This Happened Today

When I Am Among the Trees

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

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

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

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

(Mary Oliver)

My eyes are quick for Spring, for the first glimmer of green under a mess of snow or concealed by the devastation of last season's once-leaves, and as April quickens I feel my eyes hunting for and preying on the newness of the world. The grass has made a valiant effort, slowly shaking aside its matted coat of brown and yellow, cautiously slipping into something more comfortable, brighter, flirtatious even. But I am impatient and the grass has not been enough. While Duncan and I have walked my gaze has prowled the uppermost branches, the highest beacons of the trees for the first glimmer of green and today, as Ken walked with Duncan at his side, I strolled slowly behind, examining each limb and finger, combing every inch of the maples and willows, the ash and cottonwoods, like I comb Duncan for ticks after a romp up my mother's mountain, my eyes hungry for a bud broken and shattered by the first swelling of an unfurling leaf.

And then, after leaving the park and turning back toward home, after stopping to check the mail and dispose of the relentless flow of coupons and junk, I saw it, a single tree, the sky bluer than blue above it, calmly but certainly bursting with buds. So I stopped and marveled as I do every year at this time, gazing as though I have never seen such a thing, as though winter had been thirty years long and green was something not witnessed since childhood. And I didn't feel foolish because this should be the only way to look at the newness of spring, of the coming of the leaves, of the blessed change of season. This should be law and the penalty should be severe for anyone who does not pause and give thanks.

Forty-two times I have lost my virginity to spring and if The Universe is willing, I will lose it forty-two times more. 

This happened today. 

A Family Again

After ten long days apart, with Ken in Michigan visiting his family, and Duncan and me in Idaho visiting mine, last night our little family was finally reunited. Duncan and the cats met us at the door and gave Little Man the greeting he deserved.

And Olive was kind enough to find some special time with him. She's a Daddy's Girl.

Afternoon Drive

Ken and I decided to take Duncan for a drive up to the mountains in the new car yesterday. It's aspen season, which is nice but not quite like I remember Autumn in the Shire-like Midwest, with its myriad shades of red and gold and oranges. Autumn in Colorado is nice and the aspens are certainly beautiful, their leaves making the most beautiful music as they sway in the afternoon breeze, but the color palette, with its two shades of red and the single gold of the aspens, is rather conservative compared to northern Illinois, and I haven't seen a single shade of orange.

But it was still spectacular, something we haven't done in a very long time. The air was cool and the roads were windy and narrow, but the Outback held tight and was as smooth a drive as I'd hoped. We rolled the windows down, held hands and listened to perfect mountain driving-music while Dunc leaned his face out the window and grinned a wide, sloppy dog grin.

 

Duncan seemed a bit nervous at the start of the drive, whining and pacing in the back seat but when I realized it was that time of the afternoon when we usually venture out to tend to business, I pulled over so we could take a short walk along the roadside and let him take care of things, which he did almost immediately. And from that point on everything was golden. No more whines, no more pacing, only sunshine on a very happy face.

These are the kinds of afternoons I wish would last forever.

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)

Return

After a terrible year in Milwaukee, Ken has finally returned to Denver. He's been staying with me while he looks for the perfect job and an apartment of his own. The family feels complete again. We have been walking Duncan often and together, something we rarely did in the past. And the cats have been overcome with joy. Olive, who was always his girl, has decided to leave her safe spot on the pillow in the bedroom and spends a great deal of time following him around or nuzzling his chin and cheeks. Pip, who I thought had perfected the art of cuddling, has outdone himself, and spends every moment he can on Ken's lap, or curled up against his chest throughout the night. Even Winnie, who is so composed and a proper lady, has been celebrating, stretching out in a long thin line down his legs. There is a hardly a moment he's home when he's not being adored by the children.

It is a wonderful thing to watch and I have been happier these past two weeks than I have been in a very long time.

"Happy Birthday, Dad!"

It's Ken's birthday! Duncan helped with the cake (and by helped I mean he plopped down in the middle of the kitchen floor, the spot most likely to cause me to trip and fall, which was a very cat-like thing to do), didn't like the balloons so much and kept time with his tail while I sang "Happy Birthday." It was a grand evening.

Dog and Dad

I feel bad about Duncan. Not feeling well has really taken it out of me and being outside in the cold longer than a few minutes makes me feel worse. The poor boy has been patient with me, but I can tell by the way he looks out the windows at the quickly melting snow that it's all he can do to keep from going crazy. He loves the snow, and this is the deep stuff, the really good stuff. He's been full of love, a constant cuddler and has even somehow managed to tolerate my moaning, which serves no useful purpose except to make me smile through my aches, pains, coughs and chills.

Ken, when he's not at work, has been good about taking Duncan out for me. He's not as diligent a walker as I am (I don't know many people with dogs who actually are, which seems kind of ridiculous, like having kids and not teaching them language), but Duncan loves being with his dad. He gets to spend such little time with him that I know he looks forward to it. Not having spent a lot of time with my own father (he was more a disembodied voice on the radio or an abstract concept than anything tangible), I know how it feels. But that's ridiculous, you say. Dogs aren't capable of that kind of emotion. Well, my friend, you're wrong. Remember, it was only in the past ten or so years that scientists, vets included, acknowledged that animals experience pain*. I know that my dog feels love and joy; I see it on his face every day. I know when he's bored (he sighs like a pouting five-year-old) or when he's ashamed (he ducks his head low and hides under the table). When he gets to walk with Ken his head perks up and it looks as though he's receiving a special treat.

It's interesting watching them together. Ken's not so good at the kind of consistency I've used on Duncan. He's either lazy or doesn't believe me when I claim it works. But Duncan is a dog who was nearly impossible to walk a year and a half ago. It was incredibly difficult and an unenjoyable chore. But with lots of work and patience and the kind of consistency you could set your watch to, Duncan and I have become quite good together, like dancers, as we navigate the park, the pet store, even other dogs.

Not so with Ken. Rather than let his dad set the pace, as he does with me, Duncan leads Ken, pulling on his leash, taking him where he wants to go, stopping when he wants and not going until he's damn good and ready. I imagine it can be quite frustrating for Little Man, but it's fun to stand in the window and watch, shaking my head. I imagine it's a bit like when mom is out of town and dad has been left in charge of the kids, and being dad, is unaware that the kids have actually been left in charge of him.

*For more information on this topic, read the wonderful book Kindred Spirits: How the Remarkable Bond Between Humans & Animals Can Change the Way We Live by Allen M. Schoen, DVM, MS

Ack! Sputter! Wheeze!

Sure enough, I'm sick. Or rather, taking the long, slow road to getting there. That tickle in the back of my throat has turned into a cough (the nice, non-productive kind) and something funny is going on in my chest. Not knock-knock-who's-there funny, but more of a a guy-walks-into-a-bar-with-a-monkey-on-his-shoulder funny. You know exactly what I mean, I'm sure. The good news is there are only 14 inches of snow on the ground and getting around outside is a real joy.

Duncan has been quite good, though. He cuddled up with me on the couch all day, his head resting on my leg. I'm sure he would've made soup for me if only he could get his paws around the can opener.

Here's a picture from a year ago when he was still wearing his collar from his surgery. That's Little Man curled up on Duncan.