The Grant
I was no expert on funding grant applications—it’s fair to say I knew nothing about them at all—but Aimz’s presentation seemed bloody good to me. Professional. To the point. All bases covered. I felt comfortable just sitting back and watching the process play out. Aimz had told me in no uncertain terms, ‘I don’t need you to say anything. Just be there to support me’.
So, there I was, being supportive as instructed. For all my weaknesses, I felt as though I was reliable at always having her back. I was ‘a good boy’ as she often said. An outsider may have at times found the way Aimz spoke to me not unlike how you might address a beloved family dog, but the truth was I didn’t mind. There’s a lot to like about dogs, and even more to learn from them about how to enjoy life. How to be loyal. How to be flawed and get away with it. Dogs never let their egos get in the way. In any given moment, they either enjoy what’s happening to them or they don’t enjoy it, and they’re upfront in letting you know the truth about which one it is. What anyone else might think about how they should feel is of no consequence, which seems like a pretty good way to go through life if you ask me.
That said, the funding grant application process was not about me and my thoughts on dog mentality. It was all about Aimz. The whole farce of making her stand up in front of a panel of three council representatives while they pretended to be high court judges seemed a tad pretentious. All we wanted to know was whether her application for a twenty-five-thousand-dollar grant had been successful.
I felt confident that Trevor Grimes—the main guy sitting in the middle—was on her side. His niece was one of Aimz’s best friends. The only potential issue for Trevor, as our local mayor, was whether that friendship created a conflict of interest. If it had, he should have removed himself from the entire process. The woman sitting on Trevor’s left didn’t know Aimz at all and she seemed impressed by her presentation. There was a distinctly positive and welcoming look in her eye. My main concern was what the little guy on Trevor’s right was thinking. He hadn’t smiled or relaxed since we entered the room. I doubt he’d connected with another human being on an emotional level in his whole working life. He looked analytical and shifty, so I didn’t trust him at all.
A basic, white plastic clock with black hands hovered above me on the wall beside my right shoulder. Its relentless tick tick tick wormed into my ear like Chinese drip torture, while Trevor and the shifty little guy whispered to each other secretively, apparently trying to resolve one final element of their decision. The shifty guy did most of the talking while Trevor nodded agreeably. An arm’s length outside their conversation, the woman sat patiently, all too familiar with the painstakingly slow decision-making habits of some council administrators. She offered Aimz a reassuring smile to suggest she already knew there would be a positive outcome.
Aimz smiled back at the woman and shrugged nervously. It took every ounce of self-restraint for me to not tug at Aimz’s sleeve and point out how much the woman looked like ex-Australian Prime Minister, Julia Gillard, had Julia opted for a nose ring and a pixie cut. Something about Aimz’s taut body language suggested it was not the time for such a humorous observation.
I twisted uncomfortably in my chair, willing the two men to hurry up and make a decision so I could get out of their torture room and go to the toilet. I should have gone on the way in, but we were running late. If I’d known the whole process was going to take so long, I would have told Aimz to go ahead without me. It wouldn’t have made any difference to the outcome of her grant application, me only being there in my capacity as a loyal mutt. If I was an actual dog I could have peed on the carpet, and no one would have judged me for it. They would most likely have blamed themselves for keeping me in there too long, which they had.
“Okay then!” Trevor barked abruptly. “I’m sorry Mrs King, but after much consideration, we unfortunately have no choice but to decline your application.”
Before hearing the word ‘consideration’, I saw Aimz’s shoulders slump and her fingers curl into an anxious fist.
“Do you mind if I ask why?” Her voice was noticeably shaky. “Is there something I can change to make this work?”
“Not on your own.” Trevor shuffled Aimz’s application papers into a neat pile and tapped the bottom firmly on his desk. “The truth is we don’t see you as having adequate experience to run an event like this.”
Aimz made eye contact with the Julia Gillard lookalike, questioning her reassurances. The real Julia would have stood up and made an inspirational speech about sexism and misogyny, holding a mirror to the two men sitting beside her, neither of whom had—in all probability— adequate experience to be passing judgement. Lookalike Julia, equally as surprised and disappointed as Aimz, lowered her eyes to the desk and offered no resistance.
“But,” Trevor continued, “what I will do, Mrs King, is put you in touch with someone who we believe can help you get this across the line. Her name is Siobhan O’Hagan. Give her a call and see what you can come up with.”
“Sure, thanks.”
Aimz winced fleetingly over her shoulder, embarrassed that I was there to witness what I knew she would have considered an epic failure. She absorbed failure much more readily than she let it go, allowing it to fester and drag her down for weeks. To wrap itself around her heart and squeeze out the joy until time allowed her the opportunity to heal, which required a lot more time for my innately self-abasing wife than it did for me.
But that was Aimz. My job was to support her no matter what happened. I just wasn’t mentally or emotionally prepared on this occasion, because I didn’t see the rejection coming.
