A Scourge of Seeds

When I Am Among the Trees

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
     but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."  

(Mary Oliver)

 

There are few things more wondrous than a tree in Springtime, when it seems to move without moving, to grow and change in the span of an eye-blink. They are living statues, rejoicing so obviously under the tender ministrations and delicate kisses of the new sun. They speak a language only understood by the birds and flowers and insects, and yet one needs only gaze upon them and listen for a few moments to learn the melody they sing so surely with their silent voices. While Duncan tends to walk with his nose and eyes to the ground, my gaze is pointed up, at the dancing tendrils of the willows, at the slowly blooming Russian Olives, at the Linden outside my window that will transform entirely my apartment in a few short weeks. I am in awe of the trees––all trees!––even the scourge of Narrow Leaf Cottonwoods that plague my small corner of the world.

I do not hate them. These cottonwoods, different than the more common Eastern Cottonwood that most people easily recognize, are wonders of Summer, reflecting the light in a way that freckles the world in gold and shade and dancing green shadows, cooling The Run on our afternoon walks. They are never still, even when the air is, and the sound of their leaves brushing against each other are as sweet as the soft twinkling of the chimes that grace my patio. They don't grow as tall as their eastern cousin, and their cotton is fine and beautiful and something I marvel at and don't mind at all. In Autumn they are magnificent, their voices loud, their presence soothing as the leaves turn pale yellow and then fall away where they can dance wild and run in the wind. They are the sentinels of winter, standing guard over the park and The Glen, their pale, rough bark catching the snow and holding it close like a drapery of loose gauze. It is only in Spring that they are a challenge.

It's their seeds I loathe. They are everywhere, impossible to avoid: lurking among the tall grass, polluting the sidewalks as thickly as the spattering of goose-droppings we dodge in winter. They are thorough in their infection of both The Glen and the park. Long and yellow, the seeds are covered in a thick and sickeningly sweet resin that catch the hair of Duncan's feet and collect into a sticky clot under his soft pads. Dunc spends much of our walks laying down to nibble at his feet, pulling on them, tearing the fur from his feet and then sputtering to spit them away before they catch in his whiskers and collect along his muzzle. And once he's done, his belly is covered in the things, which, if left untended, turn into twisted mats that need to be cut away. They are miserable, contagious things and I look forward to the day they have dried up and been carried away by the wind.

They are a nuisance, but only temporarily. In a few weeks they will be gone and the trees where they originated will be more glorious than before. Until that day, though, when they snow magic and bring a warm winter, Duncan and I will tread carefully and await the return of our Lindens and glorious-scented Russian Olives.

Look to the Trees

Every spring is the only spring - a perpetual astonishment. (Ellis Peters)

Yesterday on our first walk, while Duncan paused to sniff in the bushes for Oliver, the Siamese kitten who has only just been allowed to begin exploring the world outside of his patio, I stopped to look at the Linden tree that grows right below my window. Only a few furls of green dotted the dark branches, bright and new, damp with morning dew. Last year at this time the entire tree was adorned and was threatening to unleash its magnificent flowers nearly two months ahead of schedule. Linden is Latvian for July, which is when the tree blooms, painting the bleached, bone-white dog days with bright yellow blossoms and filling my apartment with one of my favorite scents. This year, however, Spring is running behind schedule and the greening has been slow but agonizingly exquisite.

This morning when we ventured out, Duncan again stopped to investigate for signs of the elusive Oliver, and I caught my breath at the sight of the very same tree rising up out of the shrubs, its uppermost branches brushing against my window. It had erupted in leaves, and yesterday's tiny moth wings of green were now flags, bright with certainty against the morning blue.

The same thing happened at The Glen.

In twenty-four hours the Narrow Leaf Cottonwoods (the scourge of my existence) had exploded with leaves, and they aren't done yet. By this afternoon they were even more full and the air was sweet in the way I've been yearning for since September when Autumn became an inevitability and the leaves began to drop in great depressing clumps.

Each Spring is a precious thing, and each time I walk through it I feel as though I am witnessing it for the first time, and appreciate it as though it could be my last. There is no time of year when I feel more alive, more connected to the world. Every morning and every afternoon bring the kind of delight I remember from childhood Christmas mornings. Anything feels possible and everything seems attainable.

What a difference a single day can make, and if you ever doubt that you need only look to the trees on a Spring day.

It's spring fever.  That is what the name of it is.  And when you've got it, 

you want - oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, 

but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so! (Mark Twain)

The Flowers (A Nearly Wordless Wednesday Post)

While I occasionally rush our morning walk, Duncan is always very good at reminding me about what's really important in this life we share.

To be overcome by the fragrance of flowers is a delectable form of defeat.  (Beverly Nichols)

Master of the Game

I have been working on a game with Duncan. In short, I hold a treat in one hand for him to see, then pass it very obviously back and forth from one hand to the other, moving slowly so he can follow along. After a couple of passes I fold my palm up around the treat, hold both hands out for him to see and ask which hand the treat is in––a very rudimentary version of the shell game. While he is very good at picking a hand, he isn't so good at selecting the correct one.

We were sitting on the hillside in The Glen this morning, the sun already high and warm, the grass cool under us, practicing the game. After several attempts at picking the wrong hand I could see he was getting frustrated so I moved slower and even more obvious than before. When it came time to pick a hand, he once again selected the wrong one, sighing and harumphing as he does when the treat eludes him once again. But he is not the kind of dog to grow discouraged so I decided we'd go again.

This time though, when it came time to pick a hand, he surprised me. Once both my hands were held out in front of him, he leaned back and with both paws chose both hands at once. As I was about to laugh he leaned in, slobbered me with a big wet kiss right across my nose and both eyes, knocking me back. Both palms came open at once and while I was falling backward, he leaned in and slurped up the waiting treat. By the time I righted myself he was sitting in front of me calmly, licking the last of the crumbs from his chin, grinning ear to ear, his tail wagging.

Clearly he's mastered my little game.

Bliss

Anticipation is the greater part of pleasure. (Angela Carter)

I love Spring. I love that first perfect weekend when flower boxes seem to demand to be filled with golden pansies, pink snapdragons, and the soft purple of delicate violas. I love the slow greening of the grass and the even slower budding of the trees. I love the explosion of color and the tremendous perfume that fills my morning and evening walks, when the world is quiet and the light is soft. I love the feeling of sunshine on my bare knees and the perpetual squint I wear when we walk into it. I love Spring like I love my memories of childhood, like I love the flavor of peach iced tea, like the dusty yellow blossoms of the Russian Olive trees. If I could find a place of perpetual Spring, with a constant unfolding of riches and rediscovered glories, I could retire there and spend the rest of my days the happiest of men.

But this evening, while making the long drive home across Denver, and then again on my walk with Duncan, I realized that perhaps it is not Spring I cherish so much but the anticipation of it. Our trees are still naked; the first leaves are only now––after three well-earned days of warmth and golden light––beginning to unfurl, their tips moist and shiny like the wings of a newly-hatched butterfly. The air is not yet filled with those fragrances for which I spend my year yearning. Spring has been slow to come, teasing us with hours, and only occasionally a day or two, of genuine brilliance, and has instead played coy behind rain and snow clouds, low grey skies and chilly winds that hardly compliment the season. It has been an early-November spring, the crags of the branches dark and empty against the sky. But now it is here, there is no denying it, and part of me can't help but wish it would never come continue to tease and build, retreat and tease again.

We have spent weeks riding the cusp of Spring, our anticipation growing every day, our dreams unfolding around us. But now she has arrived, we have teetered, finally, away from winter and the promise of summer stands directly in our path. I have relished this slow awakening and want for it to go on and on without end.

With the sky as blue as it was today, and the grass as tall and new and soft around my ankles, how I could want anything else? How could anyone?

Waiting, if you know how to do it right, is bliss.

All Seasons

I have looked at the weather forecast, and while it won't be as nice as I'd like there should be just enough sunshine and warmth to finally coax a green aura from our trees. With any luck this time next week Duncan and I will be walking through all the glory of a Spring we here on the Front Range have more than earned.

March and April are our snowiest months and it's not unheard of to get snow in May, but there was something a little disheartening about the amount of snow and cold we got on May Day, when we should have been picking flowers. Duncan, of course, was ecstatic though, running in circles through the stuff, rolling in it and snorting it while I marveled at his exuberance. It was short-lived however, because a day later it was as though nothing had happened.

For instance, this was a photo I took in the park on May 1st:

And then the same patch of sidewalk, with the same tree twenty-four hours later:

You would think Dunc, who loves winter as much as I love the sun and his dad, wouldn't have been as happy as I was. But Duncan loves this world and this place we call home in all seasons, for whatever it sends our way. He is not picky for he knows that life is wondrous and marvelous and beautiful at all times.

Sunshine dancing on the tips of blades of grass are just as sweet to him as the falling flakes that tickle his nose.

May Day

I'm not sure exactly when the snow started––sometime between when I pulled the blinds and climbed into bed and 5:30 this morning when Pip crawled under the covers and curled up against my chest while Olive perched above me and mewed into my ear, a plaintive, hungry sort of sound that was supposed to summon me from my pillow to make her breakfast. We've been sleeping with the windows open lately, and although they weren't open last night, I'd forgotten to turn the heat on so the apartment was cold. I wrapped myself in a blanket while I stumbled around in the early morning dim, the cats dancing at my feet in anticipation of food. When I pulled the blinds I had to squint into the brightness of the snow and the brilliant white light of the low clouds.

May Day here in Denver. A day that should have found us suffocating under the fragrance of fistfuls of flowers but instead welcomed us with January weather––cold and wet and white and nearly heartbreaking.

At first the snow, sticking to the grass and trees while refusing to settle more than a few seconds on the walkways and road, didn't seem like much. But it was wet, and as Duncan and I walked through it I knew we'd be getting the five to seven inches predicted last night on the news. We trudged along, snow falling down the collar of my shirt, piling up on Roo's back. The robins were still out, clamoring across the parking lot and in the yards, pecking at the worms which had made the mistake of climbing above ground in countless, writhing droves. They squawked loudly as we neared, hopped away until we passed and then resumed their breakfast. Duncan didn't seem interested in the birds or the snow, which is odd, but it was nice to hurry home, where the heat had been turned on and my tea was waiting, steaming in my mug.

By the time I got home ten hours later, though, it was different. The birds had scattered, the snow had piled up high, bending the branches of the trees, and Duncan couldn't wait to get out into it. He danced and whined and jumped while I changed my shoes, grabbed my gloves and scarf and prepared to venture out. And once we were at the park and he was off-leash, he ran and rolled like it was the first snow of the season rather than the last. We had the park to ourselves, which is one of my favorite things. We chased each other, kicked up clouds of wet snow, cracked the quiet with our whoops and hollers and barks, and delighted in marring the pristine blanket for any latecomers foolish enough not to venture out.

I do not like the snow and cold. I do not like heavy socks and boots, coats and scarves. I'm a lover of Spring and Summer, color, brilliant sunshine, and the glory of the Lindens and Russian Olives. But when I watch Roo, when I see his delight and the look on his face, I sometimes think I could live that way forever with him, witnessing and participating in the celebration that is his life.

Dogs make everything worthwhile. Better than that, even. They make everything magical.

Glasses (A Wordless Wednesday Post––On a Tuesday)

Shorts

It was almost 80˚ today, and although most of it was spent in my windowless office, I couldn't stop thinking about how good it would feel to finally get home and be greeted by Roo and the cats at the door, change into more comfortable clothes and talk a nice long walk in the park. While it was not the first time I have worn shorts this Spring, it was the most rewarding. The pair I picked were in a box at the top of my closet with most of my other Summer clothes where I put them when the weather turned and it seemed warm evenings were too far away to even dream about. They were a little tighter around the middle than I remember them being but I was determined to reclaim them, and once Dunc and I were outside and off-leash, with the sun beaming down on us and a cool breeze drifting across the newly-greened grass, they seemed to fit as well as ever. But the best part was that when I reached into the pocket I discovered not only a couple of crumpled doggy bags, but a nice crisp twenty dollar bill wrapped in a Hero's Pets receipt for a couple of bully sticks and a bag of Blueberry Pumpkin Cruncher treats.

If only all my clothes were this magical.

My Sunday: A Bevy of Gratuitous Pee Shots

Sunday has always been my least favorite day of the week, what with all the chores that need tending to––the grocery shopping, the laundry, the vacuuming and cleaning––and the thoughts of the looming work week. But today was beautiful so inbetween the things that required my attention, Duncan and I spent a lot of time outside in the sunshine.

Apparently he had chores as well, most of which consisted of inspecting and reclaiming his territory. Most of our walks today hardly seemed like walks at all but a slow inspection of shrub after shrub, followed by the ritual lifting of his leg while I stood by.

There was our first walk of the morning:

Then there was our walk at 11:

 And our walk at 1:

And then the walk we took at 3:30:

And then we went to the park at 5, which was a good one. He marked his favorite tree, the stump of what was a nice tree until last summer when it was cut down, the fence at the baseball field, and a soccer goal post.

And now it's dinner time, the sun is sitting lower on the horizon and there's not much daylight left,  but we still have three walks in us and untold places to mark. My Sunday is far from over.

Earth

It has been a lovely, fling-the-doors-and-windows-open kind of day and Duncan and I have spent much of it out in the world, walking the park, chasing squirrels down The Run, even strolling to the mail room and back, a chore I tend to put off as long as possible. And while I walked I did exactly the sort of thing I'm not supposed to do, which is to forget the walk itself and focus, instead, on what I think I'm supposed to do.

As you may recall, I've joined my friend Sue in an April Photo-of-the-Day challenge. Each day we're given a theme and we're supposed to find something to photograph that describes that word or phrase in some manner. I've primarily used it as a tool to help me blog, which I've struggled to do on a regular basis for quite some time. The only problem is that my blog is about not having an agenda; it's about moving out into the world without a goal, without a destination, and allowing myself to be led wherever my feet and Duncan take me. Quite often that theme has nothing to do whatsoever with where we wind up or what Dunc wants to do so I find myself not enjoying our walks, not paying attention to the world but instead looking for what I want the world to be.

And that can have disastrous consequences.

Today's theme was "earth," a rather vague and annoying theme if I say so myself. But, I made a promise to myself to complete the challenge and so Duncan and I marched out, he with his nose to the ground, his ears high to catch every note of the birdsong drifting down from the cottonwoods and maples, me with my eyes focused solely on every patch of dirt, every rock that might be the slightest bit photogenic, anything that I could focus my camera on. The more we walked, the less I actually saw, and the more desperate I became. Duncan, who waits patiently––most of the time––seemed a bit annoyed at my sluggish pace and my inability to just walk, to enjoy the day for what it was and not what I thought it should be. But I, as usual, forgot my lessons, and focused on all the wrong things.

Finally, down in The Glen, I spotted a nice patch of earth, dark and gold in the sun, at the base of a pine, the mottled trunk rising up in a suitably interesting manner. While I stepped in close, knelt down beneath it and examined it from all angles, Duncan would have nothing to do with it. He kept a safe distance, hunkered down on the hillside and watched me, sighing loudly as he is wont to do. Finally I located the patch I wanted to photograph and hardly noticed the tickles running up and down my legs and arms while I snapped picture after picture. It wasn't until the tickles began to itch, and then to burn, that I bothered to notice I'd stepped right into a nest of ants, which were busy acclimating themselves to the contours of my body.

I leapt up and began shaking them off, swinging my legs back and forth, rubbing them vigorously, sweeping off my arms and neck, shaking out my shirt and shorts. I danced a mad dance, sliding down the hill, losing my balance and falling on my belly where I had the good sense to roll in the grass. Duncan normally would have taken this as a signal to play but he merely sat and watched while I made an ass of myself in front of a woman and her Pomeranian who stood in her window, jaws agape, eyebrows cocked in confusion.

Enjoy the photo and know that I suffered for my art.

To the amusement of my dog.

Childhood

“Sometimes,' said Pooh, 'the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.” (A. A. Milne)       

I discovered Winnie the Pooh in college. One evening, after many hours of studying in the library, and fretting and trying to cram more into my brain than felt like could possibly fit, I stumbled downstairs to the children's section, sat myself down on the floor and pulled out the first book I could find, a heavy, hardcover thing, well-worn and loved, which happened to be The Complete Tales of Winnie the Pooh. From the moment I read the first page I was hooked. There was a whimsy and thoughtfulness, a sharp wit and a clever sort wink and nod to the stories that cleared my head, filled my heart with joy, and warmed my spirit. I checked the book out, read it cover to cover that night, and every night after until the library refused to let me check it out again. Reluctantly I returned it but immediately bought all of Milne's books and began amassing my collection of Pooh memorabilia, including the tattoo which adorns my left arm. It's not the toughest of tattoos, and certainly not the kind of thing I would care to put on display at a biker bar, but it's a reminder of the innocence and tenderness of childhood that I carry with me every day.

Duncan is no Pooh Bear; he's far too adventurous and care-free, but there is a purity to his spirit that reminds me of Pooh and his adventures in the Hundred Acre Wood. He is thoughtful and gentle, kind and brave and when I am with him, when we are walking alone in the park together, when the fields and sunshine are all ours and I can take him off his leash and let him wander where his heart desires, I feel like a child again, like we are on the verge of discovery, as though something magnificent is about to be revealed.

And when we come home, when the day is done and we have cuddled and played ourselves into sleepiness, when we have taken the last of our walks and night has pulled herself over the world like a blanket, we climb into our beds and sometimes, when we are lucky, we meet in our dreams and cuddle and play there, too.

And Pooh is never far away.

 

“I think we dream so we don’t have to be apart for so long. If we’re in each other’s dreams, 

we can be together all the time.”  (A. A. Milne)

Life is Golden

My life before Duncan was very different than the one I lead today. I was able to go out more, especially with friends after work. I could stay out later, too. The cats have always been fairly independent and seemed to relish the occasional time we granted them without adult supervision so they were never a worry. I did many more things than I do now, but since his arrival, Duncan has changed my life in countless ways, many of which I have recounted here repeatedly. And I find that for all those things I no longer get to do as freely or as spontaneously––the movies I no longer get to watch all the way through without pausing them to go downstairs for a bathroom break, the meals I no longer eat without a set of rich, brow eyes trained on my every movement, even the pillow I don't get to bask on without sharing––far more have been added that I may not have discovered without his presence at my side, such as our walks, my appreciation for the unfolding of the trees in the spring, the echo of a meadowlark song in the morning, the sense of discovery and adventure that seems to follow us every time we step outside.

Since he entered it, my life has become golden, and that is worth more than all the gold in the world.

I am rich in other ways.

Who We Saw Today

Until a month ago Brady lived just a few doors down from us. He and Duncan became good friends and it was Duncan who inspired Brady to finally adopt his own dog, Roxie, a couple of years ago. Even though we haven't seen them since they moved in March, Duncan has stopped on every walk to stare up at Brady's old balcony, waiting for an appearance by Roxie or the cat, Fatty or his Uncle Brady who likes to call down to him, "Duncadunc!" Sometimes if I'm lagging behind he'll trot up the stairs and sit patiently in front of Brady's door and just wait, not moving except to wag his tail.

And that's what he did tonight so I called Brady and asked if I could bring Roo over for a quick visit. "Do you want to go see Uncle Brady?" I asked and watched as Dunc charged across the parking lot to Brady's old building, marched up the stairs and plopped down in front of the door. It took some coaxing to get him back downstairs and loaded into the car, and then once we were on our way he whined the entire drive, unsure of what was happening, why I'd mentioned Brady, and where we were going. But once we were there and Duncan figured out who we'd come to see his joy couldn't be contained.

He ran through their townhouse, dragging his leash behind as he investigated the kitchen, the bathroom, the tiny basement, all the bedrooms, and then finally the backyard where he got to play ball with Brady and Roxie, barking loudly whenever there was a lull in the game. Dee, Brady's girlfriend, and I sat on the patio and watched them cavort, smiling at how happy they were to see each other. Even Roxie, who has been known to get a bit territorial, didn't mind his presence, and when she wasn't following him around, was busy sneaking treats from me.

I am not good at getting away from home as often as I should. I am a creature of habit who is very aware of his comfort zones. Brady and I both struggle with anxiety and have helped each other through dark periods more times than I could count. We have leaned on each other when it seemed there was no one else to lean on and I have missed him terribly these last four weeks. But despite that I haven't driven the six minutes it takes to see him until today, and that was because of Duncan, who always seems to know what is best for me, what I need to lift my spirits, what will lighten my heart. It is good to have a dog who knows who the good people are in my life, and cherishes them as much as I do.

Time

If they know one thing, it's how to tell time, specifically when it's 6 AM and PM. Pip and Olive dispense with all pleasantries and make their demands known, whether I'm tucked away in bed, fast asleep, or still working at my computer. They begin their yowling and aggressive affection the moment the shadows reach a certain point on the wall, and that is Duncan's signal to join in. No sooner do I step into the kitchen to begin the preparations when all three line up and urge me on, a demanding chorus of meows, whimpers, whines, and purrs, dancing, prancing, and dangerous winding around my ankles. There is no such thing as patience. No such thing as dignity. And no negotiating.

At moments like this I have to wonder who is running the show around here.

His Tender Heart

I cannot count the reasons I love my dog; they are far too numerous. But on mornings like this morning, when the sky was still clear, the sun golden, and the air still warm, before it turned grey and cold and began to snow, Duncan reminded me that it his gentle spirit and enormous heart that I treasure most of all.

The bunny was waiting for him in the middle of The Run, a small grey shape that I mistook for a stone until he laid down almost on top of it, cupped it between his paws and began to lick it. The bunny, eyes wide and alert, its ears pushed back nearly flat against its back, didn't move, didn't even flinch, but stayed where it was and seemed to relax under Duncan's tender care. It closed its eyes briefly, even seemed to push back against him while he tended to it. It was only when I realized what it was, that it was not a rock kicked into our path by some kid but a baby rabbit, that Duncan rose to his feet and stood protectively over it, nudging it once or twice with his nose before resuming his ministrations.

I could only stand and watch. Several times he laid back down over it, spread his paws around it like a cup of warm tea, and licked it, oblivious to my presence. I stood there a long time, a mute witness to the scene, my heart bursting with pride and love. He tended to it carefully, his tail churning happily in the grass behind him, a soft whine occasionally rising up from his chest.

After a very long time we had to go. Duncan had business to tend to and I had to get to work. I was finally able to coax him away with soft words and the promise of treats. I planned on picking the bunny up and placing it in the shrubs off the path but Duncan stood protectively over it.

It took several minutes before he's let me reach down and pick it up. At the feel of my hands around it, it tensed and seemed ready to spring, but Dunc whined and danced in front of me, staying within the bunny's line of sight. I felt it relax and once I placed it deep into the shadows among the brambles, Duncan nosed in and checked to make sure I hadn't hurt it. It hopped further into the bushes and hunkered down near a flat stone. I stepped away while Duncan stayed behind, turning to look first at me and then back at his charge. He was torn, but after several whistles he hurried to catch up to me. He trotted along side me, dancing as we walked, his eyes wide, his ears high, his tail flapping like a flag above him. "Good boy," I said. "You did well." I patted his head and slipped him a treat, which he greedily gulped down. But almost as soon as he swallowed he glanced back over his shoulder and then darted back down The Run to the spot where we'd left the bunny. And there he stood for a long time, content to stay where he was, heedless of my schedule.

I had no choice but to follow, to kneel down in the grass and sit with him long after I should have fed him his breakfast, climbed into the car and driven away. Moments like these are far too few, and some of the most precious we have shared and I didn't mind being late one bit.

My dog is magical. I know it's true.

Fire

These are my favorite nights, when Duncan and I are home, good music (by my friend Sean Renner) is playing while dinner (homemade chicken curry) is simmering on the stove, a couple of candles are burning, the air coming through the open windows is cool and sweet, and the world three flights below is unmoving and quiet. While I cooked and cleaned up after myself Duncan curled up on the couch and watched the flicker of the flames from the candles on the coffee table, his eyes rolling closed, his eyebrows dancing with dreams. Soon I'll snuggle up next to him, he'll rest his head on my hip where Winnie used to lay, and together we'll enjoy the creeping darkness, the smell of dinner, and the simple pleasure of each others' company.

These are the nights I wish I could hold onto forever, that I'll dream about in my old age, that I could spend eternity reliving. My dog and me, together, content, lazy by the smallest of fires.

On My Mind

I have only ever played tennis once. It was a complete disaster, as my friend Kelly could attest. We were in high school and she became briefly obsessed with the game, and actually thought she could convince me to take it up. She took me to a court, brought two rackets and spent the next thirty minutes watching me hit the ball with a fierce underhand swing, which sent it rocketing dozens of feet straight up into the air. She was momentarily patient, but after thirty minutes or so, she stomped across the court, yanked the racket from my hand, shuffled me back into the car and drove me home, shaking her head the entire time. I haven't played since, although for a while I played ping pong, which, I'm told is a miniature version of the sport, and although I wasn't terrible, I eventually gave even that up. I haven't touched a racket or a paddle since.

That's why it was surprising to learn last week that I'm suffering from tennis elbow. Talk about delayed response! After wracking my brain for a cause it finally dawned on me that it's from playing with Duncan's Chuck-It in the park two and three times a day. Duncan loved to play fetch and so I've obliged, almost fanatically. I throw the bowl, he retrieves it––for a treat––and all is well with the universe. But this constant daily motion has finally taken a toll on my arm and we've been unable to play for weeks.

He's not too happy about it, especially now that the weather is starting to turn nice (except, of course, for the snow and cold expected Monday and Tuesday). So our walks at the park are spent with him staring at me expectantly, waiting for me to lob the ball halfway across the field. I hold up my empty hands for him to see and tell him, "Not today, buddy. Not for awhile." So he glowers and ambles away, not seeing any practical use for my presence.

And when we're done, I come home, don my tennis elbow strap, load up on glucosamine, ibuprofen, and pity, and do my little exercises so that, hopefully, in the next few weeks we can get back to it. Acupuncture helps, as does the herbal pain patch my acupuncturist gave me, but our spirits are low. The only thing that will help that is a game of fetch in the park. 

Button

My last car, the reviled Hyundai Sonata, which I never named and which was the bane of my existence mere days after getting it, did not beep when I locked and unlocked the doors. It did, however, beep––wail, actually––at random times, like during thunderstorms or when the door didn't shut all the way. Some little gizmo was perpetually coming loose, which caused the door to register as ajar, thereby leaving the dome light on and alerting a little bell which would ring all night long, thus causing the battery to die and when the battery neared the end of its pathetic life it erupted in the most unsettling caterwauling known in automotive history. At least for a few minutes, and then it would heave and sigh and give up the ghost and die. But generally it did not beep when it was supposed to.

My new car, though, my beautiful black Subaru Outback which I have christened Simone, after the Jazz singer, Nina Simone, beeps whenever I want her to. And it's not an annoying little beep either, but a full and melodious one, cheery and confident but not overly so. It's assertive, an "I'm-Ready-Whenever-You-Are" sort of beep, and Duncan has grown to recognize it as my beep, the signal that I have returned home and am ready to take him out on our first walk of the evening. That beep summons him to the windows in the office that overlooks my parking space so that when I climb out of the car––mug of tea, water bottle, and backpack in tow––I have only to look up to see a beaming face, bobbing back forth in such a way that tells me his tail is wagging excitedly, rocking his whole body with it. And as I move around the building Duncan moves too, from the window by the desk to the front window, which will soon be obscured by the leaves of our Linden tree. His smile travels with me, and by the time I'm at the door, he is also, waiting, dancing, chirping as Goldens are wont to do, ready to go, full of love and exuberance.

A button is such a silly thing. A beep even sillier. But it is music to the ears of my best friend, who brings me such joy. I could push that button all day long.

Hello

It has been a long week, with storm after storm blowing over The Rockies, hiding the sun from view, with low, grey skies, snow and biting wind, and temperatures in the single digits. Snow never lasts long here in Denver, and even the fiercest of storms become memory only a few hours after passing. We are blessed with nearly three-hundred thirty sunny days a year and even on the coldest of days that sunlight still manages to make winter bearable. 

Last night we fell asleep to the sound of snow pattering the ice below, the sky orange from the low clouds reflecting the lights of the city, a stinging wind rattling the windows. This morning we were greeted by the sun, new and bright and delicious in the high, blue sky. It was cold but that sunshine made it seem less so. We arose early and walked to the sound of snow falling in great melting clumps from the branches, striking the grass with loud, wet slaps while the ice in the rain gutters broke apart and raced earthward with a cacophonous crunch.

By noon it was as though we'd dreamed the storms. The grass had not only broken through four inches of snowy crust, but had devoured it, leaving a bright green blanket where yesterday there had been slushy footprints and ice razors along the edges of the curbs. It was as though none of it had happened. Duncan pulled on his leash in that way that tells me he has a destination in mind and that I should simply allow myself to pulled along after him. So I followed, thankful for the sound of the birds and the evaporating puddles in the parking lot and the guidance of my good, red dog.

And then, quite near to where we started our walk, Duncan stopped at a small green patch along the red painted curb and nosed a clump of dandelions that had unfurled and were waving down the sun with their tiny, gold petals. Weeds, but joyous nonetheless. I greeted them happily and reminded myself that a weed is only that thing that is unwelcome, still beautiful but out of place. My friend Kevi is always quick to remind me that if I wanted to grow dandelions even the most luscious of roses would become a weed springing up amid their yellow splendor. 

Hello, Spring, I thought as Duncan turned away, happy to have led me to the place he wanted me to see, and rolled in one of the few fading patches of snow left for him to enjoy.

Busy

I spent the afternoon making Ken's birthday cake, the same cake I have made him every year for the seventeen years we've been together. It was so easy when we lived in the flat, low lands of the Shire-like Midwest, and even though I've made it fourteen times here in the high, wild country of The Rockies, I still struggle to bake a decent cake. It entails lots of adjustments, an incredible number of bowls, spoons, a sieve, round cake pans that drive me nuts, raspberries, more raspberries, and enough chocolate to kill a pack of wild dogs.

Duncan likes to stand in the middle of the kitchen where he can test my agility and ensure that I stay on my toes. He doesn't like it when I'm busy but he also doesn't like to be far away from me either. And so there he stands until I finally have a moment to sit down and relax (while the frosting cools and prepares to have the Hell whipped out of it). So we curl up on the couch together and just be, waiting for Little Man to come home to his birthday cake.

Happy birthday, Ken. Duncan and I love you!