Monday, November 30, 2009

Flying as We Do

It was dark when I pulled into the parking lot tonight and as my headlamps moved over the building I looked up into my third story bedroom window as I always do and saw Duncan standing on the window sill, perched in the tight nook between the glass and my bed.

This morning after our walk while I stood in the kitchen preparing his breakfast, Dunc sat at my feet, his tail smacking the floor behind him as I went through the routine we go through every morning. First I ask if he's hungry. When his tail wags and he barks yes, I run through today's menu in my best French accent, "A very special free range chicken, served raw with a blend of bone, egg shell, berries of the blue and rasp variety, raw egg, carrot and pea." He seemed especially happy this morning so when I dipped into my bottle of OptaGest and sprinkled it over his food, I told him a little story, as I do every morning. Sometimes I tell him the powder will make his tennis balls taste like pepperoni, or that it will lure a big fat squirrel to the patio where it will sit and squeak all day. Sometimes the powder will make him dream of a meadow where bunnies crouch under every shrub and where pumpkin treats and meatballs grow on every tree, where there are wide pools to swim in, vast snowy hills to slide down and green fields to chase butterflies through. Last week when he was having a difficult time paying attention on our walks I told him the powder would help him listen to papa's voice and stay out of trouble. This morning I told him he would spend his naps flying through the air, chasing the squirrels up to the tops of the tallest cottonwood trees and dive bomb the bunnies from above. He seemed quite happy with that idea but I certainly didn't expect to find him wedged between my bed and the window acting out our little fantasy.

When I was very young, and maybe even when I wasn't so young, I could spend an afternoon on my own, running through the neighborhood or riding my bicycle up and down the hills, my arms outstretched, my face turned into the sky, feeling as though I was flying as I darted back and forth, the sound effects burbling from my lips and throat as I went. I was fortunate in that I grew up in a family who nourished my imagination, encouraged and cultivated it, and never told me something was impossible, that we only need to try until we make it real.

Tonight when Duncan and I slipped across the street, the traffic heavier than usual because of the after work holiday shoppers, I undid his leash and let him run rampant across the wide fields. He trotted ahead and then zipped back, circling wide then slowly coming in closer and closer, veering off at the last moment. He was flying and even though the center of my face is the epicenter of my cold and I can't breath very well, I ran with him, arms held out wide, zooming after him with the sound effects vibrating from my lips. We ran and ran and were it a summer night, with the moon bone white and big, we would be flying still.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Sliding from Dreams

I have strange dreams. Last week it was a Dickensian Christmas Carol nightmare and last night it was about the new season of the television show "Lost." My dreams are all over the place and almost all of them are extremely vivid. Typically they follow a linear path and have a very strong narrative. It must be the writer in me, directing and guiding them in as plausible a direction as I can.

When Duncan dreams he whines, soft little cottony sounds that come from the front of his throat. And like most dogs he kicks his hind legs as he chases dream bunnies over grassy and sunny dreamscapes. Last night, though, he curled up beside me in bed but rather than kick and whine his body stiffened up and elongated as though he was trying to reach from the headboard all the way down to the foot. I stroked his paw and kissed him on the cheek but he kept at it all night.

We awoke to another gorgeous morning with a bright blue sky and a startlingly warm sun shining in the windows of my apartment. Duncan and I ambled down the stairs and around the corner to the start of our trail and I knew almost immediately what he'd been dreaming about all night.
While I'd been dreaming about television, he'd spent the entire night reliving yesterday's escapades on the ice, planning new and exciting moves. I stood by for nearly an hour and watched him jog up the hill, spin and slide down, his body taut and straight, his paws out before him like Superman. Then back up he'd jog to do the whole thing over again. I was chilled and hungry and hadn't had my morning tea, but for the life of me, I could not imagine taking the sliding smile from his lovely face.

Saturday, November 28, 2009


Most of our snow has melted except for that which sits on the north side of the buildings, or even in tiny little mounds against the trunks of the trees or at the base of the fence posts. And what's left has ceased to be snow but has turned to tight packs of unrelenting gravel coated and leaf-encrusted balls of blue ice.

Several weeks ago during the last big snow I donned my boots and carved a trail that wound from my apartment through The Run on the north side of the buildings down to The Glen where Duncan likes to run wild. The trail was quite popular among the dog folk here, but now, after several weeks of being trod upon, it is no longer and easy-going thoroughfare and is little more than an unforgiving ice sluice, each turn a dead-man's curve. Duncan and I walk it every morning and again every afternoon. It's where he chases the squirrels and sometimes if the time is right, we find Brady out on his patio enjoying the sunset over the golf course. But it's becoming clear that perhaps we need to find a new place to walk until the ice breaks and we can get ourselves on solid ground again.

This morning, after tossing and turning all night, I took Roo outside for his first walk of the day. Even though it was incredibly warm and the sun was high and big in the sky, the path was as treacherous as ever. Duncan spotted a squirrel and darted after it. I lagged behind, taking my time to be sure of my footing, but kept my eye on him as bounded ahead. He's normally quite graceful, sometimes elegant even in the way he moves, but this morning something happened that caught us both by surprise: he slipped on the ice, went down on his belly and slid halfway down the hill, spinning a lazy half circle as he went. He didn't fight it but merely watched the world pass around him. When he slid off the ice and into the grass he sat still for a moment, dazed. I hurried to his side to check on him, afraid he'd hurt himself. As soon as I rushed to him, though, he jumped up, darted back the way we'd come, spun sharply, charged at me and threw himself onto his belly to slide again. Despite my fever and chills all I could do was sit on my heels and watch Dunc run back and forth and careen into me, a wide grin spread across his face. Over and over he did it, his enthusiasm growing each time.

If I'd felt better I would've joined him. But seeing as how slowly that ice is breaking I think I'll have ample opportunity once I feel better.

Friday, November 27, 2009

A Lost Day

I'm getting a cold so I did nothing today. In fact, I think I did less than nothing. I didn't even get out of bed until 11, something I haven't done since high school. And then I napped from 3 to 6:30. This is a lost day, a day I will never get back. Thankfully I've seen no one, talked to no one but myself, faced no Black Friday crowds and haven't moved much at all, except to take Duncan out this morning and then again after he ate his dinner. He's been very patient but every now and then he looks up at me and sighs, like a disgusted parent. I'd much rather lay on the couch or in my new bed and cuddle than do anything else. He's just going to have to get used to it because today the world is lost to me and I don't feel well enough to even regret it.

Thursday, November 26, 2009


Today was the first time I've spent Thanksgiving alone since 1994, my senior year in college. In those days all my friends went home to be with their families, but because mine was so far away, and because I was an RA in the dorms where I lived, I always stayed behind, taking my dinner at the Denny's in Highland Park on Route 41, a thick notebook and a nice pen in tow. It was not the most ideal way to spend my favorite holiday, but I'd sit at my table eating my turkey and stuffing while I wrote letters to friends. After I graduated my roommates and I hosted an orphan Thanksgiving dinner, and the year after was spent with Ken and April, and every one of those Thanksgivings was magical, from making the world's best mashed potatoes to giving Winnie and Pip a bath after they somehow became infested with fleas. I would not lose a single one of those memories for all the money in the world.

This has been a challenging year. Ken and I separated after thirteen years together and I had to relearn much of my life. It hasn't always been easy and quite often I've struggled more than these writings admit, but I spent a great deal of my time today reflecting on past Thanksgiving dinners with Ken and my friends and comparing them to where I am now. It would've been easy to feel as though a terrible accident had happened, that by being alone I had somehow suffered some sort of failure. But that's not quite the way I see it.

I believe that happiness comes from within ourselves, that while material things may offer a temporary pleasure, and the company of family and friends certainly enriches us, it is we who determine how to feel. I was invited to spend my day with several people I know but in the end I chose to stay at home with Duncan and the kittens, to make my own dinner, to reflect on the past, both distant and recent. And while people tended to pity me for being alone I can not stress enough that I was not lonely. A year ago I never would've imagined I'd be where I am now, but I had plenty to celebrate and honor within myself. For that I am proud. It was a far better Thanksgiving than those ones spent in Denny's.

I would like to take a moment to thank Amber and Jesse and Kenzie for stopping by, bringing me a decaf latte and a beautiful picture Kenz colored, which now hangs on my fridge. I'd like to thank Andy for knocking on my door and giving me a hug. I'd like to thank my mother, Ruth and Kevi for calling, and Brady, Allison and Larisa for inviting me to join in their own celebrations. My day was made all the more perfect knowing that people love and think of me as much and as often as I love and think of them. Bless you all.

Now that the day is behind me, now that I am sitting in my bed, Duncan snoring at my feet, Olive batting her big yellow eyes at me from the pillow at my side, Winnie and Pip waiting patiently for me to lay down so they can claim their spots on my shoulder and hip, I think I'll just enjoy the silence and reflect, as I do every year, on what A.A. Milne meant when he wrote, "And by and by Christopher Robin came to the end of things, and he was silent, and he sat there, looking out over the world, just wishing it wouldn't stop."

Wednesday, November 25, 2009


Among the many things for which I am thankful (my family and friends, my health, the sweet sunlight of laughter, the crispness and weight of a good book in my hands, new pens on new paper, the feel of climbing into a bed with fresh sheets, the unexpected exhilaration of a shooting star, fireflies, the poems of Mary Oliver, hugging someone and being hugged back, kiwi and bananas for breakfast, National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, a letter in the mail, the song "Pulling Touch" by Poi Dog Pondering, the color red, Winnie the Pooh) I am thankful for Duncan's kisses, which are quite often forced on me, but always welcome.

Tonight I got some good ones, but Duncan saved one for you.

Duncan and I are grateful for each and every one of you.
Happy Thanksgiving.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Puppy to Puppy

Every now and then I glance at Duncan, perched on the arm of the couch, standing in front of me outside waiting to be given a treat after he poops, and especially in the mornings when he ambles up to me and bows, I can see the puppy Ken brought home five years ago this month. It's in his eyes mostly, sometimes the innocent expression on his face, or the way he bats at me with his paws when he's restless and wants to arm wrestle. I can see it when he cocks his head and smiles, or when his eyebrows climb to the top of his forehead when he learns something new.

He wasn't as special to me then, I'll admit it. He was Ken's and his name was supposed to be Jake, but from the moment he winked at me and I picked him up, everything changed. We belonged to each other. Ken was gone a lot then and I was left to raise a puppy, something I was woefully unprepared for and doubt I have the strength, patience and stupidity to do again. But I managed and formed a friendship like none other.

I have been thinking a lot this week of the things I am grateful for and it goes without saying that my dog is at the top of the list. But more than just my dog, I am grateful for the puppy that still lives in him and the one he brings out in me.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Night Terror

We heard them out on the golf course on our last walk of the night.

It wasn't even a walk really, just a quick trip down to our end of The Run, a sort of hillside circle surrounded by pine and juniper trees. During last week's storm I'd carved out a trail in the snow with my boots but after a week of heavy use the snow had turned to ice which could be both fun and tricky to navigate. Duncan loves it because he can roll onto his back and slide down the hill, but getting back up has proven difficult. Last night we strolled down to the hill where Duncan took care of business and then slid around for a bit while I listened to the geese mumbling amongst themselves and watched the tight, thumbnail sliver of a moon hover in the southwest sky.

The coyote packs out on the golf course typically aren't too big, two, maybe three small dogs at the most. The big ones, like the one we ran into earlier this year, hunt by themselves. Last night, however, we could hear something much bigger was happening and the geese seemed uneasy. Duncan kept staring off into the darkness, a very soft growl building in his throat. I don't like when he gets like that and tend to listen to him so I brought him back up to the apartment.

It was only after we climbed into bed, Duncan settling happily onto his side while I spread out on my own, that pandemonium broke out. I had barely turned my light off and rolled over when the call of the geese rose up loud from the night. Even though my bedroom overlooks the parking lot and the geese had spread out in a rather large flock on the other side of the building I heard them as though they were in the next room. At first the chatter just got louder, but then a second noise rose up all around it and drowned it out, a manic laughter that came from everywhere.

The cats scattered and Duncan jumped up, his hackles standing tall, a deep unease in his throat. Without turning on the light I slipped down the hallway, through the living room and into my office where I popped the window open and squatted next to my desk. Immediately the apartment was filled with the clear and unmistakable sound of the coyotes, their tinny voices rising up unseen behind the trees and deep in the shadows. One by one I heard other windows sliding open and soon my neighbors had joined me in listening to what sounded like a massacre on the golf course. The geese were screaming and trying to take flight but the coyote pack seemed to have them surrounded because only a few escaped, the heavy beat of their wings passing very close to our building. On and on it went and finally the screams came as the pack started picking them off, laughing like hyenas as they moved in the shadows.

It was a terrible noise and lasted a long time. Duncan stood next to me, his chest out, his eyes peering into the darkness, at what I could not see. But finally, when it died down he turned and looked at me, relieved, it seemed, that we were on this side of the glass and that we had a bed to climb back into.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

New Bed Negotiations

Last night was truly terrible. If I thought sleeping on the futon with my four furry companions was bad, I hadn't considered a full night on the couch, Duncan crushing my legs, Winnie twisting my back until everything below my nipples was numb and Pip curled up against my chest where he felt it necessary to poke his wet, cold nose against mine every five minutes. Only Olive stayed away, sleeping on the back of the couch above us all, her yellow eyes looking down on the mess the rest of us had created.

Morning could not come soon enough and when it did I felt like a kid at Christmas. My bed was coming, my bed was coming! Soon I could spread out and sleep in luxury. Soon the dream world would be my oyster.

After it arrived and was assembled, after I put the freshly laundered sheets on it and fluffed up the pillows which came with the new comforter, after I ran my errands and tended to my chores, I decided to peek in on the thing, to see how it looked, to run my fingers along its sleek headboard and imagine how wonderful it would feel to climb into it tonight, to spread my arms wide and sleep with my legs crossed in that old familiar number four shape, nearly forgotten after all these crowded months on the futon. Oh, the wonderful imaginings running through my head.

I flipped on the light and discovered:

Apparently I was not the only one excited at the possibilities. Olive was curled up on my pillow while Duncan was already practicing taking his share out of my side of the bed.

There may be some negotiating tonight when I hit the hay. I'll let you know how it goes.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

A Space Big Enough

We have been sleeping on a futon for the past eight months, and while it's been cozy and warm, it's also been a bit crowded. Duncan, who ignores the fancy bed roll we bought him when he was a pup, has never been one of those dogs who curls up when he sleeps. Instead he spreads out, sometimes horizontally right across the center, cutting the bed in half and causing me to curl up, tightly with three cats perched on various locations around my body, sometimes my shoulder, sometimes my hip, sometimes in the middle of my chest or draped across a pillow and the top of my head. Being the nice guy I am I rarely say anything and have been known to relocate to the couch. Every now and then, though, if it's been a tough day, I might explode in the middle of the night, sending the cats scattering to the corners of the room while Duncan slinks beneath the low futon, dragging his belly and bonking his poor head on the underside. After they're gone I spread out and fall back asleep, only vaguely aware that they all come creeping back to assume their previous posts.

I have been waiting a long time to finally get a bed, and tomorrow is the day my hopes come to fruition. Some time between one and three the delivery men from the local furniture outlet will arrive with my brand new queen sized bed, big enough, I'm convinced, that we'll all get our own spot and can spread out and luxuriate in our dreams in whatever way we see fit. I'm giddy just thinking about it and the knotted muscles in my back are already starting to relax. I envision Monday morning being the most beautiful of days, with a spectacular sunrise coming up in the crisp air. I imagine a Disney-esque world with birds alighting on my knot-free shoulders and chipmunks scampering up my body to sing in perfect harmony in my ears. Rainbows will fill the skies and peace will finally come to the Middle East.

The reality, I expect, will be quite different. I will still be covered in cats and Duncan, when not sprawled across my tingling and painfully numb legs, will snore louder than before, kicking as he chases a squirrel across his dreams. But I can't complain because they love me and they watch over me while I slumber and sometimes meet me in their own dreams, where we cuddle and play all night.

There is no such thing as too much love.

Friday, November 20, 2009

In the Window

Winnie acts like she doesn't like him, but deep down I think she's developed a secret love for Duncan. She perches in her usual spot on the back of the couch and looks down on Pip, who competes for my attention by playing fetch with Roo, or rolling up alongside him when they stretch together on the floor. Olive cuddles next to him on the bed and often stands directly beneath him, the long hair at his chest hanging in her face. Occasionally if Duncan's play with Pip or Olive gets too rowdy, Winnie will charge in from another room where she's been sleeping, and put herself between them, as though she's protecting them from some sort of monster. From day one five years ago, though, Winnie made it perfectly clear that she did not approve of the addition of the little red-haired mop to our family.

But sometimes when everyone is napping in the sunshine and she doesn't think I'm watching, Winnie will snuggle up to one of his toys, the Bully or the Blue Buddha, or sometimes even one of his tennis balls, and run her cheek across its surface, or bat at it playfully, or even curl around it and fall asleep. Recently she's abandoned the kitty water dish in favor of Duncan's big, yellow bowl, which she could easily take a bath in. And once or twice when we're cuddling on the couch or in bed, Winnie on my hip and Dunc resting his head on my thigh, she'll reach out a paw and touch it casually, almost protectively, on his ear or the top of head.

This morning after our walk and a good roll in the snow, Duncan watched me prepare his breakfast while Winnie curled up in the window, the sunlight turning her white face and chest gold. I'd finished stirring up the meat while Duncan chirped and danced as I placed it on his little table. No sooner had he taken a bite than Winnie made a strange little noise in the back of her throat as she flicked her tail. Duncan immediately left his food dish, which I have never seen him do, and ambled right up beside her where they both stared out at the squirrel perched in the tree. It was almost like they'd worked out some sort of system, a signal, something only friends do with each other, like an inside joke, or shared silence.

Winnie may not want to admit it, but she loves Duncan as much as the rest of us. And they both loved that squirrel in the tree long after I left for work.

Thursday, November 19, 2009


There are nights when we walk and my mind reels under the unexpected and sublime delicacy of our ambling. I find myself thinking, "Remember the color of this sky, the way the darkness comes like a slow kiss from the east and the orange light in the west illuminates the mountains which you ignored this morning as though they were little more than props or backdrop and not the things which people from all over the world come to see. Remember how at night, resting in front of the sunset, they are somehow impossible to ignore, big and indulgent to the eyes, their definition sharp and as perfect as only something that took millions of years to create can be. Remember the sound of a single duck flying overhead, the beat of its wings desperate and never silent, and how troubling and anxious the flying life of such creatures must be, not at all the serenity of the hawks which ride the thermals over the vast stretches of the golf course. Ducks in the water, though, paddling along the shore, breathing in the last rays of the day and exhaling the silence of night, are just as inspiring as hawks, no less spectacular than any creature living in this world. Remember the frantic scramblings of the rabbits to escape Duncan's playful lunge, and the one who came back, slipping under the chain link fence to stare at us and tease, retreat when provoked only to return again. And again. And again. Remember the silence and the emptiness of the park and how it felt like we'd earned it, this opportunity to be alone there once again with only the very soft crunch of the pads colliding from the players on the high school football field to remind us we are not alone, only distant. Remember, Curt––do not forget––the owl sweeping low over your head, its squat body gliding effortlessly on impossibly long wings over the snow, leaving behind neither sound nor wake as it passed. Remember Duncan running and running, free of his leash, across the field, chasing a mouse and then losing it. And the way he threw himself on his side and rolled, a grin far more wide than the sunset on his face, and the way the light caught his coat and was reflected all around, as though he were the setting sun and the coming night. Remember the footprints he left behind as he crashed forward, and how you refused to step on them and erase his path, knowing that in some bigger sense his walks in the park could never be erased because in a strange way the park loves him as much as he loves it. Remember how when Dunc had exhausted himself he laid down and spread his paws before him and watched the day slip into the past, seeming to memorize it and savor it as only the poets do. Remember these things. They are important. They will sustain you and make your life all the more rich for having walked it, loving and not forgetting a single moment. A single, quiet, gifted moment.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Waiting without Knowing

I had to leave work unexpectedly today, but only for a few minutes late in the morning. It wasn't anything I planned and didn't expect to be gone long. It only takes six or seven minutes to drive home and the time away from my dark desk was a welcome relief. The sky was blue, my jacket was entirely unnecessary, and the streets were wet and clean from our melting snow.

As I pulled into the parking lot and up to my building I saw a familiar flash of red in the window, standing on the sill in my bedroom as though he'd been expecting me all morning, his tongue hanging out, his tail striking the glass.

How Roo knew I was coming home I'll never know. I do know that he got a ton of love and a quick walk in the snow before I had to leave.

It's unexpected moments like these that we both seem to live for.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Lessons in Snow

I am convinced there is nothing more perfect than Duncan's face when he plays in the snow after rooting around under the draped bushes for the rabbits which have taken to nesting there. He is a devil and a charmer, and the most beautiful angel gliding over the ice tonight, his wonder and curiosity without limits. He is diligent and quiet in his hunt, but his tail, a second voice, a thing almost separate from himself, gives him away every time. It is all I can to step back and watch and not fling myself down next to him with a satisfying crunch into the brittle snow, throw my arms around his beautiful, warm shoulders and hug him until we both burst. And when I finally did, he did not mind. On a day like today, when I felt the bitters of winter and the holidays setting in, he welcomed it. He could not understand how I could be anything but jubilant in the snow, but he did not fault me for it. He leaned in to me, swiped my cheek once with his tongue, did a quick dance with his two front paws then spun quickly, spraying me with cold powder before leaping away and throwing himself head first into the night.

Monday, November 16, 2009

The Visit

The door was strangely empty tonight when I came home. I'm used to Olive and Duncan waiting for me, ready to entwine themselves around my ankles and knees as I struggle to the bedroom where I change from shoes into snow boots. Olive, the most talkative of the children, meows and chitters as she follows me, dodging Dunc as his butt shimmies back and forth, his chirp nearly drowning out her questions. But this evening I stood in the door alone wondering why I wasn't being accosted. It wasn't until after I'd put down my lunch bag that I figured it out. All four of the children were lined up in front of the glass patio doors, smallest to largest, as though they'd rehearsed. Only Winnie looked over her shoulder at me, mewed softly then turned back to the scene on the patio.

It seems a single squirrel had found the soft rug I'd left out to dry after being washed on Saturday. It was sitting right in the middle of it, its tail bobbing up and down as it looked back at the eight eyes focused in its direction. I smiled and relaxed, knowing I had time to rinse out my lunch containers before changing my clothes and heading out into the snow with Duncan. When the time finally came I practically had to drag him to the door and down the stairs. I figured the squirrel would be gone by the time we returned, but an hour later it was still sitting there watching the cats.

I grabbed a handful of peanuts and pushed the cats out of the way, sliding past Dunc, who tried to slip around my knees and outside. When I slid the door open the squirrel clamored over the railing and scurried across the brick ledge, not going very far and keeping its head turned so it could watch me. I reached through the rail and plunked a couple of nuts down, then left a small trail back up onto the patio. Stepping back I listened to it squeak at me, and then slowly quiet down until its only sounds were a soft hum, quiet and comfortable. Soon I heard its nails scramble along the brick and then a brown nose poked between the railing. Its cheeks were full of peanuts as it slipped through and cautiously stepped toward me.

I glanced inside and saw the children lined up once again, their eyes darting from the squirrel to me and back again. Winnie's tail could not be contained as it jerked and spasmed at her side. Duncan's tail flapped against the carpet and I heard a soft whine rise up in his throat. One paw reached out and scratched the glass, causing my new friend to stiffen and retreat a few inches. Only when things calmed down again did he come forward. I dropped a few more peanuts on the cement in front of him and watched as he scooped them up. Then, very carefully, I held a peanut out in my hand and watched to see what he'd do. He hummed again, took a few tentative hops forward, sat back on his haunches and leaned toward me. I felt his paws curl around the thumb of my glove and his sharp nails grasp the peanut I held for him. Not once did he take his eyes from my face, and only when he had the treat did he retreat and eat it.

I was just about to coo at him and say some soft words when pandemonium erupted on the other side of the glass. Duncan jumped up, both paws on the sliding doors as he barked. The cats puffed up big, their tails fat and swollen three times their normal size. Pip yowled from somewhere deep down in his chest and scampered away, startling Winnie, who hissed at Olive before she scurried under the couch. Olive remained where she was, her big yellow eyes staring straight at me while Duncan's tail smacked her in the face. My new friend was gone in a flash and even though I tried to coax him back he refused to budge.

When I finally came inside, the warm air fogging my glasses, none of the children would look at me. Duncan sniffed my hand once, harumphed and snorted, then turned his back and sauntered away. Apparently they don't approve of my new friend.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Season of The Goose

With last night's abundant snow came the geese. They have gathered like a blanket upon spread out upon another blanket in the golf course behind my apartment where their bodies melt warm shapes into the snow and their feet leave strange, alien tracks. They were kind enough to whisper amongst themselves throughout their arrival last night. I imagined as each new group alighted on the far side of the drift-laden hill they murmured and gathered like family coming together in a hospital room, anxious and relieved to see familiar faces but pensive, almost afraid to breathe. They awoke early, though, and were unable to contain their silence any longer. Their voices rose over the deafening hush of the snow, which falls louder than you think if only you listen. The sound of it blowing and catching the air, then striking the earth, bending the grass, folding over the naked tree limbs is almost thunderous.

Their voices pulled me from sleep early this morning when the light was still too weak to venture far into the room, but seeped in timidly through the slats in the blinds. With my eyes closed and my face half buried beneath two pillows and a pile of blankets I felt certain I'd dreamed my life, that I was three or four and curled up in Grandma's bed on Christmas morning, the sound of Grandma, my mother and The Aunts drinking their coffee and planning the Christmas dinner a pleasant and glorious call from bed. I blinked awake, the voices from the past slipping into goose chatter from the hollow, snowy morning outside.

It is a deep snow and as Duncan and I struggled through it, I wondered how the geese were fairing, if their bodies were submerged beneath waves of white with only their long, periscope necks and wicked little faces visible above the drifts. As the light came on and the falling snow began to wane their babbling increased, almost desperately, and then suddenly from the north came a surge of wings and echoed cries as they took flight, breaking through the low clouds and then coming back down in a long, sweeping arc. Duncan and I stopped on the hillside and watched them as they flew low overhead, three or four hundred of them, their voices occasionally joining into a single long note, then shattering like glass which fell around us, mixing with the snow washing up against our feet.

We heard them long after they passed and in silence we seemed to come to the same resigned conclusion: Autumn is gone. The time of winter is upon us. Our walks will not be easy.

Saturday, November 14, 2009


It snowed last night but the ground is still warm enough that it didn't last long. It melted before I was even in bed, where I got to lay with Duncan and the kittens balled up around me, listening to the sound of the water dripping off the roof, a hypnotic lullaby that pulled me quickly into my dreams.

The morning was wet but warm so Duncan and I trudged through the mist and damp leaves down to The Glen where he got to run and poke along the fence line. I watched the fog roll across the golf course, among the cottonwoods and back over the homes on the far side of the hill. The morning seemed without sunlight or even the need for it, as though the fog were somehow light enough, illuminating even as it obscured. I am not someone who fears the mist, but delights in the games that can be played there, the way it swallows and spits back sound, smudges lines and definition even as it emboldens color and unity. I could walk a thousand miles in the mist and never grow weary of its magic.

I stood on the edge of the open earthen bowl, my palm resting against the smooth bark of a young aspen, and watched Duncan vanish and appear over and over again, the gentle sonorous jingle of his collar keeping me appraised of his location as he moved and flitted out there in the haze. Sometimes the sound would fade entirely and I would feel my body stiffen as I prepared to call out for him or jog down and back up the other side of the bowl to hunt for him in case he'd gotten lost in his wandering. But then there he would be, a flash of red in the white haze, his divine brown eyes meeting my own, a smile seeming to come to his face, a sense of place and belonging returning to his muscles and mine.

No matter where we go we would find the way in our shared company, my good, red dog and me, earthbound loadstars, one for the other.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Coming Home

My friend Traci posted a wonderful series of videos on her Facebook page this morning of soldiers being greeted by their dogs after returning from Iraq and Afghanistan. Clip after clip showed dogs greeting their companions ecstatically, running in circles around them, chirping and dancing and cuddling up in their laps, yelping and crying, tails wagging almost violently. I was at work when I watched them and spent a good five minutes trying not to look like I was tearing up.

I am no war hero, not by a long shot and sometimes it's all I can do to navigate my day. But I know that when I come home my dog, and even one or two of my cats, will be waiting for me, ready to welcome me as though I've traveled the world and finally returned to them after a long absence. It's all too easy to open the door and slip in past them, dropping my lunch bag on the counter, kicking off my shoes as I come in. But not today. Today I promised myself I'd treat them as they treat me, loving them as though nothing else in the world existed.

It's the least I can do.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Long Hours

I am tired today and would not be sitting here awake were it not for the hour I spent with Duncan at The Ponds. The park itself is nothing special but the walk up--with the sun setting low over the wide fields of tall, yellowing grass that roll and climb uphill, ending at the old barn and the narrow line of elms and cottonwoods mingling in silence on the winding banks of the scratch-thin brook--is always remarkable. I took Duncan to the dog park not to play but to watch the light break from the sky, seep through the barren branches and boughs, drip down onto the grass and stain his coat. I took him to the park with the vague hope that that is where we will meet tonight in our long hours of dreams.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Two Sides

Duncan has become quite the determined hunter since we've started exploring The Run, which is both squirrel and bunny-laden. He even stalks the small gray birds which mind their own business as they hop and chirp among the low growing shrubs. Dunc charges ahead of me, leaping through the bushes, snapping at the birds, rousting the squirrels and scattering the rabbits. He's the rudest alarm clock imaginable.

This morning he sniffed out a squirrel lazing on someone's patio and chased it first up the air-conditioning unit, where the poor thing realized it was completely exposed and vulnerable. As Duncan sprang forward the squirrel leapt over his head, caught itself on the screen door and scampered all the way to the top where it screamed and chittered a litany of curses at us. Duncan couldn't squeeze through the bars on the patio but was content to sit and pace and pant and torment the poor thing until I caught up to him and pulled him back. No sooner had he turned away than he was barking up another tree at four squirrels.
I watched him watch them and was amazed at his attention. It's like I'm not there, like nothing in the world is there, just the tree and the squirrels and the light catching his coat. He is a remarkable creature, so tender and quiet as he cuddles against me in bed, then so fierce and determined moments later when he's outside, oblivious to all but his prey.
I could watch him for hours.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

One Wise Choice

There is a desperation to coming home, to getting Duncan on the leash and outside before the day has entirely faded. Although it is not always possible I try awfully hard because it doesn't seem fair to sit in a window all day, looking out on the world and not feeling the sun on your face and the crisp Autumn air in your lungs. So tonight I raced home and ran with him across the street, up the hill where the two trees stand overlooking the lake. We plopped down in the cool grass and rolled around and over each other, tangling the leash between us until I finally took it off and rolled it up into my pocket. When the day seemed settled and the night an inevitability, we found a comfortable silence to sit in, Duncan resting his chin on my knee while I played with curls at his ears and stroked his soft cheek, two of my favorite parts of The Duncan. The night whispered around us and swallowed our reverence.
Racing home to spend a few precious fleeting moments of light with my boy seemed the wisest decision I'd made all day.

Monday, November 9, 2009

The Ugly Side

For two and a half years Duncan and I have made the park our own, running its vast lengths in the hot summer months, appreciating its every nuance in Spring and Autumn--stopping to gaze in wonder upon the blossoms, or reflecting with terrible but sweet nostalgia on the fallen, curling leaves. Even in Winter, my least favorite season, we coast over the snow and blue ice as though gliding over a bright but forgotten moon on the far edge of the galaxy. We know its scents and flavors, the sound of the wind in the elms or the calls of the boys who play late night Frisbee on the baseball fields. We know the way the stars look in June as well as January, the Dipper held firmly in the northern sky or Orion on the hunt days after Christmas. There have been long February nights when snow covers everything and I believe our feet have been the only ones to crack the frozen crust of white.

But there is a dark side to the park which breaks my heart. More times than I could count I have written about the soccer hoards or the children athletes and "their wretched parents." Duncan and I have navigated their gatherings with great difficulty in the Fall and Spring, sometimes staying away for weeks, not returning until they have moved on, their discarded water bottles and fast food wrappers the only reminder that they were there at all.

I do not like sports. I never have. I find them brutal and arrogant and lacking the very sportsmanlike ideals they claim to foster. The public, and especially children, have been duped when it comes to turning athletes into role models, coaches into sages and paradigms of wisdom.

The soccer hoards have left, as have the baseball teams. Now the lights of the park are lit for the kiddie football league, my least favorite of all sports. Tonight we circled the baseball diamonds where they practice and I winced each time I heard a coach scream at his charges. It's not the yelling that bothers me so much; after all, it can be a great motivator, but the language they use, the things they imply. It was a warm and lovely night, but I felt myself hardening up, growing angry and more than once I stopped and listened and considered saying something.

One coach growled at his team as he strode back and forth in front of them. "What the hell was that?" he roared. "You're all prancing around out there like a bunch of pussies. C'mon, you're in the fifth grade! Act like it!"

Another accused his team of being girls and then paraded before them, his wrist falling limp, a distinct and offense sashay in his step, an intolerant lisp in his voice. I got the message.

Another made the boys run laps, calling the one who'd fallen behind a fatso.

And where were the parents? There were none on the perimeter or in the stands. None watching at all. No, they were seated in their running cars, some asleep, some talking on the phone, none involved in the training of their children. It was heart breaking.
So we climbed the hill and sat on the swings at the jungle gym. Duncan rolled in the sawdust below the slide while I tried to block out the sound of the whistles, each one a violent shove, pushing childhood further and further away.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

A Crack in the Sky

Now that the hours have changed and there is light waiting to greet us when our eyes slip open in the morning, I rarely get to see the sun come up. As difficult as it was to climb out of bed in the darkness I'd grown accustomed to watching the sky change in the east, easing into my day as smoothly as I eased into my socks. Duncan and I had spent weeks in the soft early pink of morning walking The Run, him chasing squirrels while I marveled at the color of light on the trunks of the aspens. Now the better colors are reserved for those in the evening on the western horizon, jagged and darkened by The Rockies.

Sleep has not been easy coming to me lately, and even harder to hold onto once I've found it. Much of my nights are spent on the couch, watching movies or reading until my eyes grow heavy. But once in bed I toss and turn, cough and try to make room for myself among the dog and three cats who share my space with me.

This morning when it was still dark, Duncan woke me early, standing beside the bed, his nose nearly touching my own, a soft whine in his voice. He does not like to wake me but when he does I know it's time to go, that there is no time to spare. I pulled on my shoes and a jacket--my camera still tucked in the inside pocket--found my knit cap and stumbled downstairs with him. He trotted ahead, the tag on his collar jingling like a Christmas bell in the morning silence, and crossed the parking lot to his grassy spot before I'd even cleared the last landing. But when I did I stopped and caught my breath.

Light had just barely cracked the darkness, splitting the sky in two, one half black and silent, the other red and gold and as violent as a wide burst of lightning. I sat down on the brittle grass with Duncan at my side and watched the night break above us like we were the only two sets of eyes in all of existence. Like this morning was made solely for us.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Comfort at Sunset

Duncan dragged me to the lake tonight, a place we have looked upon but not visited recently. He was on another of his missions it seemed, pulling me behind him, that determined and set look on his face, ignoring the rustling of the leaves in the shrubs where the rabbits crouch, slipping past the trunks of the trees where the squirrels squat and watch the day pass from indigo to blue to gold and back to indigo. We cut across the park and up the hill near the library and down onto the path the leads past the restaurant and Hero's and around the bookstore and the coffee shop to the quiet side where the retirees have built a small community, their front doors and porches facing the shore and the sunrise but never the sunset.
It was quiet out, as though the world was holding its breath, afraid to move 'less the warmth of the day and the season be startled away and replaced with clouds and wind and gray. Dunc sniffed the edges of the path, found a nice tall clump of grass to examine for a few moments and then redoubled his efforts at leading me in the direction of his choosing. Not long into our walk we caught up with a woman pushing a tiny beaming face with a mop of blond curls in a stroller. As we pulled alongside them Dunc slowed his pace and huffed once or twice to catch her attention. She looked at me and smiled, but when her eyes settled on Roo her pace slowed and something in her turned and caught itself.

"Your dog is beautiful," she said. "We have––had one the same color. Her name was Maggie. We had to put her to sleep three weeks ago."

"I'm sorry for your loss," I offered. "Was she with you a long time?"

She smiled and nodded and loosened her grip on the stroller just a bit. "Yes, she was fifteen. Last year when she turned fourteen we threw her a big birthday party and all the family came. And not just the dogs. Everyone. We didn't think she'd make it to fifteen." She looked away and out at the lake, which caught the colors of the sky and somehow made them truer than the originals. "But she did. Fifteen plus three days."

"You're very blessed to have had so much time with her," I said.

Duncan stepped up beside her and brushed her leg as he passed. She smiled and reached down with one hand to stroke his back. Her fingers traced the curls on his shoulders. "He looks so much like her. Same color. Same curls. They could be twins." A flash of embarrassment crossed her face as she withdrew her hand and placed it back on the stroller.

"Would you like to pet him?" I asked. "I think he'd like that very much."

She faltered a moment and then came to a slow and awkward stop. Duncan eased up beside her and without being told sat down. She clicked the lock on the wheel of the stroller and then knelt before him, watching my face for any sign of impatience or weariness. I smiled and nodded.

And then she buried her face in Duncan's chest, ran her fingers over his ears and down his shoulders, entwining them in the long hair on his back. She pulled herself into him and Duncan merely sat and watched, sniffed her hair, breathed softly in her ear. I dropped the leash and let them sit together on the lake path. She hugged him tightly, played with a paw and kissed his cheek, causing his tail to thump once or twice. I was proud of him and not at all shocked by her sudden display of emotion, and yet there was a part of me that felt obligated to say something, to offer some word of consolation. But that was not my part to play. Duncan had led me here for her and for him. My job was to remain silent. So I turned and looked out on the last colors of the day and listened to the gentle splash of the ducks skirting the beach, the silence of the moment, the very soft sighs of the woman grieving her loss.

There is too much noise in this world. Not enough comfort and quiet.

Next time what I'd do is look at
the earth before saying anything. I'd stop
just before going into a house
and be an emperor for a minute
and listen better to the wind
or to the air being still.

When anyone talked to me, whether
blame or praise or just passing time,
I'd watch the face, how the mouth
has to work, and see any strain, any
sign of what lifted the voice.

And for all, I'd know more -- the earth
bracing itself and soaring, the air
finding every leaf and feather over
forest and water, and for every person
the body glowing inside the clothes
like a light.

("Next Time" Mary Oliver)

Sometimes the walks are not for me at all, but the silence I have to offer to the world.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Superior Scribbler

My friend Lori over at Fermented Fur, who I've had the distinct honor of actually meeting and walking with, recently (okay, not so recently) bestowed an award on yours truly for his (on again/off again) efforts at chronicling his adventures (both mis- and otherwise) with his best friend, Duncan. Lori is a gem, a truly gifted writer with a razor sharp wit and a heart of gold and this award means a lot especially since my reports of walks with Duncan have been rather lax as of late. Although I may not have been writing as much as I have in the past, Duncan and I continue to walk and my little "outpost" on the internet (as David calls it) is never far from my mind and heart. Each of my readers, especially those who comment and support us, are like stars in the sky and I feel blessed to have encountered each of you.

I'm supposed to name five blogs who also deserve the award, but wouldn't you know, I just don't want to pick from the list on the right. Despite the rules––and you all know how I feel about rules––all the blogs I list are good and I value each of them for the unique joy they bring to my day. To hell with picking just five. They are all superior scribblers in my book. I encourage each of you to pick three of those blogs, ones you have never visited, stop by and leave them a little note, something kind and happy, and tell them you heard about them from Duncan (and me, of course, even though I am Just the Handler).

To read more about the award (and the rules), please visit here.

Thank you, Lori, and thank you to my readers, who have kept me writing, however infrequently, more often than they could guess. But mostly, a hearty, ear-scritching thanks to Roo, who makes me walk whether I want to or not.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Parliament Serenade

I missed what may very well be the last good day of the year. It was sunny and clear and warm––over 70˚!––and even though my desk at the college is in the darkest, coldest corner, a bleak place without windows or fresh air, Duncan and I were able to enjoy the night. We ventured down The Run, an exercise we've been without since last week's snow and the early darkness. It's become a tricky spot to walk; the steep angle of the north-facing hillside has turned treacherous and slippery under the ice, and too few people are picking up after their pets. Instead we've returned to the park which the high school marching band and soccer hoards have finally abandoned. But tonight, with an orange sherbet sky and warm weather, we trudged through our Run to the Glen.

Duncan was exuberant like I have not seen him in weeks, chasing and romping with two little rabbit-sized pugs he's befriended lately, hunting down stray golf balls (three tonight!) and running back and forth, his body stretched thin and low to the ground, his legs churning and rustling up the leaves, leaving a wake behind him. Occasionally he'd skid to an abrupt halt in a pile of leaves, slide across their brittle backs, kick and fling them up in the air where they'd rain down around his smiling face.

At The Glen I tossed his ball back and forth but the leaves from the aspens have accumulated and the ball was too easily lost among the quilt of their bodies. So we rassled and chased each other up and down the bowl in the earth instead, running rings, jumping back and forth, weaving among the trees. Duncan demanded leaves so I tossed them at his head causing him to rear up and dance among them on his two hind legs before they settled back at his feet.

And then there were the owls. I've laid awake in bed these last few nights trying to sort through all the things in my head, and the owls have been with me, calling to each other outside my window, singing a song only the trees and the night have learned. They roost high in the cottonwoods behind my building, surveying the tall dead grass that borders the golf course, their eyes watchful for the bunnies we chase in the afternoons. Mostly they are invisible, but when I do spy them in the minutes before dawn, their bodies, tall and wide, look like the silhouettes of nests or gnarled knots and were it not for their bobbing horned heads I would miss them entirely.

Tonight there were three of them gathered in the aspens above us. One called down and was answered by its companions. Duncan cantered to a stop and craned his head back to watch them watching us. They continued their conversation, back and forth, back and forth, and even when Roo leaned up against the smallest of the trees they did not fall quiet. I plopped down next to him, buried my sneakers in the leaves, laid back and watched the night come on––orange turning to raspberry then to indigo––and basked in the loveliest of dusk serenades. I could have––and probably should have––spent the night there, Duncan tucked into my side, one paw on my chest, his eyes turned toward the treetops.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009


The poop bags are generally pretty good. They're bright and green and are emblazoned with a happy cartoon of two dogs standing around a steaming pile of their own residue. I've never had a problem with them. The worst that can be said is that sometimes they're a bit tricky to open, especially if it's cold out and you're wearing gloves. But other than that I couldn't ask for a more reliable and easy to use product. They're even biodegradable!

Tonight after an hour at the gym, my body already stiffening up and this one bitch of a muscle screaming at me in my shoulder, Duncan and I walked down to the little enclosed "dog park" at the other end of the complex. It's smaller than The Glen but it's lighted and fenced in and much more user friendly on nights like tonight when all I want is a quick, painless thirty minutes outside with the dog, followed by an extremely hot shower, a beer and a pizza (so much for the hour with my trainer) and a movie on the couch until I pass out.

Duncan took his time sniffing around and prancing about as he is wont to when he knows I can hardly move and will be doing my best Frankenstein's Monster impersonation tomorrow when I walk. First he strolled the perimeter of the yard, sniffing back by the shed where they keep the weed whackers and holiday lights. Then he circled the wiry, little saplings, raising his leg and spritzing each before moving on to the park bench and doing the same to all four of its legs. I stood around, bouncing on my heels and shivering in my jacket as I waitied for him to poop. When he finally did, he chose the furthest and darkest corner, moving off to the side when he'd finished to grin maniacally while watching me shuffle down to him, dodging poop left behind by the dogs of less courteous neighbors.

I reached into my pocket and grabbed one of the several wadded up poop bags I take with me everywhere. I am to poop bags as old ladies are to tissues up the sleeves of their sweaters. I take them with me everywhere. If we're ever out together, you and I, on a hike, or a road trip, shopping at the mall, eating at a restaurant and you find yourself in dire need of a poop bag, I've got you covered. Trust me.

It was dark in that corner of the yard and not even the light from the passing cars was much use. I fetched a treat from my other pocket and slipped it to Roo who took it and ambled off leaving me to clean up after him. A breeze kicked up, stirring the leaves and rattling the twig trunks of the twin saplings. Their shadows swayed back and forth across the crisp, yellowing grass, the moon painting them as pale, bony fingers pointing me in the right direction.

I slid my hand into the bag and reached for the small pile. Since I put him on a raw diet last year, Duncan's poops have been small and hard, shaped like nearly-perfect balls, and never take up very much space in the bag. They're quite manageable, almost cute even, compared to the smoking behemoths I see other dogs leave behind. Still, not noticing the hole in the bottom of the bag and grabbing Duncan's quaint little pile, really digging in and getting it under the nails, was no more pleasant because they're shaped like big peanut M & M's.

It took me a moment. I've grown quite accustomed to the heat, but the moisture and the clearly rendered texture was something new. It was only when I felt them shift and roll down my fingers and into my warm palm that I gasped and ran like a little girl to the nearest garbage can, Duncan chasing after me and batting at my heels like we'd invented a new game.

Sometimes the glamor of my life is almost unbearable.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009


My favorite nights are the ones that smell like fabric softener. It seems that no matter how cold the air is on our faces, passing through a cloud of someone's fresh laundry warms us instantly. Tonight everyone must have been tending to the chores they neglected over the long Halloween weekend for the smell of Downey got thicker and heavier the further we got from home. It followed us across the street and lingered faintly on the tree-lined island running down the middle of Bowles. Occasionally the wind wafted it our way as we circled the darkened baseball fields, sloppy with snow melt, silent and haunted. It floated after us as we climbed the hill overlooking the lake, Dunc dragging me behind him. The night was complete and solid by then, and not even the peaks of the mountains glowed with the last of the day's sun. Standing high and looking down on the reflection of the lights of Littleton spread out before us like towns seen at midnight from airplanes, he leaned into the breeze––which did not smell of coffee from the Starbucks or french fries from the restaurants on the far side, but clean and warm, like something carried with us in our pockets. He closed his eyes, prompting me to do the same. Together we stood and breathed. Just breathed. And drifted through the warm scent of home and memory and companionship.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Calling All Angels

Music Playlist at

It was a lonely day. The snow has started to retreat and the sky was blue and warm, but try as I might I couldn't turn the constant drip drip drip of the ice melting off the eaves into anything other than the tick tick tick of an endless day of solitude.

By the time the sun had set and darkness had arrived earlier than I'd been prepared for, after I'd eaten my dinner standing alone in the kitchen, the lights turned down low, Duncan laying at my feet, I felt awfully sad, without anyone to distract me and help my heart feel light. Perhaps its the turning of the season, my first Autumn alone in thirteen years, or the passing of my grandmother, but I felt terrible and watched and listened to my phone not ringing, feeling as though the streets were empty and I was the only one left in all the world. A glass of a wine, a hot shower and an early bedtime did not help.

I laid awake watching the shadows of the barren branches of the linden tree outside my window dance across the ceiling. Pip curled into my shoulder and Olive rested a single paw on my forehead. Duncan was coiled up tight on his pillow, snoring and twitching in his sleep. He whined each time he heard me shift and turn, and finally stretched up, eased toward me in the darkness and felt for my nose with his own.

Sleep was fruitless, so I got up, pulled on a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt and my tennis shoes and took him outside. The moon was bright in the empty sky and because we were alone I didn't bother with his leash. He followed me down the stairs and across the patch of thin ice at the bottom before crossing the parking lot to the patch of grass where he could stretch and tend to business. I watched the stars and began to hum softly to myself, a song I've known for a very long time but had forgotten about until that moment.

Calling all angels
calling all angels
walk me through this one
don't leave me alone
calling all angels
calling all angels
we're cryin' and we're hurtin'
and we're not sure why...
then it's one foot then the other
as you step out onto the road
how much weight? how much weight?
then it's how long? and how far?
and how many times before it's too late?
(Jane Siberry, Calling All Angels)

My iPod was still in my jacket pocket, so I pulled it out, found the song and listened, singing softly as Duncan led me across the muddy grass. The streets were silent and pale in the moonlight and I could hear the drip of water from the trees in the park, from all over my small corner of the Front Range it seemed.

Duncan pulled me through the soupy bog to a deep patch of receding snow and looked at me a long time in that wondrous and understanding gaze of his, and as the song's chorus rose up in my ears, he rolled onto his back, his weight cracking the hard top layer, his stick legs reaching for the sky as he wiggled softly back and forth, never taking his eyes from mine.

Calling all angels
calling all angels
walk me through this one
don't leave me alone

And then, as he stood up and leaned his damp body against my legs, I saw the snow angel he'd created for me, shimmering white and blue in the darkness, his warmth still melting into it. The tears came cold and sweet to my cheeks as he turned and led me back home, up the stairs and back inside where the cats met us at the door.

How is it that with such a miraculous companion I must constantly remind myself that I am never, ever alone, that my angel lives and breathes by my side every day of my blessed life?

Sunday, November 1, 2009


My bed was strangely empty this morning. Typically three cats curl around me in various positions while one big red dog takes his share out of the center, sometimes horizontally, sometimes diagonally. It can be tricky navigating the shoals of Dreamland and on more than one occasion my companions have heard me complain that just once it would be nice to be able to stretch out.

Last night was such a night. They all followed me to bed but at some point during the night Winnie departed to reclaim her familiar post on the back of the couch. Olive decamped to the bathroom where she curled up in the bathtub (which she has only recently discovered and become enamored of, a bizarre but somehow fitting arrangement for my strange, owl-eyed girl). Duncan quite often leaves the bed to crawl beneath it and spend the night snoring, or to cuddle up with his giant Pooh Bear on the fancy bed roll Ken and I bought for him the day after we first brought him home. I was more than a little surprised at my lack of Pip since he rarely leaves my shoulder, where he rests his cheek against mine all night long. Honestly, waking up alone and unfettered was not quite the glorious, magic-of-the-open-road feeling I'd imagined. My small futon seemed lonely and a bit cold, and suddenly bigger than I thought it could.

A quick inspection of the apartment proved me correct on my assumptions about Winnie and Olive, although Olive was not sleeping in the tub but hovering over the drain batting at it with one wet paw. Pip and Dunc were not hard to find at all and when I did I decided we could postpone our morning walk until their highnesses were good and ready.