routine, to ensure that I actually needed morphine. Understandable, but odd, because yes, I was sure I was feeling pain.

Immediately after morphine was administered via the IV drip, the pain subsided, but was still noticeable. I was in the ward for about forty-five minutes, and was administered another round of morphine before being sent to the general ward. It hurt much less after the second dose.

As mentioned, the pain was tolerable. I’d describe it as moderate, or perhaps a five on a scale of zero (no pain) to ten (worst pain I ever felt).

In the general ward, a nurse gave me a prescription for Ketorolac, Percocet, Docusate Sodium tablets, and Lactulose liquid. Ketorolac is an anti-inflammatory and pain medication; Percocet is a morphine-based opiate, which, I was warned, can cause severe constipation. Docusate Sodium is a stool softener. Lactulose is a no-kidding-around laxative.

Constipation is not something one wants to deal with immediately after abdominal surgery. In the many months leading up to my operation, I’d read virtually everything about the surgery. I knew about its potential complications both acute and chronic, the recovery period and what I might expect, and the average long-term outcome, but I hadn’t anticipated an interruption to bowel routine at all. It turned out that its prospect was probably the worst thing I had to endure.

I was discharged from hospital after another forty or fifty minutes. Alex helped me dress. It would have been impossible to do so alone. It was difficult to stand; the pain was more severe when standing or sitting. Getting into the car was difficult, but not as problematic as I thought it might be. Driving home over a less-than-perfect road was probably the worst part of the day, since each pothole sent me swerving side-to-side in my seat, putting pressure on the surgical site. Not pleasant.

I was in hospital a total of about four and a half hours, from being admitted at about 8:00AM, to surgery at about 10:00AM, and finally being discharged sometime after noon.

At home

I was able to walk around somewhat when I got home, though it wasn’t very comfortable to do so. I lay on the couch in an upright position for a long time. This was the only position that was possible. Sitting was out. Standing for too long was out. Walking was painful. Lying upright was most comfortable.

I had some food, and stood in the back yard for a short while, but eventually I had to make my way upstairs to my bedroom. Climbing fourteen steps was difficult — it had to be done one step at a time — but much easier than I’d anticipated. I laid in bed for another long while, then made my way downstairs in the evening, where I did some light chores — moving dishes around, that sort of thing. I’d read that walking was absolutely essential in the first few days, to keep the blood circulating, to prevent constipation, and to generally help the surgical site heal more quickly. It wasn’t very comfortable, but I was determined to stay as mobile as was possible.

First night of sleep

I was in bed by about 10:00PM that night, and had taken three 10 milligram doses of Ketorolac by then. I’d decided against the Percocet, since I thought the side effects were worse than the benefits. I didn’t take the Docusate Sodium or Lactulose, as I didn’t think I’d need either.

The only possible sleeping position was lying upright, with my back supported by the headboard. Lying flat was not possible, and lying on either side was absolutely out of the question. I was asleep fairly quickly.

I awoke about 4AM, and had to use the bathroom. By this time, the local anesthetic as well as the Ketorolac had largely worn off, so I was in some discomfort. Getting out of bed from my half-lying-down, half-seated position was very difficult, shuffling to the bathroom was unpleasant, and trying to sit down once arrived was excruciating. Only by supporting myself on an ideally-situated toilet paper roll holder and the edge of the bathtub did I manage to ease down enough to go.

I was happy to go — one of the complications I’d read about was swelling at the site that pressed against the bladder and resulted in urinary retention, requiring a trip to the emergency department for insertion of a catheter. I was actually very apprehensive about that, and so was glad to pee, painful as everything was. Getting back into bed was also difficult and uncomfortable, but I fell asleep fairly quickly until about seven-thirty.

There were some surprises in store for day two.

1. Dr. Dwight Prodger is Joseph Brant Memorial Hospital’s Vice President of Medical Affairs, and a member of the Ontario Hospital Association’s “Physician Provincial Leadership Council”. This council facilitates the relationship between doctors and hospitals. the PULSE, November 2010.

It happened so very quickly. From the instant I saw the animal until I realized we’d hit it, a second, or less, had passed, but in the strange chronology of the mind, it seemed to take much longer, and so very much happened. While Alex and I were chatting, his head down looking at the map, I suddenly saw a coyote at full gallop less than a metre away from the front end of the car, its path perfectly perpendicular to ours. I saw its yellow-brown fur, and the reticulated pattern on it, like a tiger’s, running down the length of its body. In a microsecond, I saw its eyes, intent on the safe side of the road ahead of it. I thought I could avoid it. My foot came off the gas and hovered for another tiny slice of the second above the break, and I jerked the car to the left, slightly. But there is no median on this high-speed road, and cars were coming toward us. It would do no good. I was going to strike this animal with the full force of my car, speeding at eighty kilometres an hour, and neither I nor the poor coyote would be able to stop it, and so I simply did the only thing possible, and continued along a straight path, and ran into the side of its beautiful, wild body.

I immediately slowed, looking in the rearview mirror. I could see a small piece of the car, but the coyote wasn’t there. I thought by some miracle I had only glanced it, and it had simply run off into the fields to the north. But I suddenly realized it was still under the car, and we were still moving, at maybe fifty kilometres per hour. Just at that instant, there was a loud thud, and, as I pulled onto the shoulder, there it was, about twenty metres behind.

I was stunned. Alex was overcome. A truck pulled off the road ahead of us, and a man got out, pulling on gloves. I rolled down the window, and glanced in the mirror. To my utter horror, the coyote’s head lifted off the road, wobbling. It was still alive. The man came to the window, and said he’d drag it off the road to avoid an accident. Perhaps he didn’t realize it wasn’t dead. For some reason, I said nothing, and got out of the car to see the poor thing lurch up, and hobble, in agony, onto the shoulder, limping as though one of its legs were crushed, or torn off. I felt sick, and Alex was leaning against the roof of the car, his face hidden.

Realizing that the animal was alive, the man told me to call the Humane Society. This I could do. I couldn’t help the coyote. I couldn’t even bring myself to approach it and look at the state it was in, and the immenseness of the suffering it was experiencing and which I caused. But I could call for help. I got back in the car and made the call.

Because of the proximity to Oakville, and the state of the various services in the two cities, it took three phone calls and an exasperating voicemail trap before I spoke to someone. When I hung up, I got out of the car, and watched from a distance while the man, and now two others, crowded around the wounded animal and did what they could.

“I can’t go over there,” Alex said.

“I know.” But I could go, and I had to. There was no helping it, but I should at least look at what had happened. And so I walked slowly toward it, expecting the worst. Nobody looked up as I approached. One of them had put a blanket over its body. It was curled up as though it was ready for a nap, but its head was up, and it was alert, looking at us with its yellow eyes. Its breathing was laboured; it was almost panting for breath. Blood spilled out of its mouth freely, and the foreleg that I could see, poking out from under the blanket, was soaked with it. There was a trail of bright red blood leading right up to where it lay, and I suddenly realized that I was standing in it.

A van appeared, and a woman in uniform got out. The first man was actually handling the coyote’s head, petting it, and she warned him not to touch it. It could, after all, be rabid. But it was not rabid. It was strong and healthy before the impact. The fur was thick at its ears, and its eyes, even now, were bright, alert, beautiful, and wild, even as it struggled to stay alive.

“It’s a good thing it’s winter,” the woman said. “No pups left alone.” So it was female. “Anyone know what happened?” An older man said that someone had hit it and driven off.

“No,” I said, “I’m the one who hit it.”

She got on the phone to the police, and described where we were. Someone wondered why the police were called. The older man suggested it needed to be shot.

For some reason, I thought this woman from the Humane Society would have everything she needed in her van, and would be able to euthanize it immediately. She explained that she would never touch a wild animal so severely injured, and neither would any veterinarian. The only alternative was to shoot it.

“You should all leave,” she said. “You don’t want to be around when it’s shot.”

I simply looked down at it for a second, panting blood, its injuries dramatic. If it wasn’t euthanized, it would simply die in an hour, or two, all the while in some kind of agony I don’t want to imagine. I suppose I looked distraught, because the older man took my arm warmly and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t worry,” he said, “there’s nothing you can do on these roads. And it won’t be much longer.”

And so, as they drifted away, I simply thanked the ones who had stopped, and I thanked the woman from the van, and I went back to the car.

Alex was still upset, his hands mostly covering his face. “Should I take us home?” I asked.

“No, we should go hiking.”

And so we did.

In Speyside, the trail is beautiful and tight, and crowded with fragrant cedars growing from fissures in the ancient rock of the escarpment, split from centuries of ice and rain. It snowed last night. The trail was undisturbed. Snow capped the rocks, and coated each needle on every evergreen. It was quiet, except for the occasional call of a crow, and the crack of wood in the distance.

Nobody had passed the trail here before us — the snow was pristine. The only tracks were those of coyotes, following the natural depression the trail made, moving ahead of us in what appeared to be a gallop; two animals, traveling side by side and marking the snow on our beloved Bruce Trail, hunting rabbits, or simply running freely through the forest. We followed for a while, and once, we missed the marked path and had to double back.

I loved the impression of those tracks. Here, they galloped, and here, they slowed, walking close together. They traveled along the path for what seemed like a long way. I could follow them all day. But soon, the tracks left the main trail and headed off into the trees, and disappeared from sight.

Canada’s current government is focused mostly on raising the spectre of criminal activity, despite the fact that the government’s own statistics show the national crime rate to have been falling steadily in virtually every area since 2004.¹ Of all the pages detailing policy in its 2008 platform, a full 29% mention crime, violence, punishment, penalties, prison, criminal conduct, or tough laws. The government is also fixated on military engagement and the open encouragement of nationalism.

[Addendum, April 21, 2009: Statistics Canada reports that serious crime was at a thirty-year low before the Conservative anti-crime campaign began.²]

Its actions in these and other areas before the 2006 election and subsequently have demonstrated the Party, and Mr. Harper in particular, to be concerned with populism. As a result, they have shown a remarkable disdain for parliamentary democracy, the traditions of a free media, intellectualism, and for anything that does not on its surface appeal to the basest political appetites of Canadians.

It’s simple to examine this government’s three short years of life to peel away the populist policy promulgations, and begin to reveal that long sought-after hidden Conservative agenda. In a morass of breaches lesser and greater, a few particularly egregious offences stand out. And so, in a series of articles, in neither chronological order nor in any sequence of terribleness, I present the Conservative government’s Shameful Acts.

But let’s begin before it even all got started.

1. Breaking Canada’s election laws

Apparently in order to circumvent national campaign spending limits during the 2006 federal election, the Conservative party engaged in an “in and out” scheme. The Party’s national headquarters transferred money to local ridings, which immediately sent the money back using pre-signed bank transfers, claiming it had been spent on campaign advertising. However, the “local” ads were identical to national campaign ads, with only the addition of local candidate information at the end. The result was not only spending beyond the legislated limits by more than a million dollars, but a loss of almost one million dollars to taxpayers, since sixty percent of the costs of the ads were claimed as refundable expenses by local candidates.³

During routine audits, Elections Canada, the independent body overseeing the election process, uncovered the discrepancies, and in April 2008, the RCMP raided the Party’s national headquarters to seize documents related to the scheme. During its investigation, Elections Canada discovered that local Conservative candidates did not know which ads the payments were for,⁴ presumably because the bank transfers were pre-signed by the national Party.

In other words, local candidates were sent money by the Party to fund their campaigns. The candidates immediately returned the money to pay for their campaign advertising, which they had no part in creating, and which they apparently never saw or approved. The local campaigns then collectively claimed that Canadian taxpayers owed them a million dollars in refunds to be processed by Elections Canada. In other strata of society, this kind of willful flouting of financing rules is known as “money laundering”. The euphemistic “violations of the Elections Act” of which they were accused would, if it were any other piece of legislation and any other component of society, be called “breaking the law”.

There is much more shameful behaviour in this story after the Conservatives came to power, including: the Conservatives’ refusal to cooperate with a House investigation into the matter; representatives being told by the Party not to show up after being summoned by the investigative Committee; the Party’s refusal to express confidence in Elections Canada by voting against a symbolic motion put forward by the Bloc Québécois to do so; and Conservative campaign chair Doug Finley’s bizarre crashing of the Committee, apparently in some Orwellian attempt to intimidate Conservative witnesses.⁵ After refusing to leave, he was forced out by security personnel.

The entire “in and out” episode has been described by critics as “disdain for democracy”, and by some Conservatives as a betrayal of the Party’s vision.

1. CBCNews.ca, Snapshot: Crime in Canada 2007, July 17, 2008.
2. The Canadian Press, Crime rate hit 30-year low in 2007, The Toronto Star, April 21, 2009.
3. Richard Brennan, Furor over campaign funds heats up, The Toronto Star, October 27, 2007.
4. Scandalpedia.ca, The In and Out Scam.
5. Peter Zimonjic, Conservative candidates felt betrayed, Northern News, August 2008.