A Change of Season

And so as Autumn comes on, as the nightly winds rattle and shake the leaves and needles from the trees, pulling their colors from the boughs and littering the ground with them, our morning walks have changed, too. Flip flops and t-shirts have been replaced with good, solid walking shoes, and jackets, sometimes even gloves. The frost crunches beneath our feet as we plod along, Duncan jogging ahead, his warm, little imprints a trail for me to follow along the hedges and fence line. Jeffrey's cats are no longer granted free reign and his patio door is closed, leaving Duncan confused by his absence. Jeffrey has been there waiting for him nearly every morning for the past five months, a handful of treats, a herd of squirrels eating the nuts he has scattered, the jays squawking in the ash tree above. Dunc waits for a minute, his paws propped up on the rail, his tail swishing softly back and forth until he realizes Jeffrey is not coming. He'll sniff around a bit, search out the nuts, and then amble along. It is sometimes difficult for me not to project my own feelings onto him, not to feel disappointed at this change in his routine, but Roo is quick to bound away, his ambling through the leaves making music for me to follow. There is much for him to investigate: the branches that have come down in the previous night's gale, the golden pile of leaves that have gathered around the trunks of the aspens, the silence of the golf course.

It is a beautiful time of year to be walking early in the morning, when the sun is still new and the air is crisp. I could not count the number of such mornings I missed before he entered my life and am thankful each day for the ones his presence has granted me.

An early morning walk is a blessing for the whole day. (Henry David Thoreau)

Forgiveness

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 1st, so around 8:30 I gave Duncan a dose of his Tranquility Blend calming drops and waited for them to kick in. After the sun had set and the last of the day's light turned into clear, cool darkness, I asked if he was ready to venture out. Several years ago, our first Fourth of July here, Melissa and Kona invited Roo and I to tag along to the park across the street where they shoot off the fireworks. Duncan did relatively well and I figured that this year would be the same. We crossed Bowles and trudged across the street, staying well away from the masses which had gathered on the upper level of the park overlooking the lake and the mountains. I told him, "Tell me when you want to leave, okay? No questions asked, we'll just go." So we found a nice quiet spot, hunkered down together, rolled in the grass and had a peaceful time laying near each other, the stars shining down, the air sweet with Lindens.

Until the first rocket went off.

Almost immediately he crawled into my lap, resting his head on my shoulder and panting in my ear. I patted his back like a parent burping a baby and whispered in his ear. A moment later the second rocket exploded, painting the night in orange and purple, reflecting off the faces of every person sitting around us. The boom that followed was tremendous. While everyone began to clap and children danced and shouted in delight, Duncan pressed his head against my chest, whined, and pressed harder, using his back legs to force himself against me, as though attempting to push himself into me, to crawl inside my body and hide. "Duncan," I said. "Do you want to go?"

It was all he needed. He bolted away, his leash yanking my arm up and back behind me, turning it brutally in its socket. Before I could climb to my feet he took off running, the force of his panic pulling me onto my back where he dragged me for ten feet. I scrambled to turn over and stand up but he kept running and running, the sound of his breath loud and deep, frantic and more than just startled but absolutely terrified. And he stayed that way as we ran together as fast as we could through the crowds to the edge of the park, across the street, through the parking-lot and up three flights of stairs. No sooner had I opened the door and removed his leash than he darted down the hall, into my room and into his kennel where he turned his back to the window and shook almost violently. But the rockets, which I could see through the window, were bright, illuminating the room, and loud enough that we both felt their concussions in our chests. On and on it went. Just before the grand finale I climbed all the way in with him, curled around him and rested my head against his, covered his ears with my hands and hummed to him softly, hoping the vibration of the sound in my chest would somehow soothe him. It took over an hour before his breathing slowed and calmed but he refused to leave the softness of his bed and the quilt my mother made for him for Christmas two years ago. I felt terrible and kept whispering in his ear, "I'm so sorry. I'll make it up to you. I'm so, so sorry, Roo. Please forgive me." He licked my face once then hid among the pillows again.

He was reluctant to venture out this morning on our first walk of the day. He was fine strolling through The Wrangle, but once we left its shaded path and crossed the street, he lowered his head and began to resist my pull on his leash. It was slow going, but with many treats and soft words, scritches behind his ears and determination we managed to get there. I removed his leash to let him run free but he stayed steadfastly by my side, not venturing far even when we approached the cool hillside where the bunnies herd up. He ambled along, looking up at me as though to make sure we were safe, and brushed against my calves almost constantly. And when it was finally time to turn back home for breakfast he was more than ready to go.

Ken was late getting out of bed but by the time he opened his eyes and lifted his head from the pillow I'd decided how to pull Duncan out of his funk. "Get up," I said. "We're taking Roo down to the river to swim." Not thirty minutes later we were packed and out the door, Duncan following close beside me. He'd lost a bit of his timidity and by the time we'd turned off the street and onto the side road, he was leaning a grinning face out the window and whining excitedly. Once the car was parked and we'd opened the doors, he practically dragged us down the path to the familiar beach where he and I have spent so many warm summer mornings and afternoons together.

It was Ken's first trip to the river with us and the morning could not have been more perfect. We followed the trail under the freeway and down into the cool shade of the forested riverbank, Duncan running far ahead of us through the tall, green reeds while Ken kept his eyes peeled for snakes. I marched happily along and a bit behind them, a smile spread across my face, thankful to be there, finally, with the two of them. 

We found our sandy shore and spent over an hour tossing the ball into the deep water for Roo to fetch. He soon forgot the trauma of the previous night and got lost in splashing and rolling in the sand, hiking his ball between his legs and behind him, and playing with the other dogs. And Ken quickly discovered the joy of Dunc refusing to shake the water off unless he's standing right next to someone, be it either us or a complete stranger. I was happy just to sit back and watch the two of them, the warm sun beating down on us, the birds singing from high above and all around.

Last night, falling asleep listening to the troubled breathing of my restless and nervous dog, I felt as though I had done irreparable harm to his spirit, that his trust and faith in me had diminished and that perhaps we would never be quite the same. I worried that there was nothing I could say, no words invented, that could restore the bond we had. This morning, watching the reflections of the river dapple off his incredible face while his dad looked on with a smile of contentment, I believe I did right by my dog, which is one of the most important things a man can do in this life.

The language of friendship is not words but meanings.

(Henry David Thoreau)

Walk with Everything

It's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see.
(Henry David Thoreau)

I let Duncan lead the way again today––this glorious, bright and beautiful April day––and he walked me down Pierce, past Columbine to Polk, where we've walked before, but not since the heat of Summer had just passed and Autumn was on its way. We'd bypassed the trail there and walked through the neighborhood instead, where we could smell grilling burgers and hear the sounds of families sitting down to dinner or TV, or both, and came out just south of Clement Park, near the lake and the hillside prairie dog town. Today, however, Duncan pulled me up the trail through the Lilley Gulch greenbelt, which follows the path of a narrow creek, not full but babbling and trickling over rocks, wending its way through tall yellow and red reeds, under small bridges, and between grand willow trees, their long vines hanging low, swaying softly and just beginning to bud. The sun was in my face and my sunglasses kept slipping down my nose so I closed my eyes and did that thing I sometimes do when I pretend I'm blind just to see how well Duncan will guide me.

Our discovery of the park had seemed rich enough but blind it was like the whole world opened before me. The sun was still bright and warm on my face and even with my eyes closed I could "see" a yellow glow before me. The calls of the birds magnified, as did their rustling in the tall grass along the creek, their hops and skips along the wet rocks and downed branches lining its shallow bank. I wish I knew birds better so I could share, give them their proper names so that even in print their voices could be heard. There were flitting, nervous little kilddeer, though, and sparrows, robins, doves, poetic and cautious, woodpeckers drumming the trunks of trees. There were so many birds, so many sounds that the symphony of them brought a smile to my face, something that could not be contained and burst from me as a sudden and surprising laugh that seemed unnatural for a moment and heard by anyone else would've labeled me as crazy, but even it was beautiful and harmonized almost perfectly with the chorus around me. The creek didn't mind, nor did the birds, and the squirrel, who lounging on a low branch in a tree, draped and lazy, unmoving, only yawned and continued his meditation. It was joy, simple and fine, sudden and perfect.

I was recently asked how I'm able to take something as mundane as walking a dog and turn it into adventure and discovery, even on those walks when nothing happens. "It must be your words," I was told. "You're a story-teller; it's something you've learned to do." The secret is not the story or the language, the secret is nothing. Nothing is what I strive for, the whole point of the walk. Being empty means you can only be filled. It's the something that leads you astray, that distracts and bends your spirit away from the poetry of exploration and discovery. Walk with nothing and you walk with everything.

That is the wisdom of dogs. That is why they are our best friends. They have many lessons to teach and we have much to learn.

Quiet and Ready Enough

"If we will be quiet and ready enough, we shall find compensation in every disappointment." Henry David Thoreau

I had a terrible day and was exhausted early, but refused to allow the day to beat me. I did not watch the clock, I did not count the seconds. My mantra was Duncan's, which has done wonders for me the past week. Hunt. Dive. Tree. And as tired as I was, as badly as I wanted to come home, take off my shoes and do nothing, I knew that my salvation was with Duncan at the lake. And as we marched along the trail–Duncan, low with his nose to the ground–taking in the sound of the meadowlarks and the crickets and feeling the warm sun on my face and arms and the back of my neck, I understood the Thoreau quote, that even our disappointments, if we allow them, can lead us to a place of peace and provide a strength we did not know we had. I would not have loved this afternoon as I did without the nastiness of the morning and the trials of the day. It was like discovering the turning lines a poem, this rewriting of the day. Yesterday I said that dogs could lead us to poetry with their vision, and today that point was made again. It reminded me of a portion of the poem "Lake Water" by David Ferry.

"It is like an idea for a poem not yet written
And maybe never to be completed, because
The surface of the page is like lake water,
That takes back what is written on its surface,
And all my language about the lake and its
Emotions or its sweet obliviousness,
Or even its being like an origination,
Is all erased with the changing of the breeze
Or because of the heedless passing of a cloud."

If we let it, anything and everything can move our spirit and change how we see the world. We need only listen.