This Low Vantage

It has been a long time since we ventured to the park. The snow has been deep and heavy and I have been lazy and slow-moving. But the morning was bright and clear and quiet, as I prefer, and Duncan, standing at my feet in the kitchen, watching me prepare his breakfast of salmon and blueberries, pumpkin and carrots, gave me that look, one eyebrow raised with just a hint of a tail wag and a bum wiggle, seemed to be asking for a good game of fetch out on the wide, empty fields. So I donned my jacket and gloves and boots and took him across the street where we can run and throw our arms out wide and laugh without care.

The snow has compacted and hardened and is no longer deep and difficult to navigate. It is hard, with a nice solid crust, a fine dusting resting on top, and we barely made tracks as we traveled across it. Duncan danced at my side, occasionally throwing himself into it for a good roll that left him nearly as dry at the end as he'd been at the beginning. We threw the ball a good long while, back and forth across the covered soccer field, squinting and smiling into the sun, enjoying the cool on our faces and the slim, naked spot between the end of my gloves and the start of my sleeve. The snow was covered with goose tracks and when fetch grew boring and we just wanted to move and listen to the rhythmic crunch of the snow underfoot, we walked and walked, following the erratic paths of the birds who had come and then gone, leaving nothing behind––not even the green slime of their Tootsie Roll droppings––except a record of their soft weight imprinted on the snow.

Their paths are funny things to follow as they have no direction but a simple line forward, a strange twist here and there that sometimes doubles back on itself, and then another odd plod forward. With Duncan at my side I picked a trail and we set off after it, moving forward a long distance, sometimes meeting up with and dancing around the prints of other geese, then moving away on its own, off toward a big elm, perhaps to search for seeds abandoned by the squirrels or the crows or the thick, tight fists of early buds pulled free by the wind. It made a lazy arc around the fenced edge of the baseball diamond then came back out into the wide open space under the sky where it joined up briefly with another. They walked awhile together, side by side but not too close, and perhaps together they were able to look up and see the pink and gold smear of the sunrise, or perhaps the sunset, and enjoy it as surely geese must, being as acquainted with it as they are. Eventually they moved on, my goose off on its own, the other, the stranger, back toward the large matted spot where the rest of the flock had gathered, their feet softening the snow while the warmth of their bodies melted it, exposing the yellow and brown tangled mash of frozen grass beneath.

In a wide clearing, free of tracks, the tracks became deeper and further apart and then stopped entirely. Except for a few scattered clumps of snow a few feet beyond, it ceased to exist and all I could do was turn my face up into the morning blue and wonder which direction it had gone. Was it now in the golf course across the street behind my apartment, or had it circled around and headed toward the lake to join up with the hundreds of others who gather there, mingling among the reeds with the ducks and the occasional pelican?

But it did not matter. Destination rarely does, really. Flight was what mattered and soon I was envisioning myself in its place, tethered to the ground by the weight of my body and the spinning of the earth beneath my booted feet and then suddenly not. With a scoff at gravity I leapt into the air, felt the rush of it against my face, the sucking rise of my belly, the warm pull of the sun and the freedom to spread myself out and go any direction I chose. Freedom like I have not experienced in a very long time.

There are many paths in this world. It's important for me to remember that not all of them are defined by dirt and grass and flowers blooming in the trees along the shore of the lakes. Some paths are carved among the clouds. Some paths follow the wind. Some cut high across he plains, so high they cast no shadows. Some are not as treacherous as they seem from this low vantage.

There is joy to be had among the clouds, where there is a whole new way of dancing to be rediscovered.

King of the Mountain

It has been two weeks since our last major snowfall––the one that dumped over twenty-four inches onto our small corner of the world––and although the grounds are now walkable, and the trail Duncan and I have carved out isn't quite as treacherous, there are areas of the surrounding parking lot that are still quite challenging. The management of our apartment complex recently contracted with a new snow removal company, but they haven't proven as proficient as the previous removers. And so mountains of snow have been erected all over the place, which can make driving through it a problem. Some of these snow piles stretch far out into our parking spaces and rise six to eight feet above us. Trees have been practically buried up to their lowest boughs and the shrubs and low bushes where the small birds roost have all but vanished. Duncan, lover of all things snowy and wet, doesn't mind so much, and prefers to climb the highest of peaks, which can make walking him, especially at night, a bit awkward. I can't tell you the number of times I've dropped his leash and watched him scurry to the top only to slide on his back down the other side, a grin spread wide across his face, unmindful and uncaring of the ice that clings to his ears and back. His new preference is to get as high as he can and leave his mark, a frozen yellow flag that none of the other dogs can reach. Sometimes, though, he'll struggle up the crusted, pebbled side just to sit and gaze out over his kingdom, looking into the sun, watching the hawks circle overhead and the clouds moving across the cold, blue sky.

Sometimes I watch him, looking out and cocking his head this way and that, and wish he had command of words and could put his thoughts to paper. He studies this world, its moving and especially its stillness, like a poet and his thoughts must surely be profound.

His awe at the marvel of life is one of the blessings of mine.

Plodding Through

Although the weather has been much nicer the past few days, much of the snow we got last week is still here and still deep especially on the northward side of things. Duncan doesn't walk through it so much as swim in high, arching undulations that leave him exhausted. I tromp slowly behind, my boots heavy and awkward, trying to follow him as fast as I can. Sometimes all I can see of him over the drifts is the red flapping flag of his tail. So I whistle until a nose appears and settles in one place until I catch up.

It is all I can do to keep up though, and despite his love of it, and my love of his love of it, we tire quickly and return home, me for a nice warm cup of tea and Dunc to curl up on the couch and cuddle with his pillows.

Winter ain't easy, but the downtime is quite nice.

"More?"

There are no finer words than "Snow Day" and this holds especially true for Duncan, who loves the stuff as much as I love just about everything else. It started last night and has been coming down in thick, heavy tufts ever since. Duncan was awake before anyone else––even fat Olive, who starts demanding breakfast early––poking his head through the blinds to peek out the window then stepping around the side of the bed to touch his nose to mine in an effort to wake me up. And when that didn't work he was back at the blinds, his head disrupting them like a soft clamor of bells. Finally he succeeded to rouse me and we were off.

It's slow going when the snow reaches over your boots and past your dog's shoulders, but he is tireless and stops often to urge me on, barking softly while his tail swats angel wing imprints behind him. And then as soon as I've caught up he's off again, forcing me to follow his erratic trail, around trees, through shrubs, then down into deep drifts. But this is what he loves and because I love him more I follow, a smile on my face as I go.

When we're inside, after a nice foot-rinse in the tub, he stands on the patio, his head hanging between the bars, and looks down on the world, filling and rising up below us, the ground seeming closer and closer each hour. And he watches me, turning his head over his shoulder every now and then as though to ask, "More?"

More? I wonder. I appreciate not going in to the office today but do we really need more?

Frenzy

What the heck??? It's my birthday. I should be the one waiting for someone to serve me dinner!

 

(Honestly, though, it was a little creepy to turn around and discover four sets of eyes focused on me. I was almost afraid to move for fear of inciting a feeding frenzy!)

While I Was Working

Someone raided the toy box, which is supposed to be locked up tight when we're gone. I might have to rethink that.

An Evening Interrupted

It was a Saturday night bath like any good Saturday night bath: a steaming hot tub, a tall glass of ice water sitting nearby, beads of water sweating down its sides, a good book on the Kindle and nowhere to go. The cats usually hover around the edge, staring down at the water and me relaxing in it as though perplexed as to why I'd do such a silly thing, occasionally dipping a curious paw into my glass or battling at the water with quick, furious jabs, but last night they were absent, leaving me in peace. I hadn't been in very long before I decided to put the Kindle down and close my eyes to listen to the soft drip of the water from the faucet. The serenity was shattered quite unexpectedly by the poke of a cold nose against my temple, a great heave immediately followed by a splash and Duncan's sudden appearance in the middle of my relaxing soak. His wet tail slapped me in the face as he turned around to face me and give me a quick lick on the nose, his eyes bright and wide, a smile on his face as he stood right on top of me in the belly deep water.

It was all the signal I needed, so first thing this morning Roo got a bath all to himself, with me helping with the scrubbing and rinsing and toweling while Ken snapped a few blurry pictures of the now sorry-looking dog. He truly doesn't mind the tub, despite the woeful look on his face. After a walk in the snow he typically marches straight to the bathroom and climbs in the tub so I can rinse the ice that's been embedded out from under the pads of his feet. And nothing beats a good toweling off as he stretches and moans and pushes himself against me. He is not a dog who dislikes a bath.

Maybe he'll think twice next time about sending such a clear message, though.

Old and New

January is a tiring time. The end of the year brings so much reflections on our blessings and the challenges we have faced, but January is daunting. Stepping out and walking through the park each day with Duncan sometimes feels like pulling that big book off the shelf, the one I've been meaning to get to but have ignored over and over. The pages are white and heavy and unfamiliar and it just seems to take so long to discover the joy of the characters and language and voice of the author. January is that big empty page and the whole year looms ahead waiting to be written. And as we walk I worry that perhaps I've told the same stories one too many times, that they're tired and couldn't possibly be of any interest to anyone.

But then I watch Duncan run across the wide fields, stirring up the countless geese which have taken to ground, polluting our grass with their strange footprints and their green leavings. I stand back and watch his exuberance and listen to the geese cackle at his sudden rush, then the heavy beat of their wings as they take flight, and I think, "This is a story I don't mind visiting again and again. It is beautiful and remarkable and his delight is worth another thousand words. I could tell it over and over again. And it would still be new."

This January Morning

Everything the same; everything distinct. (Chien-ju)

There are few things that mean as much to me as a morning walk after an evening snow with Duncan, when the world is still silent and the blanket still smooth, the sky bright and high and his joy unquenchable. I am not a churchgoing fellow but on mornings like this, when every branch and blade, when even the fading red and browns of the bricks or the warping wood of a park bench are breathtaking in their purity, I can understand why others believe in God. I choose to believe in the beauty of this world and that is salvation enough for me. It is easy when the sun, still new to the morning, barely caresses the uppermost branches of the cottonwoods and the snow, settled and sleepy, stirs and dances its way earthward, quilting the ground around the fat trunk with its impression. How can I not when the flitting flakes shimmer in the sun like snow-pixies around the inquisitive head of my curious Golden boy?

There is much to be grateful for, and even more for which to be in awe. Perhaps someday, on a January morning such as this, we will walk together and Duncan will show you things that will make you believe in magic again.

A Change of Scenery

I have been struggling not just with words lately but with Duncan as well.

It seems, despite the glorious weather and the plethora of geese which have invaded and polluted our park, cackling and taunting and begging to be chased from their green poop roosts on the ground and back into the air, Duncan and I are both suffering through the winter doldrums. And we have somehow fallen out of sync.

It has been a frustrating couple of weeks for both of us. We sit on the couch sighing and staring at one another, tripping around each other whenever we move, walking aimlessly unaware of each other. And for Duncan there has been downright defiance. He's always been attracted to the green Tootsie Roll droppings of the geese and each year it seems I need to break him of his habit of slurping them up each chance he gets, but this year it's been particularly difficult. Sometimes he stares at me while he inhales them and refuses to come when called. I've resorted to temporarily using his prong collar but even that seems to have no effect. He's fine when he's on it but after a few days of retraining he reverts right back to his rebellious ways, a look on his face that I read as willful impudence. I have rewarded him when he's done as I wish and scolded him when he doesn't. And he doesn't seem to care either way. There have been treats and games and trips to the dog park, afternoons spent chasing the geese away, long cuddles at night, but neither of us seem to have our hearts in it.

And so we've been silent, watching the sun stay longer in the sky and waiting for the changes that this new year is certain to bring. Ken and I are discussing finding a house we can rent, one with a yard for Roo, more centrally located, saving us both long commutes and giving us more time at home with Duncan and the cats. A change of scenery might be just what the doctor ordered.

The Path Beckons

Duncan and I took our last good walk of the year just before the sun was setting, down the winding trail I've carved out of the snow in The Run. The light was golden, the snow was blue on the ground and my good dog was leading the way, ever onward.

It has been a good year for me, the best since that terrible Spring of 2005. I see on Facebook and in listening to my friends that many people were not as fortunate as I have been. I have a good job and a nice home. The love of my life has returned and we've been working on forging out our future together. My family is beautiful and perfect. I am aware of my blessings and do not take a single one for granted. And on windy afternoons such as this, with the world painted in the final exquisite light of the year, I count them again and again and turn my face toward the coming year and hope that it can be even better. Not just for me, but for everyone.

I do not know where our walks will lead but the path beckons and Duncan and I will always follow.

Blessings to you in the new year. And thank you.

A Thief in the Night

There are two trees in this home: the big one for the two-legged folk (although you'd think Pip and Olive had broken into our stash of catnip and were stoned out of their minds with the amount of time they spend laying under it staring into the branches and lights, not touching anything, just staring with wide eyes) and the small tree for the four-legged members of the household. The big tree is real and smells wonderful and is covered in countless fancy ornaments. The small one is fake and bendy and smells like the Rubbermaid container where we store it and is decorated with those ornaments that we've somehow acquired over the years––a few Precious Moments collectibles that hurt my teeth to even look at, a Boba Fett ornament, a gangly cowboy and a pastel pony for him to ride, just to name a few. They have been given to us by co-workers and misguided friends, or people who don't exactly share our taste in holiday decor. It's not an ugly tree by any means but it's not the one we display prominently. It can be knocked over with minimal fuss and should one of the ornaments break we wouldn't really be upset.

For the most part Duncan and the cats are very good about the trees. Olive does occasionally give in to her weakness for wrapping paper and bows, but generally speaking everyone has a very clear understanding that the trees are for looking at, not touching.

One member of our household, though, has taken an interest in a particular ornament and can't seem to contain his desire to simply look at it. The small, fuzzy Golden Retriever wearing the Santa cap and scarf has captured Duncan's interest and there's almost nothing I can do to stop it. It's not enough for it to sit under the tree, right up front, prominently displayed. No, it needs to be carried around in his mouth, tucked under his paws, hidden from view when he sits on the couch, carried to the food bowl and back, and buried among his other toys where it can't be easily discovered.

Duncan has learned our routine. At night he knows when the TV is turned off and the teeth are brushed and when we amble around in the dark turning off the lights that it's time for bed. Typically he'll either climb onto the bed or curl up among the blankets and pillows in his kennel. Since Christmas erupted in our apartment and the ornament has made its appearance, he has taken to staying in his spot under the coffee table and waiting until we're in bed before he joins us. It's when the lights are out that he sneaks the ornament out from under the tree, being careful not to disturb anything else, and retires to his "room," the Retriever cupped gently in his mouth. That's where I find it every morning, wet and scrunched down under the blanket Mom knitted for him or resting under one of his Pooh Bear's paws. Unlike his other toys he does not chew on it, merely slobbers it to death. And because it's so cute and he's so innocent about it, I let it happen. Whenever I take it from him he looks at me with his big, doleful brown eyes, somewhat embarrassed at being caught again, but he watches and waits for the next opportunity to snatch it away from the tree where he alone can appreciate its Christmas magic.

 

First Christmas

It has been a busy week. Ken and I finally decided that we wanted to stay here together for Christmas, with Duncan and the cats, and start our own tradition rather than separate and go home for the holidays as usually happens. So we decided that in in honor of our first Christmas back together after a two year separation we'd go all out. We bought our first Christmas tree since 2005, dragged out all the decorations we've amassed over the past sixteen years, and have spent our free time making the apartment look as though the North Pole exploded all over it. Duncan and the cats have been quite patient and well-behaved. There have been no incidents involving the digestion of tinsel or marking of the tree. In fact, Pip, Olive and Winnie have spent much of their time laying peacefully under the tree gazing up at the lights and shadows among the thick branches. Duncan was initially a bit unsure of the Santa I put up in the window but he seems to have come to terms with his presence here.

We even put up the Christmas village my grandmother hand-painted. And Ken had the great idea of stringing icicle lights around the edge of the ceiling in the kitchen so they look like stars shining over it.

 

This Christmas will be the first in my life I haven't been home with my family in Idaho but I'm looking forward to the time with Ken and the new traditions we'll start together. Duncan will miss running across Mom's mountain and watching the herds of deer as they move across her yard under the pale Idaho moon, but we'll find a way to make it up to him.

I have no doubt there is love enough in this home to make up for all the things that will be missed.

I Remember

I love the mornings, especially the snowy ones. I love the deep silence of the world and the sound of snow falling on other snow, through the branches of the Aspens and willows. I love that first plunge outside when the wind swirls around my ankles as though sniffing me out for weak spots, pulling dancing flakes around me as it goes. I love the music of silence and snow and the bass rhythm of my feet pushing through the soft sift, the crunch, as satisfying as walking through piles of leaves in October.

I tend to forget these things, though. Snow, it seems, like time, whitewashes my memory, ensconcing its rough edges and straight plains with the crystalline ivory of winter's down. But Duncan is here to remind me, as he did this morning when I woke before him, tiptoed down the hall and into the kitchen where I put my water on to boil. I pulled the blinds and looked out on the swirling white of this December morning and caught my breath. It was beautiful, looking over the golf course and the park and the mountains beyond them, the clouds low and white, the ground and trees the color of the sky. But it looked cold and I'd almost made up my mind to climb back into bed when I felt the cool nudge of Duncan's nose in my palm. He had crept out of bed, tousle-headed and quiet to stand with me at the window, his still-lazing tail making a feeble wag and thump against my calf.

"Do you know," I asked him, my voice soft in the quiet of the apartment, "how much I love you?" I turned and gestured out the window. "I love you this much, Roo, enough to go out in that." He nudged me with his cheek, like a cat, and plopped down to watch me change my clothes, make a production out of pulling my boots and hat on, struggle with the zipper on my coat, slide my hands into my gloves, still wet from last night's last walk. And when I was done he was waiting, his soft weight pressed against me, his eyes lit up as though to say, "You love this; you've just forgotten is all. We'll remember it together. I'll show you. Trust me."

And so I did. I stepped out into the breezeway, down the stairs and out into a world that was swirling and churning, cold on my face and those narrow places on my wrists that poke through between the coat sleeve and the glove. Duncan trotted through the snow, pushing it forward, little balls of it riding the crest like dolphins before a ship. He ran forward like I run on late Spring days when the Russian Olives are in bloom and I don't want to miss a single moment of their existence, a single fragrance or tiny yellow petal, when life seems so full but so short and there is much to be absorbed to earn my way into the next life. Duncan ran like that, here and there, from the fence to the low shrubs, to the patios where other dogs watched, dry but with the tips of their noses white and shiny with cold.

And then halfway down The Run he stopped, suddenly and sharp, the snow rising in cartoon-perfect clouds behind him. He turned his face up to the low sky, closed his eyes and breathed in the tumbling flakes, some of them falling on the soft skin of his eyelids. I was next to him wondering what it was that had caught his attention when the sound of the chimes from a balcony above us drifted into my ears. They churned softly in the spinning air, random, twinkling aluminum and bamboo notes caught on the wind, a quiet tune played only for the two of us. Duncan did not know them for what they were and I wondered if he thought, "Ah, the sound of winter." And his wonderment became my wonderment and it was then that I remembered I love these mornings, perhaps more than Spring mornings among the bees and the new grass bending up through dark earth. I pulled the hat from my head and turned my face into the falling snow and breathed it in as my dog was teaching me to do, and those chimes sounded like the way I imagine heaven must sound.

Where my dog goes I will follow. Always.