tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86740539911125860772012-01-27T03:44:28.251-07:00Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.comBlogger7961100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-62891697359322173152012-01-25T20:01:00.004-07:002012-01-25T20:01:51.390-07:00

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

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-88835017745117712222012-01-22T16:54:00.001-07:002012-01-22T16:54:07.181-07:00

It was a Saturday night bath like any good Saturday night bath: a steaming hot tub, a tall glass of ice water sitting nearby, beads of water sweating down its sides, a good book on the Kindle and nowhere to go. The cats usually hover around the edge, staring down at the water and me relaxing in it as though perplexed as to why I'd do such a silly thing, occasionally dipping a curious paw into my

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-27145771373585771732012-01-19T16:39:00.001-07:002012-01-19T16:39:39.558-07:00

January is a tiring time. The end of the year brings so much reflections on our blessings and the challenges we have faced, but January is daunting. Stepping out and walking through the park each day with Duncan sometimes feels like pulling that big book off the shelf, the one I've been meaning to get to but have ignored over and over. The pages are white and heavy and unfamiliar and it just

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-66622477942128310522012-01-08T16:58:00.001-07:002012-01-08T17:56:28.536-07:00

Everything the same; everything distinct. (Chien-ju) There are few things that mean as much to me as a morning walk after an evening snow with Duncan, when the world is still silent and the blanket still smooth, the sky bright and high and his joy unquenchable. I am not a churchgoing fellow but on mornings like this, when every branch and blade, when even the fading red and browns of the

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-25192607307404178732012-01-05T16:59:00.000-07:002012-01-05T16:59:23.631-07:00

I have been struggling not just with words lately but with Duncan as well. It seems, despite the glorious weather and the plethora of geese which have invaded and polluted our park, cackling and taunting and begging to be chased from their green poop roosts on the ground and back into the air, Duncan and I are both suffering through the winter doldrums. And we have somehow fallen out of sync.

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-71925337145377913372011-12-31T18:38:00.000-07:002011-12-31T18:38:14.852-07:00

Duncan and I took our last good walk of the year just before the sun was setting, down the winding trail I've carved out of the snow in The Run. The light was golden, the snow was blue on the ground and my good dog was leading the way, ever onward. It has been a good year for me, the best since that terrible Spring of 2005. I see on Facebook and in listening to my friends that many people

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-72808008719054339912011-12-13T18:24:00.000-07:002011-12-13T18:24:26.078-07:00

There are two trees in this home: the big one for the two-legged folk (although you'd think Pip and Olive had broken into our stash of catnip and were stoned out of their minds with the amount of time they spend laying under it staring into the branches and lights, not touching anything, just staring with wide eyes) and the small tree for the four-legged members of the household. The big tree

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-50229527966130979602011-12-11T18:10:00.001-07:002011-12-11T21:07:04.078-07:00

It has been a busy week. Ken and I finally decided that we wanted to stay here together for Christmas, with Duncan and the cats, and start our own tradition rather than separate and go home for the holidays as usually happens. So we decided that in in honor of our first Christmas back together after a two year separation we'd go all out. We bought our first Christmas tree since 2005, dragged out

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-32614716091762080712011-12-03T07:56:00.001-07:002011-12-03T09:24:19.378-07:00

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

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-84642343203739985212011-12-01T15:07:00.001-07:002011-12-01T15:35:30.422-07:00

Snow is not an easy thing to forgive but the sweetness of December somehow makes it possible. Snow is supposed to fall in December and for that reason––coupled with the fact that I was able to work from home today and didn't have to drive on it––I was able to enjoy it. A child of late Spring and Summer, it is difficult for me to find the beauty in a snowfall and were it not for Duncan I would

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-21992797400851033982011-11-29T16:43:00.001-07:002011-11-29T17:35:25.231-07:00

Several years ago Ken and I decided that we didn't want to pay outlandish prices for scratching posts for our cats when we could easily make our own for far cheaper. We went to several stores, looked at how they were constructed, consulted some online resources, paid a visit to our local hardware store and got what we needed. In almost no time at all we'd made three posts, one for each of the

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-73307703676332720232011-11-29T08:13:00.000-07:002011-11-29T08:13:00.318-07:00

It was, what I thought, an ordinary walk in every way: the air was cool but clean, the sky was wide, the park was entirely ours. Duncan plodded along beside me, uninterested in roaming far and wide in search of any scraps or stray balls that might have appeared overnight. He was content to walk beside me, a happy, showy, Broadway sort of strut in his step, head high, ears higher, a grin on his

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-73582962900971514422011-11-24T10:32:00.001-07:002011-11-24T21:49:01.791-07:00

The last few years have been some of the most challenging of my life and at times it's been difficult to find things for which to be thankful but this year my blessings are easily recognizable and I am can say for the first time since my family lost my grandmother in 2004 I am truly grateful and humbled by the blessings that have found their way into my life. On this incredible Thanksgiving

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-72350523355026945082011-11-21T07:56:00.000-07:002011-11-21T07:56:00.620-07:00

The sun has not touched The Run in the early hours for what seems months. It is a cold place in the mornings, shaded but open to the golf course on one side, a narrow trail at the end of the wind's path, cold and loud. It can be quite unfriendly, especially under feet of snow, but it is a place we love and the place where we walk each morning, so we go there, just the two of us, Duncan and me.

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-59149602906082214462011-11-20T17:05:00.001-07:002011-11-20T17:19:12.323-07:00

It feels nearly complete, this Autumn turning. The trees, which have obscured my view of the mountains and the park since April, are little more than jagged charcoal lines bending and twisting into the sharp November sky. They are like fat, dark arteries fanning out into winding veins that end in a finger-like splay of capillaries, reaching into nothingness. And yet even they––bland and

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-15851928140365032762011-11-18T15:46:00.001-07:002011-11-18T16:11:01.171-07:00

We fed Duncan early, took him for a late afternoon walk as the sun was setting and then another right before Ken and I went downtown to see the Broadway tour company's production of The Lion King. We came home, ate a very late dinner and took Roo for another quick walk before calling it a night and going to bed. It was only around three this morning, with Ken snoring on one side of me, Duncan on

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-62219643306624305032011-11-16T19:11:00.001-07:002011-11-16T19:56:56.881-07:00

It has been a long time since we have seen a squirrel in The Run. Ever since the arrival of Jeffrey's feral cat last Spring, their presence has dwindled and finally, by the mid-summer, they had vanished entirely. Before the arrival of the cat––who is now known as "Mama Kitty" for the litter of kittens she had near the hot tub heating unit last February during our coldest time of the year––

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-23803944684471598802011-11-15T16:33:00.001-07:002011-11-15T17:48:11.750-07:00

November is at its best when it behaves as though it is April, with skies that change from bright and blue and filled with sunshine, to mottled grey with silver and gold-lined clouds, then back to what it was before, sweet and wide and warm; when the small brown birds flutter from bare branch to branch, lining up like exclamation points to watch, twitch-headed and nervous as Duncan and I pass

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-32861455329778371892011-11-14T18:30:00.001-07:002011-11-14T18:45:09.808-07:00

After a week of tending to Ken's nasty cold I have finally succumbed. While mine has bypassed my head it entirely it went straight to my chest, where Ken's is currently residing. Both of us spent much of the night hacking and sputtering, getting up for drinks of water and occasional restless trips to the couch in order to let the other sleep. Duncan, unlike myself, is not a complainer and

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-25863009772198102432011-11-13T18:20:00.001-07:002011-11-13T18:37:20.752-07:00

Sundays are lazy days, at least after I clean the apartment, tend to the laundry, make the weekly menu and venture out for the groceries. My lunches come late and often I find myself curled up on the couch amid a pile of cats and a snoring Duncan curled up on the end of the couch while a book rests open and unread against my chest, the warm sun coming through the windows painting us all in

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-43854371738898100502011-11-12T17:14:00.001-07:002011-11-12T17:47:11.453-07:00

It is an easy thing to do, on an Autumn afternoon, when the sky is bigger than you remember it ever being, and the sun, warm as it falls away toward Winter, is a thing that laughs at the wind and the tumult of the leaves ripping from the trees and the general discord of the season, to spend the day on the warm, serene side of the window watching the world shake itself loose outside and decide to

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-90471825936135528862011-11-11T21:04:00.001-07:002011-11-11T21:18:28.332-07:00

Duncan took in quite the haul today: three tennis balls this morning––two of them multi-colored!––and the bottom of someone's shoe tonight. It makes me think of Kevi's dog Ranger, a stocky, grinning German Shepherd, smarter than he let on, and devious. One day Ranger came home dragging a deer carcass behind him. When Kevi first told me I envisioned him running wild across the foothills of

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-57910535025072929952011-11-10T19:37:00.001-07:002011-11-11T20:33:22.372-07:00

Duncan loves a good game of hide and seek. Sometimes I'll hide in the apartment, behind or door or in the shower. A couple of times I've even hidden behind a mirror which confuses the heck out of him. At the park when he wanders away I'll duck behind a tree or a low shrub or wall until he comes back, a panicked look on his face, his ears high, his face turning this way and that. This morning

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-36638064755342781802011-11-09T18:43:00.000-07:002011-11-09T20:51:29.594-07:00

I am not a man of few words, as these seven-hundred seventy-eight musings on this little outpost of mine can attest, but even I know when it's time to shut up and let the world and our walks through it speak for themselves.

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-2384903588016090442011-11-08T19:38:00.000-07:002011-11-08T19:38:03.151-07:00

The world was on fire this afternoon just before the sun dipped below the dark, jagged silhouette of The Rockies. The park was ablaze with the last of Autumn's leavings, from the single tongues of flaming leaves catching the late season light, the yellowing blades of grass illuminated through their crisp, delicate skin, the veins dark against the burning, to the inferno that dazzled the trees

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-68394736091410639512011-11-07T19:23:00.002-07:002011-11-07T19:23:31.532-07:00

I am not a fan of this time change, most especially because Duncan and the cats don't quite know what to think of it and have somehow decided to hold me accountable. First they thought I overslept this morning, which Olive and Pip were more than happy to inform me of at 4:30 by yowling and nuzzling against my cheek. Winnie, ever polite and always a lady, merely jumped from her perch on my hip

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-18998255317179896542011-11-06T17:11:00.000-07:002011-11-06T17:11:00.117-07:00

It was a busy morning, what with one neighbor moving out, taking Vinnie, his Miniature Pincher, and his loud, obnoxious girlfriend with him, and another family moving into the neighboring apartment. The parking lot was a mess of trucks and people carrying boxes, colliding on the stairs, and being as polite as moving allowed. Duncan, however, spent much of the day on the patio enjoying the

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-45752078514001366922011-11-05T23:44:00.003-06:002011-11-06T12:04:55.464-07:00

There are few things in life more satisfying and fulfilling than caring for and nursing the person you love most, the one who has caught a nasty little cold, spending an evening with friends eating wonderful food and listening to good music and then coming home to a dog who is waiting at the door for you, a deep whine of pure joy rising up from his tremendous chest and heart and a hind end

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-26440812964640458192011-11-04T23:48:00.000-06:002011-11-04T23:48:00.963-06:00

The last walk of the night is usually a hurried thing right before bed, more of a final trip down the thirty-seven stairs, across the parking lot to one of the grassy islands spread throughout the parking lot where Duncan can pee while I stare at either the stars or the orange glowing clouds, depending on the weather. But tonight, late, when the traffic had calmed and the noise of the city had

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-71969953004472382292011-11-03T19:28:00.001-06:002011-11-12T11:46:35.248-07:00

There are times on our walks, when Duncan is off-leash and the park is dark and entirely our own under a mostly-clear and starry sky, that we wander far and wide from each other. While I stare at my feet, plodding heavily and loudly forward through the snow's thick crust with the soft layer of stewy slush beneath, Duncan skips along, loping like a coyote, head down and back arched, sometimes

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-80982786682757547552011-11-02T09:08:00.000-06:002011-11-02T09:12:02.791-06:00

Even in winter an isolated patch of snow has a special quality. (Andy Goldsworthy) And so we did. We sat, with the wind and snow in our faces, and listened to the crunching of the tires and the sound of flakes catching the branches and mingling amongst themselves as they were tossed about by this early winter dance. And it was very good.

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-48010603447347351062011-11-01T17:53:00.000-06:002011-11-01T21:02:17.606-06:00

Two weeks ago, when the season seemed confident and strong, unwavering in its commitment to the final traces of Summer, before the clouds crept low and the snow came, knocking most of the brown and brittle, rattling leaves from the trees and carpeting the ground with their mottled slippery bodies, Ken and I took Duncan on an evening stroll along the edge of the property and across the street

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-23570597875117599772011-10-31T09:30:00.000-06:002011-10-31T09:51:45.856-06:00

At the park this morning, chilled because I'd only climbed out of the shower thirty minutes before, but clear-headed and content in the newness of the sun and the freshness of the cold air, I threw Duncan's bright new ball as hard as I could across the park and watched as he scampered after it, his coat deep red with a distinct golden line around its edges. I watched the ball land and bounce

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-649207024027440202011-10-30T09:54:00.001-06:002011-10-30T09:54:31.135-06:00

There are more balls in this little apartment than you'd think possible and nearly every day our collection grows even bigger. It seems we cannot leave the apartment without Duncan stumbling upon a golf ball right below my window (the golf course is about thirty feet from where I live and quite often we're jolted out of our peace and tranquility when some errant golfer knocks his ball right into

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-63185141357667708422011-10-28T20:33:00.002-06:002011-10-29T19:31:52.185-06:00

The good thing about the snow is that the park is all ours once again. Our mornings are free of the runners who sprint back and forth across the fields and our evenings are clear of the dreaded Soccer Hoards and that wretched high school marching band. The cold and snow and subsequent slush have removed just about everyone except Duncan and me, one or two snow-shoe enthusiasts, who I never see

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-58729374598660828572011-10-27T20:13:00.003-06:002011-10-27T20:20:20.023-06:00

There is much to be done the day after a snowstorm here on the edge of the Rocky Mountains so Duncan and I ventured out early, moments, it seemed, after the sun first peeked over the horizon, painting the snow a lazy shade of lavender with the faintest trace of orange. I pulled on my boots and coat and the gloves which have been so kind to me these past few years but will soon need replacing,

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-27225595998752288072011-10-26T09:12:00.002-06:002011-10-27T20:14:27.626-06:00

And so there it was, the snow, waiting for us, for our eyes to blink open after a long cold night. Ken has gone to Michigan so Duncan and the cats slept on the bed with me, curled around me, warm and soft, little mounds of dreaming heat around my feet and legs. It was a cold night, so I'd switched out the sheets for the new fleece ones and we slept heavy, with rich dreams, the kind that are warm

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-13660262113256893022011-10-23T19:26:00.000-06:002011-10-23T19:26:02.947-06:00

Besides the autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days A little this side of the snow And that side of the haze. (Emily Dickinson) Duncan and I have spent two glorious afternoons wading ankle-deep among the leaves, their sound underfoot glorious and heart-breaking all at once, the fortune cookie voices they contained all summer finally given sound and reason as their bodies are broken by our

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-66840058592220864552011-10-20T14:48:00.000-06:002011-10-20T14:48:21.164-06:00

Well, we did it again; we survived another grooming. In August a new neighbor moved in, bringing with her two dogs, a daughter, and her mobile dog grooming van. She's a wonderful person and we've spent a lot of time chatting and waiting for her Colorado dog grooming license to be finalized. Finally, it arrived early this week and we made an appointment for Roo to get the full treatment, all

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-1862989167218692922011-10-19T09:18:00.000-06:002011-10-19T09:18:00.192-06:00

He was waiting this morning, in the last of the green trees, his back the color of mottled bark and almost lost among the foliage. It wasn't until he turned that he caught Duncan's attention. Roo darted to the base of the fence and sat with such force among the leaves that they dusted up and scattered around him, a mighty red comet leaving an impact crater. The hawkling hardly moved. He turned

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-47765299184897930482011-10-18T18:56:00.003-06:002011-10-18T20:16:16.935-06:00

It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life. (P. D. James) It was a glorious afternoon, breezeless and stationary but with cool, tolerable temperatures, too cold for a t-shirt but too warm for a jacket. The windows had been left open and the sun allowed to bless the cats with the warm squares it

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-21981744874662952292011-10-13T17:01:00.000-06:002011-10-13T17:01:16.931-06:00

As Duncan has learned many times on our walks, sometimes there are discoveries to be made in the low bushes and shrubs along our grassy path. I could not count the number of sticks or balls (tennis, base or golf) he had retrieved and dropped, wet and heavy, into the palm of my hand. Or the birds he has rooted out, scattering them into a fluttering, dancing cacophony in the air about his head.

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-33532421910573784362011-10-11T19:13:00.001-06:002011-10-11T19:17:04.458-06:00

"Life down a hole takes an awful toll, What with not a soul there to share with Hurry––it’s lovely up here!" ("Hurry, It's Lovely Up Here!" Alan Jay Lerner) It's National Coming Out Day and after Duncan and I strolled around the lake, where a cool breeze was stirring the aspens and elms along its shore, we stopped by Hero's Pets to pick up some treats and to say hello to Chelsea and the gang

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-43096694865419273342011-10-01T16:45:00.000-06:002011-10-01T16:45:53.317-06:00

In June I thought it was a shoelace, a long one from someone's sneaker, something once white but now dirtied, well-worn and tossed by an inconsiderate tenant from one of the balconies overlooking The Run. It was resting in the grass, pale and fragile, like a frozen wisp of smoke or a thin piece of onion paper, moist from the morning dew and curled upon itself, draped across our trail a little

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-87490063538462693172011-09-30T21:23:00.000-06:002011-09-30T21:23:33.111-06:00

I have never been a fan of Autumn. You can keep your layered clothes, your baggy sweaters, your crisp mornings and the far-away sky, your dying leaves and the blossoming bareness of the trees overhead, the stale, cool earthiness of the air when you breath. These things mean nothing to me. I will say this, though: there is great delight to be found in stepping on the leaves, cracking their

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-21558236729375536552011-09-29T19:16:00.002-06:002011-09-29T19:16:33.367-06:00

The mornings and early evenings are getting cooler and but while the sun is still up it is perfect weather for some Frisbee in the park. Duncan has never been much of a Frisbee dog, preferring to fetch balls or sticks, which are also good for chewing, but for his birthday I bought him one and thought we'd see how it would go. I haven't tossed a disc in a very long time so it took a little longer

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-25448871279343227042011-09-24T20:01:00.001-06:002011-09-24T20:01:20.613-06:00

Even under the best of circumstances four-thirty is early. And with a dog whose belly has been disagreeable and cantankerous, whose belly has demanded several trips down the stairs, first at eleven and then again at one-thirty, across the parking lot to the patch of soft grass its proprietor prefers, four-thirty is a truly horrific time to find yourself any place other than under a set of nice

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-22083096284776114872011-09-15T19:31:00.001-06:002011-09-15T19:31:25.104-06:00

On this, one of the last days of Summer, at least according to the parks and rec department, the rain finally broke despite the lingering, smoke-colored clouds, and Duncan and I ventured across the street for some time out in the fields we love so much before the vendors and visitors of the annual Summerset Festival gouge them up and litter them with their discarded turkey legs, sweet-smelling

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-1370813155538928362011-09-12T19:50:00.001-06:002011-09-12T19:50:37.813-06:00

Duncan and I just returned from our evening walk. It is a perfectly lovely evening with the sky turning from the kind of vibrant blue known only in September to a bashful pink and a glorious, nostalgic gold right above the jagged dark line of the mountains. The crickets have struck up their familiar tune, almost drowning out the unsteady but blaring notes of the miserable marching band

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-27263721083227732002011-09-09T20:44:00.000-06:002011-09-09T23:04:15.966-06:00

It was a long time ago, when I was perhaps eight or nine, during a weekend visit with my father that I discovered one of the simpler joys of life, one that I still practice and have adapted and enjoy to this very day. It was a seemingly inconsequential thing, one I'm sure he does not remember, but each time I'm afforded the opportunity to do it I think of that morning in his kitchen in Blackfoot

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-1805411029404246072011-09-08T20:04:00.000-06:002011-09-08T23:57:00.317-06:00

Summer seemed to end last Saturday when the weather turned from bright and almost unbearably hot to miserable and wet, gray with low clouds and a steady mist of rain. September, that wretched bitch of a month, took over with a dreary vengeance and my health followed suit.   I have been sick for the past several days and Duncan has had just about enough of it. I am one of those people who

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-20344713844287929422011-09-04T22:02:00.000-06:002011-09-04T22:27:03.445-06:00

It was a great birthday for Duncan, starting with a nice game of fetch, a big breakfast of salmon and blueberries, a serenade by Chelsea and the good folks at Hero's Pets (although he actually sang more to them than they did to him), a trip down to the river for a nice swim, a couple of new toys, an oatmeal birthday cake, Frisbee in the park and a sturdy bully stick with which to wash it all

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-77065430076069929222011-08-31T20:55:00.000-06:002011-08-31T20:55:46.046-06:00

Leawood seemed a perfect place to walk tonight, this last night of August, when--even though the calendar says otherwise--I always feel the finality of summer. It is a neighborhood much like the one I grew up in, where the people seem to know each other, a man is always puttering around the garage while his wife tends to the flowerbeds that line the narrow sidewalks and some child or another

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-361531553966208522011-08-28T20:01:00.002-06:002011-08-31T22:04:45.166-06:00

We, fortunately, have not had to deal with the hurricane (although there was an earthquake a bit south of us earlier in the week if that counts for anything). But when Duncan and I ventured out this evening, in the perfect kind of rain shower, when the sun sits just below the line of clouds and each droplet is liquid gold, we found a double rainbow and thought we should share it with all our

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-35964285171804875322011-08-25T07:48:00.001-06:002011-08-25T07:48:46.889-06:00

I proudly present Duncan's road trip video. He was gracious enough to include Ken and me as well.

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-71337437614802504102011-08-24T20:04:00.001-06:002011-08-24T20:04:15.928-06:00

It was a very long day at work and by noon I was already thinking about how I wanted to spend my evening: sipping a Guinness a friend left in my fridge a few weeks ago, making pesto chicken salad sandwiches on a nice Jewish rye, perhaps putting some final touches on the forthcoming road trip video and, of course, walking with Roo as the afternoon clouds scattered and the sun bid us all a

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-34794554483517802952011-08-22T20:37:00.001-06:002011-08-22T20:37:41.388-06:00

I am not sure where the clouds came from or when the weather changed. My drive home was blessedly shorter than usual, the sun bright over the mountains, the afternoon heat holding steady but somehow lovely blowing through my open windows. It was a leisurely drive and I was looking forward to getting home to Roo, to walk down The Wrangle to the small enclosed dog park at the end of the property.

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-13734147413718930562011-08-22T18:02:00.000-06:002011-08-22T18:02:00.344-06:00

It is coming––faster than I would like–– this Colorado Autumn. But Duncan is happy and he loves the leaves and the cool air and that is what gets me through.   "Summer's lease hath all too short a date." (William Shakespeare)

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-28310984968792489822011-08-21T18:47:00.001-06:002011-08-21T19:56:42.752-06:00

There is so much of the world to be missed that it's almost overwhelming. Not just places, but time, too, as the world shifts minute by minute. Like the clouds perpetually reinventing themselves above us in the sky, those things wanting to be discovered at 8 AM may be gone forever fifteen minutes later, their colors changed, their crisp edges or dewy backs altered under the slow

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-39106818740885233612011-08-16T22:10:00.000-06:002011-08-16T22:10:32.877-06:00

We're home from our road trip to Idaho and that can only mean one thing... Stay tuned!

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-42135985598709495302011-08-08T20:35:00.003-06:002011-08-10T06:21:33.614-06:00

On the far side of the lake, in the corner furthest from the stairs where our walks begin, where the trail splits, one path always seeming to turn toward the sun while the other angles away, where the sound of the traffic and the businesses and the quiet residences cease and the wind can turn the leaves of the Russian Olive grove into sharp fingers that point and whip––and, if you didn't know

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-35422563683075229372011-08-08T08:36:00.001-06:002011-08-08T08:36:01.486-06:00

I cannot count the mornings I have kissed each of the children on the head before heading out the door and off to work. Typically Winnie sits perched on the sill looking out on the birds in the Linden while Pip and Olive stretch out on the big pillows thrown across the head of the bed. Duncan often lays in front of the door and looks dejected and sad, especially after a weekend of long walks in

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-1885013219422927072011-08-07T15:06:00.000-06:002011-08-07T15:06:16.300-06:00

It has been three years since I've had Duncan professionally groomed. It's not that he hasn't had a ton of baths and good brushings since then, or even the occasional trim around the tail feathers, feet and ears, it's that his papa is cheap and lazy and didn't want to drive all the way across Denver to see Diane, the groomer who worked with him last time. I've managed myself, alternating between

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-57535180593182836062011-08-06T17:22:00.003-06:002011-08-06T18:08:41.129-06:00

When I sat down that afternoon in September 2007 to begin recording the story of my walks with Duncan, it had been a long terrible day, the highlight of which was witnessing a small, rebellious five-year old little-leaguer pee across the pristine white of second base to the amusement of his teammates and the shock and embarrassment of his mother. I'd been thinking about a blog based on our walks

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-49974854549024248652011-08-01T21:37:00.000-06:002011-08-01T21:37:51.853-06:00

There are many things I don't know how to do, such as poke among the parts of my car and know what's wrong or how to fix it; or, despite coming from a rather musical family, how to play an instrument. I don't know a foreign language even though I made several attempts in junior high, high school and college. I can't tell you a thing about opera, or even find much use for it, even though I want

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-10985680605008550102011-07-31T20:17:00.002-06:002011-07-31T20:17:39.508-06:00

This afternoon, when the temperatures had risen until it felt as though there was nowhere left for them to rise, when the grass seemed suddenly brittle and flat, with a thin layer of burnt yellow beneath it where there had been dark, wet earth only yesterday, when the sun had reached its zenith and even the shadows had taken refuge to whatever sleepy place it is they go, Duncan decided he needed

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-75646408965212000522011-07-30T20:31:00.003-06:002011-07-31T21:29:34.705-06:00

The world is drifting and the air is full of dancing and movement as the thistles, once tall and proud, vivid and purple, now hunched and brittle and graying on their crowns, release their seedlings onto the wind to be carried far across these hills and green fields. This morning I stood a long moment at my window while the world blinked its eyes open, stretched and slowly sped up and

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-55283128529352343782011-07-29T20:17:00.001-06:002011-07-29T21:36:52.222-06:00

It was an ordinary walk around the lake, the sun bright, the wind and waves stirring the low muck and turning the water a choppy, ruined green. Neither of us were paying much attention to where we were going so I let Duncan lead the way, unconcerned about direction or duration. It was the kind of late afternoon when my legs desired nothing more than to walk and stretch and forget the chair I'd

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-67556554151776983242011-07-28T18:21:00.001-06:002011-07-28T18:21:30.173-06:00

I mean no disrespect, and I admit I am biased straight to the core of my being, but I do believe I have the most handsome best friend in all the world.

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-10535905598405428912011-07-26T23:11:00.001-06:002011-09-25T14:30:07.816-06:00

It was sunny and calm and warm all day, not too hot and perfect for strolling through the long grass in the sweet-smelling shade of The Run. The sky was blue and calm until Duncan was ready for our evening walk, sidling up to me from where I worked on the couch, raising his eyebrows, flapping his rudder of a tail and smiling in that way of his. I'd no sooner grabbed the leash and was filling my

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-44221065095789050462011-07-24T07:13:00.121-06:002011-07-24T09:30:21.832-06:00

There was a time I wrote poetry. I was younger then, and more optimistic, with eyes and a heart a little more open to the world and the wonders concealed there, quiet but visible and willing to be found with only the slightest of effort. I fell in love with poetry in college, casting aside bad, angst-riddled, self-consumed verse written late at night in coffee shops, surrounded by drunks and

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-47909593217225998092011-07-23T08:58:00.002-06:002011-07-23T11:12:45.923-06:00

Most of my bills are electronic and because hardly anyone writes letters anymore––myself included––I don't get a lot of mail. Once a year I receive the traditional round of Christmas cards but even those have begun to wain. Then there's the birthday but even most of those well-wishes have been replaced with Facebook messages. And once or twice a year Mom sends me a small care package with candy

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-29054557950702714852011-07-18T21:34:00.002-06:002011-07-18T21:34:16.998-06:00

Mosquitoes have never bothered me (except, as my father will be quick to point out, in North Dakota, where the things are as big as hummingbirds and bleed me like an over-zealous, rookie lab technician). In the quiet, northern Shire-like suburb of Chicago where Ken and I lived, where the air is often more moist than the ground, the mosquitoes are thick and relentless, but they ignored me in

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-66061152524018052242011-07-16T20:54:00.001-06:002011-07-16T20:54:59.384-06:00

It thundered again this afternoon while Duncan and I slept on the couch, the blinds drawn, cocooning us in, the fan turning softly and humming a sweet low note that somehow made the trembling of the dark outside less menacing, something felt rather than heard, the day's pulse. When we pulled ourselves from our afternoon dreams, which are sweet and rich and difficult to shake away, the storm had

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-16991941804012749942011-07-13T19:23:00.001-06:002011-07-14T11:24:08.704-06:00

While many of the blogs I follow participate in Wordless Wednesday I never have. After all, while my photography is fun and has brought tremendous depth to my blog, words are my passion, and as anyone who knows me can attest, it's nearly impossible to keep me quiet. I could ramble at length about the minutiae of my walks with Duncan, from the fragile, twiggish little brown mushrooms

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-12835054734593547122011-07-12T20:02:00.005-06:002011-07-12T20:04:06.063-06:00

This week of storms seems unending. I sit at work and venture out every now and then to take a break and cast my eyes to the south and west, along the base of the seemingly ever-greening foothills, black against a treacherous sky, knowing that somewhere in that direction, under the menace of darkness and flashes of lightning, Duncan sits panting alone in the kitchen or on the floor of the

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-37979941158281304302011-07-06T21:14:00.002-06:002011-07-23T11:20:44.531-06:00

I understand anxiety. I have been learning its language for the past six years, from its obvious, boisterous shouting to its more subtle nuances, all its I-before-E-except-after-C's. I am intimately acquainted with its peaks and valleys, its quiet tiffs and its full-blown temper tantrums. I know it as well as I know myself, but for all I do know, I do not know how to explain that to Duncan, who

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-74929500784367669462011-07-02T21:04:00.005-06:002011-07-23T11:27:26.163-06:00

It was not a good night for Duncan and for most of it, after the terror that ignited his eyes and while I laid curled around him in his kennel, his heart beating rapidly and his whole body quivering, I felt like the worst papa in the world. The City of Littleton has an odd way of celebrating Independence Day in that they never actually do it on July 4th. This year our festivities fell on the

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-71446404629279534012011-06-30T19:25:00.000-06:002011-06-30T19:25:40.339-06:00

Several years ago, when my little outpost on the internet was still somewhat new, when I was at the tail end of my first year of learning the seasons in this place where we'd moved––an education that persists to this day, as Duncan seems to lead me deeper and deeper into the more subtle nuances of our world––I discovered the Linden trees, which, while not a replacement for my Russian Olives, have

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-36346737631039534202011-06-27T20:56:00.001-06:002011-09-09T23:12:48.836-06:00

I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done?  (The Summer Day, Mary

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-34866893604523344672011-06-26T14:50:00.002-06:002011-06-28T20:13:56.153-06:00

"A soldier will fight long and hard for a bit of colored ribbon."(Napolean Bonaparte)*Duncan wanted to take a moment to wish people all over the country a happy Pride Day, especially those in New York.*Perhaps not the best person to be quoting but the sentiment is what counts, right?

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-31571514852539611462011-06-25T20:24:00.009-06:002011-06-25T20:31:34.622-06:00

The tragedy of the Russian Olives, so precious to me, is that they do not endure. Last night, after an afternoon with heat so heavy my feet and chest ached walking through it, I caught what was surely the last hint of perfume from the tree that saturated my apartment only two weeks ago with its lemon-honey, mint fragrance. Duncan and I strolled down The Run as the sun was setting and the

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-10722974573921647242011-06-21T18:52:00.001-06:002011-06-21T18:52:41.183-06:00

This morning Ken and I took Duncan for a walk before the sun had climbed too far up the sky, when the shadows were still long in The Run and the heat of the day was still sleepy-eyed and bleary and too lazy to get out of bed. The mowers had come through ahead of us so the air was fresh with the scent of their work and the moist clippings clung to our shoes and Duncan's soft feet. We took turns

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-85008534447858106002011-06-19T20:05:00.017-06:002011-06-21T19:54:20.047-06:00

It has been a long day, in large part because my dog has a keen eye, an enormous heart, and a papa who pays attention to him when he needs him to do so.I was up a little before six and even though I tried to stay in bed and pretend I was still asleep, Pip and Olive, who must know the sounds of my breathing, both awake and asleep, were quite insistent about having their breakfast at the crack of

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-22789419908348205152011-06-15T20:14:00.006-06:002011-06-16T10:26:18.357-06:00

On this perfectly warm evening, as the sun was setting behind the mountains, pulling the blue from the sky and replacing it with the gentlest and softest of golds, as the birds began their final song of this lovely June day, when our walk was winding down and we'd exhausted the number of times he wanted to demonstrate how well he's mastered the art of rolling, Duncan settled down in the cool of

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-50497843193680853832011-06-14T07:10:00.086-06:002011-06-14T07:43:16.627-06:00

Mornings after a storm are good for walking, good because the grass, which has not been mowed for a week, is long and is beginning to bend forward over itself, and when you walk through it, catching the moisture on the toes of your shoes, your footprints leave a deep trail behind you like the wake of a heavy ship that has cut through still, reflective water. Only a few scant remnants of last

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-41487487618605675732011-06-09T10:19:00.002-06:002011-06-09T10:19:00.340-06:00

At long last I was able to coax this strangely stubborn boy of mine into showing off his new mad skills. It's the one "trick" he's resisted learning after all these years. And he's never been reluctant to show off (he gets that from me), so I'm not sure what the holdup has been, but finally, for your praise and approval I submit Duncan the Rolling Retriever...

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-38168768944657180632011-06-08T20:54:00.001-06:002011-07-13T20:03:18.799-06:00

My mother lost her Russian Olive earlier this spring. It was an enormous and stately thing, older and taller than any I've seen around these parts. Most young trees are reedy things that look like willowy, untamed and stubborn weeds, but Mom's tree was tall and wide, with branches that swept out low and long over the grass on the northern side of her beautiful yard. It's trunk was thick and

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-63035493130138320522011-06-07T21:09:00.002-06:002011-06-20T22:46:17.084-06:00

So let it roll like thunderWith its deafening tonesLet it take awayAll the words as they’re spokeLike the muted voice of the rainThrough the blue hourI can still hear you (The Blue Hour, Liza Jane) After an unexpected nap that crept up on me from the pages of the book I was reading earlier this evening, the three cats curled around me like warm balls of bread dough and Duncan snoring patiently at

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-66747981455426225012011-06-06T20:58:00.001-06:002011-06-11T10:40:07.283-06:00

I remember many things and most of them are so clear and precise in their colors and textures, sounds and scents that often they sweep me away completely and leave me sitting or standing unmoving but wakeful and unable to discern what is past and what present. My childhood is frighteningly vivid, something that I feel so close to that at times its though I'm there––riding my little red tricycle

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-90567957447002279512011-06-05T16:53:00.004-06:002011-06-28T20:19:18.425-06:00

I have been keeping my eyes and nose on the blooming Russian Olive trees that line Bowles and the ones that grow up along the trail around the lake. Friday evening Duncan and I ventured down there for a stroll around the unmoving water and were delighted to discover the tiny yellow butter-mint-scented flowers were beginning to bud but had not yet opened up. The sage-colored leaves were dusty and

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-27907254867856477232011-06-01T20:39:00.001-06:002011-06-01T20:39:31.578-06:00

The soccer hoards are back. With school out and the spring league ended the park has been blessedly quiet the past few weeks and so Duncan and I have spent a great amount of time there, both in the quiet mornings and then in the evenings before dinner. The wide fields, suddenly greener than I remembered them, have been clear of the kids and their refuse, and the sidewalks have been free of the

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-90043640320755647132011-05-31T19:51:00.001-06:002011-05-31T19:57:05.988-06:00

Sheri, You don't know me, but knowing Christian, and loving him as I do, I'm sure I would instantly fall in love with you. He is a good man, one of the first truly GOOD men I met in my life. His smiling face was one of the first to greet me as I walked across campus at Lake Forest College alone for the first time. His was one I sought out in crowds before we were officially introduced. He was

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-81926218695095127852011-05-31T15:25:00.056-06:002011-05-31T19:01:16.928-06:00

It started small, little more than a pancake-sized stain in the parking lot where Duncan and I walked this morning after a good game of fetch in the park. In fact, I didn't notice it until an hour later when I made a quick run to the market for milk for the blueberry pancakes I wanted to make for breakfast. By that time four big orange cones had been set up around it, which a small group of

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-29088309364527848572011-05-30T18:58:00.000-06:002011-05-30T18:58:09.249-06:00

I do this thing when I take Duncan outside. Neither of us particularly like it when I put his leash on so I drape it behind neck and over my shoulders, a bit like a very long untied tie. It hangs across my chest and down to my waist. Sometimes jogging down the stairs behind Roo the ends bounce so I tuck the clasp through the handle to keep it all together so it doesn't slip off and trip either of

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-15434013263199037762011-05-29T08:45:00.000-06:002011-05-29T08:45:29.297-06:00

Duncan rolls almost constantly now. He's always been fond of rolling in the grass, especially when it's wet and he's just had a bath, but now that he's mastered the command he can't seem to get enough of it. When we're practicing his tricks and he gets very excited he has a tendency to do them all at once. For instance, if I ask him "Who do you love?" the correct response is a short series of

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-52442805917360788322011-05-28T08:39:00.000-06:002011-05-28T08:39:04.055-06:00

Jeffrey's stray cat is getting at the baby bunnies and I don't like it one bit. This is the time of year when Duncan sits in the windows and on the patio staring down at the grass below us so he can keep his eye on the bunnies which emerge from their nests and roll across the yard like small brown balls, their ears tucked down low against their backs, their hops sudden and full of exuberance but

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-47403884229441330642011-05-24T20:33:00.003-06:002011-05-25T06:47:18.273-06:00

It came suddenly, the storm that rocked our neighborhood this morning, shaking the apartment and igniting the sky south and east of us with tall lightning that razored the dark morning with brilliant streaks like outstretched fingers. It was not the kind of storm I remember from my days in The Shire-like Midwest, and it wasn't even the worst I've experienced here, but it was enough to make me

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-44629899454834322302011-05-22T18:05:00.000-06:002011-05-22T18:05:56.638-06:00

Last night, after the rapture of a perfect sunset, a good meal and a bath for Duncan, I was sitting down on the couch for an evening spent with a good book when I heard a familiar whistle outside my door. It was a short burst, quick and high-pitched, a tone I have tried many times to mimic with my own two lips but have been unsuccessful at matching. I stood up, turned down the lights and very

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8674053991112586077.post-78191022597517438962011-05-21T20:13:00.001-06:002011-05-21T20:13:00.750-06:00

Things got bad and things got worse Half like blessing, half like curse It's these blessings so hard to see sometimes Gotta little clearer about dusk last night Ain't nobody got a blessing like mine Ain't nobody got a blessing like mine It's a red sky night and I'm doing alright It's a red sky night and I'm doing just fine("Red at Night," Gaslight Anthem) While many in this world spent the day

Curt Rogershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01092702507137136310noreply@blogger.com2