With Eyes to the Skies

It was a lovely day, the loveliest in a long time, with bright clear skies, as blue as my dreams of June, with a breeze that, despite being a little strong, was warm and fresh. We walked the lake trail with Melissa and Kona, enjoyed the yellow of the grass and the dark of the mud, fragrant and heavy, stopped for ice cream and made promises to do it again soon.

But it was the night that was truly wonderful, nearly as warm as the day, with quiet, still air and a cloudless sky. We have been watching Jupiter hover over Venus, both of them impossibly bright despite their impossible distances. They rise in the west over the mountains just after the sun says his farewells, and stay just far enough away from Orion and his hounds so as to avoid suspicion. They are a welcome sight, warm and playful up there, a darling couple in the dark of March.

But Mars is where my passion has been as of late, as it moves into opposition, which is just a scientific way of saying that the earth has moved directly between it and the sun. It is small in the eastern sky, but you can't miss it. It is red––a deep red––as red as the eyes of the lion Leo, where it rises. It is a remarkable sight, that little cracked globe, and I could hardly tear my eyes away from it on our walk. Duncan does not know it, can't even conceive of it in the same way we do, but I wonder if he can sense its pull on me as he pulls on the leash that tethers us together.

Opposition. What a strange way to say that things are aligned. Duncan and I are aligned many times a day, pulling each other down the sidewalk, the gravity of our bond evident for all to see. Perhaps not as wondrous as the skies, but no less remarkable.

Mars, red and magnificent. As magnificent as my good, red dog. Only so much further away.

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)

Second Snow

It is the sound I love most about the snow, the way, from inside, bundled up on the couch, the world gets very quiet on the other side of the window and only reveals itself with the soft slice of the occasional tire crushing over it, the way trees somehow catch the music of its falling and swallow it, a sound like a melody rising up from some deep belly.


We walked early in its falling last night, before it got too deep but well after the street lamps reflected orange off everything it covered. Duncan played rapturously, caught up in the memory of the stuff on his nose, batting his big brows, catching and melting against his soft eyelids. He was reluctant to come back inside so I promised there would be more for him in the morning. Still, while I pulled the blanket over me he sat guard in front of the window and watched it come down, his tail moving softly against the warm carpet every now and then, a release of the joy which built with each settling flake.

The morning was bright, and as promised, I took him out to gallop as madly as he wanted, drive big mounds of the stuff before him, spinning wildly, his back legs driving beneath him. His earliest days with us started in the snow when he was so small he sunk deep, with only his nose visible above the white. He ambled through it, driven forward by a sense of exploration and discovery, only whining when he got lost and couldn't find his way back to our ankles, planted firmly only a few feet away. Now, of course, he stands above the snow most of the time, and his vantage couldn't make him happier. Snow is his earliest memory and he revels in it like I revel in the memory of fishing with my grandparents. It is who he is, perhaps more so than the summer sun, which turns his red coat gold and brings tears to my eyes. While I stand and alternately dread the thought of driving through it and wondering at the soft underside of it in the trees, Duncan has found a way to make it play with him, to rise up from its soft mounds and hum music I will never hear.

I have never loved the snow and thought I never would but then Ken delivered this warm, little, blinking red life into my hands and when I watched him love it I could not help but do the same. I have spent many afternoons lately walking with him at the park, turning my face into the setting sun, whispering my gratitude softly into the unusually warm November air, hoping Winter would somehow forget about us this year, ascend the mountains and leap far over us, landing somewhere in the Midwest, anywhere but here. It is a lot of work and preparation to walk in the snow, what with the heavy boots and thick socks, the coat, the knitted hat, the gloves and scarves wrapped and wrapped around me. I remembered the burden of it but not the joy. Duncan's joy.

Although I don't look forward to it, and would much rather watch him race through the sand and into the surf, I will love watching him this winter, will love watching him scamper and slide down the hill at The Glen, catching the snowballs Melissa tosses, will love kicking the snow at his face so he can snap at it as it disperses around his glorious head like wished-upon dandelion dust. There is much to love about the joy of another.

Walk On

It feels as though we've been walking and walking and walking some more, from afternoons when the sun was hot and it was easy to raise a sweat just by breathing, to these cold days when the wind has lifted the leaves from the trees and scattered them in a raucous chorus across the yellowed grass. But, as I've always claimed, the destination would be nothing without the journey.

Over these past few months I have made friends and shared experiences I'm unsure would've been possible without the journey of this election and the reward of its historic outcome. My faith in mankind has been elevated and I will never forget those jubilant moments just after Barack Obama's name was announced as our 44th president. I will take that memory with me on many journeys and I'm sure each of you will do the same. It is important, crucial even, that we never forget how we felt at that moment, like the door had swung open, light had been let in and all the promises of our country were made real.

If there's one thing I've learned from walking with Duncan it's that no matter how satisfying a walk can be, how utterly fulfilling and joyous it is, there is another waiting just beyond it, full of the same unknowing and challenges as each of its predecessors. Duncan demands we keep walking and despite weary legs or a tired spirit, blistering heat or painful cold, I take him out and we walk again, not always with the same result, but rarely without reward. Duncan knows with his special wisdom that there can be no destination without a journey, and we must apply that same knowledge to our new government. As Obama said in his acceptance speech on Tuesday night, this election was never about him, it was about us. He did not elect himself and he will accomplish nothing without our assistance. So, in these days of celebration and excitement, I call on each of you to search your soul and find one issue that is of special significance to you––be it health care or equal pay, the environment, education or gay rights––and never stop walking until you reach a destination that brings you comfort and peace of mind. Write your senators and congressmen, join a group, educate yourself, speak and speak until your voice is hoarse and then speak some more, and do everything in your power to make your vision a reality. Do not stop until you've reached the world you've always wanted to live in. Walk on.

"If you're walking down the right path and you're willing to keep walking,
eventually you'll make progress." (Barack Obama)

Obama Sunday

I was a part of something today which was enormous and important and which could potentially change the entire world. You may have heard that Barack Obama spent Sunday morning in downtown Denver speaking to a crowd of well over 100,000 people, which included Melissa and myself (watch part of it here).



It was an exhilarating experience, one I hope never to forget. I cannot tell you how amazing it felt to be a part of something so big with so many other people who recognize that this country is in dire need of change in a positive direction. They were people of all types and colors, economic brackets and classes.


The volunteers, who numbered in the thousands, handed out fliers, sold buttons and shirts, bumper stickers, recruited even more volunteers and shared their message of hope. I have never been in such a large crowd with so many considerate people; everyone wished us a good morning, thanked us for coming out, wished us well as we left. It was electric and there were times when I listened to Barack speak that tears actually came to my eyes. I felt I was part of history, that this day and this election was a one I could look back on and be proud of. I felt part of a community which wants nothing more than to help this country and her citizenry realize its full potential.


I can not urge you enough to vote early, to tell your friends and family to do the same, to speak with everyone you know about why Barack Obama is the best candidate for the future of this country. This afternoon I signed up to go canvassing door to door, which makes me proud and helps me feel like I've earned the right to see this man made president of the United States. Do all you can do. Don't just sit there, get involved!

"Change will not come if we wait for some other person or some other time.

We are the ones we've been waiting for. We are the change that we seek."
(Barack Obama)

*The last photo was borrowed from The Huffington Post

Red Tonic

Summer is holding tight but we are on the brink of Autumn, tumbling, gracefully and slowly, like cotton drifting down from the trees, but tumbling nonetheless. It was a magnificent day, clear and bright, far warmer than it looked from my bedroom window when I opened my eyes and peered out through the blinds. I bundled up in the jacket I've started wearing on our morning walks and quickly discovered it wasn't needed. And because there aren't many more days when the water at Chatfield will still be warm enough to enjoy, Melissa and I decided to take Kona and Duncan there to run free across the forested trails, only barely beginning to burn with Autumn's fever, and to swim in the series of small lakes that have recently become our favorite place to walk.


It's hard to believe that only a month ago Duncan refused to play in the water. Now it's all I can do to keep him out of it. Long before the trail reaches the lake, Duncan has already mounted the last rise and thrown himself into the water long enough to get completely wet before scampering back down the hill to urge me forward at a faster pace and share in his discovery (which means he waits to shake himself dry until he's standing right beside me). And while I stroll the trails which wind among the meadows and trees which line the shore, Duncan is content to paddle beside me, climbing out of the water as rarely as possible. Then there is that moment when we reach the far, wide beach where all the other dogs have gathered. Duncan gallops through the water, heaving his body upward and forward, undulating as he goes and leaving a gentle wake behind him, always diligent about keeping his nose, and sometimes only his nose above the surface. There is nothing shy or trepidacious about his arrival as he plunges into the crowds of wagging tails and butts waiting to be sniffed. He will steal a ball or floaty toy from any dog regardless of size or health, swim halfway across the lake to catch someone else's stick and then forget about it and release it as soon as another is tossed from the shore. He's become quite good at abandoning his own toys far out into the water in favor of chasing another, racing along beside a newfound friend only to snatch it from them once they can touch bottom again, which usually results in a discussion about what it means to share. He listens patiently but I can see in his eyes that he's already forgotten my name and only hears that voice reserved for adults in the Charlie Brown cartoons.

Kona does not swim but prefers to wade just up to the point where she can still feel the muddy bottom against the very tips of her toes. Instead she likes to run up and down the shore, sometimes ploughing right over other dogs and even their human companions. After being knocked down several times I've started referring to her as "Tank." But she means no harm and is quite sweet, standing by Duncan's side and wading out to greet him after a long swim leaving his toys floating out somewhere in the middle.


The walk back is a winding one but doesn't seem to last as long as the walk to the water. Especially now that Autumn has flared up and is painting the trees, the heart-shaped leaves and slinking vines along the path in heavy golds and reds, which creeps like a virus overhead. As much as Autumn hurts my spirit, I can not help marvel at her pallet and the slowness and stealth of her infection in these early days. Everywhere I turned was a wonder to be found, erupting amid the blades of grass, spilling down from walls of ivy, wrapping around weathered trunks.




Autumn's infection is remarkable, beautiful and calm, tricking us into believing she's anything but fatal. And in these early days, the days I could write long and hard about, I don't mind one bit. I have a my red dog at my side, always waiting on the path ahead, a tonic against the winter to come.

Relentless Night

After an excruciatingly long day with temperatures well above 100º, I waited until after dark before finally venturing outside to do the grocery shopping and take Duncan for an extended walk. We met up with Melissa and Kona at the edge of the parking lot, crossed Bowles, braving the sprinklers in the median and ventured into the park. It was still quite hot, the first night we haven't cooled down to the sixties all summer. Instead the temperatures hovered in the high eighties, sheening us in sweat and misery. Melissa and I are usually quite chatty but tonight we could only stand watching the dogs, too exhausted to make more than the simplest of chit-chat. While the dogs romped and played, Melissa swatted at her exposed arms and legs as the mosquitoes descended on her en masse. I wasn't bothered at all. Much to the annoyance of most of my friends, who apparently have much more delectable blood than I, the little buggers don't bother me at all... except in North Dakota, where they flock to me. The dogs rolled for a bit but finally we were driven off the field by the blood suckers and the thirty or so kids who overran us playing Ultimate Frisbee.

Duncan was quite displeased with my decision to return home and did one of his pouty fits where he drags his feet, hangs his head low and moves at a snail's pace, forcing me to practically drag him. Finally, quite near our building, he reared up and bolted around the side of the building into the dark, dragging me behind him. I ambled along trying to maintain control of the leash until I discovered the source of his rush: someone had dumped a cooler of ice in the tall grass beneath their balcony, leaving a sizable pile of quickly melting cubes which shimmered in the glow of the lamps from the baseball diamonds across the street. Duncan tip-toed into them, sliding only a bit as they shifted under his weight, sniffing for any stray goodies that may have been left behind. Finally, when everything seemed satisfactory he tipped gracelessly over on his side and rolled through them, a smile wide on his narrow, red face. Even I couldn't stand there without enjoying the relief so I kicked off my shoes, stuffed my socks into my pockets and joined Duncan by wading into them until his flailing scattered them across the grass where they melted even faster.

I tell you, he's a brilliant friend, smarter than almost anyone I know. Sure, he occasionally eats an unidentifiable scrap but who doesn't have their eccentricities?

Good Friends

After an overly-long and completely unproductive thunderstorm under skies that couldn't decide what they wanted to be, Duncan was overjoyed at the prospect of a walk. He danced and pranced across the field, his rear end swinging so hard it occasionally passed him and pulled him right around in a circle, at which point he didn't know quite what to do so he threw himself into the grass and rolled so hard he actually did two somersaults, head over bum twice in a row, and came up, green blades caught around his collar, a barnyard version of a lion's mane, a confused look on his face, as though not quite sure if up was really up or if up was down. It didn't dampen the glory of his moment, though, and when we unexpectedly bumped into Kona and Melissa, he ran full throttle toward them, leaping into the air and touching noses with Kona then sidestepping around her to say hello to Melissa. Kona did the same for me and immediately stuffed her long, black snout into my pocket for the pumpkin treats she knows I keep there.

I love that he has a friend who merits such exuberance. I could watch them wrestle and leap all day, rolling in the grass together then laying side by side long enough to cool off and start all over again. We should all be so lucky, to have friends whose company propels us forward and drives us into the air and spin circles of joy around them. We should do as the dogs do and remind them of it every time we see them.

The Bounties and Blessings of Summer

"That beautiful season the Summer! Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light;
and the landscape lay as if new, created in all the freshness of childhood."
(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

I cannot tell you how perfect this night was, with Duncan, Kona and Melissa at the park, playing fetch under what was one of the most beautiful sunset skies I've ever seen, the kind of sunset only a child could draw, with rays of golden light breaking the spilled edges of indigo night into stripes, a luminous red seeping though and outlining the fabric of the air, igniting the quiet shadows between the deep of the trees. Even the dogs, tired as they were from chasing the ball, stopped and rested in the long grass and basked in the departing joy of the day and the ebullient chorus of coming night. The breast moon, fleshy and imperfect on the far side of the sky, watched over us, a flitting cloud of bats, circling overhead, angling and diving across the golden glow of her swollen, pendulous arc. There was not a moment that Melissa and I did not catch our breaths and sigh in a deep, satisfactory awe, pointing, our arms pink before us, golden auras glowing around the tips of our fingers.

It is good to be alive, good to have a dog or two at your side, and good to thank the universe for being able to stop long enough to recognize and name all the bounties of life. I am blessed indeed.

The Third of July

The park has been a subdued place since last night's 3rd of July firework extravaganza when literally thousands of people laid claim to patches of grass and field, when vendors selling turkey legs and buttery ears of corn set up shop and the city of Littleton ignited what surely had to be one of the least spectacular firework displays I've ever been witness to (and I hail from southeast Idaho where for twenty years the highlight of the festivities was the fire that inevitably started on Red Hill above the university. I'm used to being underwhelmed!). People began gathering as early as noon for a show which lasted (literally!) fifteen minutes. The traffic on Bowles and Pierce was quite fierce afterward, which made my five minute walk back across the street all the more glorious. The best part of the evening was spending it with Melissa and Kona and our new friend Brady, who has a dog––a seventeen pound Chiuahuah named Diego––but prefers to let him stay with his mother. Duncan and Kona were quite well-behaved throughout the show, although neither would watch, sitting, instead, between us with their backs to the lights and colors exploding over the lake. It was a wonderful evening and the true show came shortly before midnight when the thunder, lightening and rain started. No one, least of all unincorporated Jefferson County, can match Mother Nature for a real show!

Even though there are plenty of families gathered to celebrate the 4th this evening, the park was rather quiet. The ice cream truck circled only once then departed and the thugs at the skate park had their music turned down and seemed to be working to keep their language in check. Not only that but practically none of them offered one of the myriad eight-year olds a cigarette or a beer, so things definitely seem to be on the up and up.

As we turned back toward home, cutting across the large triple soccer field, I noticed a family had gathered in the middle of the grass spreading out checkered blankets and a ring of folding lawn chairs. They'd lugged two large coolers all the way from the parking lot and had propped them open, ice and soda and buns and snacks practically spilling over the edges. The parents were working the hot dogs on the grill while the kids played badminton not too far away.

"Go ask him," the woman nudged her husband with her elbow as she prodded the roasting wienies with a fork. He looked over at me uncomfortably and shuffled forward, one of those guys who obviously doesn't like to ask for directions, not even when he's hopelessly lost.

"How you doing?" he asked. "Good lookin' dog," he said and patted Duncan on the head.

"What's up?"

"Yeah, listen..." he started, his feet shuffling awkwardly in the grass. "We're just wondering..."

"Go on!" his wife ordered as the kids ambled over to stand next to their father while they admired Dunc, who had his eye on the table laid out with food.

"Well, we're wondering, do you know where everyone is? What time does the show start tonight? The park seems to be awfully empty!"

It broke my heart, I tell you. It really did.

A League of Our Own

One of Duncan's friends, Maggie, is the world champion UFO dog. She's a local girl, rescued from the Denver Dumb Friends League who went on to become the winner of the UFO World Cup two years in a row. We've seen her practicing at the park numerous times and run into her occasionally at Heroes, but we've never joined her in her endeavors. The truth of the matter is that I'm a bit intimidated. The one time Duncan played with a Frisbee he confused it for a chew toy and demolished it in about two minutes, punching a hole right through the middle of it and then slowly peeling back all the nice plastic until the thing wouldn't stay aloft if put into orbit aboard the space shuttle. Maggie, obviously, has far more respect for the Frisbee than Duncan. Still, Melissa brought one down to The Glen to toss around with the dogs and I agreed to give it another try. Melissa was quite good at throwing it and put this nice little spin on it so that it seemed to hover in the air at the end of its flight, right above Duncan's nose so that he was able to lean back, tilt his face up and practically inhale the thing. Kona, who's been looking a little paunchy lately, didn't care much, but Duncan ran back and forth for Melissa, retrieving the Frisbee and dropping it at her feet over and over again. When it was my turn to throw I whipped it hard and sent it crashing straight into an Aspen, where it lodged just out of Duncan's reach. He sat under it, tail thumping, head craned back, barking and barking and jumping and jumping, doing little dances I've never seen him do. Melissa and I watched and laughed while Kona, content with the life's simpler, easier pursuits, dug for some mud, which she ate in quiet bliss.

The fault was all mine. I am not destined to have a world champion UFO dog simply because I can't throw. But, now that I know Duncan can dance, we may start working on some new tricks. Who knows, this time next year he may be doing the Funky Chicken with the best of them! The UFO might be out of our league, but Dancing with the Stars may not!

Guardian and Companion

This was the perfect day to (still) be sick at home. The skies were gray and heavy and I think––although it's difficult to say with any certainty since I spent most of the day passed out on the couch, Pip curled up in a bunny-ball on my shoulder, one paw curled up and tucked under my chin––it rained and turned Bowles into a hissing line as the cars passed over it, spraying water onto the sidewalks and the tree-lined island which runs down its six-lane center. It was cool and tomorrow promises to actually be cold before the high heat which will consume us this weekend. I don't think Duncan minded staying in so much but he was still anxious to get down to The Glen where he and Kona wrestled and ran while Melissa and I stood on its grassy slopes and watched. Earlier today Melissa witnessed a black lab––very similar to Kona––getting hit by a car. Luckily several professionals were on the scene, including a PetSmart delivery van, which picked the poor thing up and radioed back to their clinic for a surgery-prep. Melissa was very shaken and it reminded me of a similar scene which Mom and Kevin and I witnessed several years ago when they were in town for a weekend visit. While driving back from dinner we saw a large Boxer get hit, a sight that replayed in my head every time I blinked and which is still quite vivid. I was a little more protective of Duncan this afternoon, a little quick to use my Big Deep Papa Voice (which sounds rather funny now that I'm congested and half hoarse) when he didn't respond to a command. I think I scared Kona, who hunkered down next to me, something she almost never does. Duncan was resistant but I was firm and we eventually reached an agreement. I only use The Voice because I love him and constantly watch out for him. I guess this makes me his Guardian, which made me ponder whether or not I'd voted correctly, but eventually, when we sat down in the long damp grass and he rolled his head against my knee and reached out for me, I remembered that I try to be his friend far more often than I play parent, which is exactly as it should be. I'm happy Companion won. From now on that's the word I'll use instead of "owner."

Thank you all for voting and thank you for the well-wishes. I hope tomorrow is the day we're back to the park even if the weather is cold and wet. We deserve it.

Greeting

There is this perfectly wonderful (but in a creepy way) woman at work who greets me nearly every morning. Her office sits quite near the door I use to enter the building and try as I might I can't seem to sneak down the hallway without attracting her attention. She is exuberant, loud and cheerful, wears large bonnets that tie under her chin in the summer and is one of those people who always wakes up on the right side of the bed. I'm sure there's not a soul alive who could say anything negative about her, but to be honest she drives me crazy. Without fail she is standing at her door when I come in and she does this thing when she waves, a big, hearty single wave that involves the slow arc of her arm in front of her body, palm open and toward me, like a clown or one of those off-putting silent characters at Disneyland who are forbidden to speak. She mouths the words, "Good morning" and sort of stage whispers them, hissing loudly as I smile and pass in front of her. There are no classrooms at that end of the building and only a set of small bathrooms nearby, neither of which adhere to library rules of silence. Usually I simply smile and whisper back, but a few mornings ago, after years of being greeted this way I asked, loudly, "WHY ARE WE WHISPERING?" It caught her off guard and she shrugged and just as loudly answered, "I'm not sure." She's an odd bird.

This morning, another beautiful, clear and crisp morning, I entered the building still thinking of my early walk with Duncan. He'd loped through the grass, which is spotty in height, large and bushy in some areas, low and still yellow in others. He'd bent his head down and licked up the sweet dew which had gathered on the edges of the blades. His collar makes a pleasant and musical jangling sound and his tail swishes the grass as he walks. We'd bumped into Khan and Dave on their morning walk and the dogs ran up to each other, immediately made for the butts, sniffed long and hard, perhaps sharing what each had had for dinner the previous night, then moved on to their bellies and under-junk and then, as if on cue, both leapt up, batted at each other, embracing in a kind of paws-askew hug and began wrestling. It seemed a glorious kind of greeting and when Carol clown-waved and hissed at me I couldn't help but think she'd gotten it all wrong.

I am not advocating butt-sniffing or playfully violent brawls but you can't deny it's much more passionate than the often silent hello's and Hi's, or the tight, close-lipped lazy smiles we exchange as we pass one another on the lake trail, at the office, in the parking lot or at the grocery store.

I watched Duncan and Kona tonight at The Glen. It had only been a few days since they'd last seen each other but once Melissa and I led them down to the grassy, tree-lined depression on the side of the complex, they went at each other with such force and excitement you'd have thought it had been years since their last get-together. They ran wide circles around us, chasing and snorting before coming together nose to butt, then nose to belly, before they started up a fierce and slobbery wrestling match. It was obvious they are friends, and heart-warming to see such energy and affection at their greeting.
Carol has much to learn. We all do. Perhaps one morning I'll shock her with a big, loud "GOOD MORNING," and a dance of excitement, although I certainly won't be putting my nose anywhere near her butt.

Dog Dreams

Duncan has pulled me through the weekend as he's pulled me through so many difficult times. My grandmother, my dad's mom, was admitted to the hospital Friday night and it's been hard to think about much else. My dad has been good about calling and keeping me updated, but being down here in Denver, so far away from Fargo where she lives, has been tough. He tells me she's doing well, still under observation but feisty and tough, the woman I've known all my life. It's been easy to feel helpless and brood over, but Duncan, patient and big-hearted, has cuddled and played fiercely, distracting me from my head, leading me outside into the sun that only two days ago seemed the most important thing in the world. He's been gentle with me and we've spent long periods of time together, just being near each other. He seems to know my thoughts are elsewhere but has found a way to keep me grounded and in the here and now.

For nearly an hour today, after our long walk this morning and our time at The Ponds with Melissa and Kona––where he was snapped at by a nasty Chow mix with an evil face and a terrible snarl––we sat on the bed, the sun shining through the window. The little birds were darting among the bushes, picking at the small stones and mulch wherever they alighted. After a long while of just looking at each other and trying to match my breaths with his, I took his paw in my hand, stroked it, pushed my thumb between his pads and played with the soft, blond hair which sprouts up between them. They are remarkable things, dog feet, soft and tender, the last places that still smell of puppy, sweet like dew, but wild, like sage. Duncan did not stir as I held his foot, squeezed it, felt the bones and joints move under the soft pressure I applied, pushed my face against it and rubbed its coarse, rocky surface along my cheek and under my chin.

When I was done I moved on to his face, his short red snout, his jelly bean chin, squeezable and so blond on the very end that it looks white. When I was young and had difficulty falling asleep I'd slowly stroke the tip of my fingers over my face, running them down the point of my nose, across my lips, up along my jawline, swirling them across my cheeks, over the closed lids of my eyes and tip-toe across my forehead to the slope of my nose, where I'd begin the routine again and again. I did that to Dunc, playing with the short hair around his nostrils then back under his eyes, actually touching his short, brown lashes––fanning them under my pinky and watching as they sprang back into place like a feather––then on around his cheek to the warm sweet spot under his ears. He stretched out, pawed my face and fell quickly to sleep. Again I matched my breathing to his and soon I was asleep too, thoughts of Grandma and all my worries far, far away. Dog dreams are what I needed and that's what I got.

One of the Pack

Duncan is more than just my friend and mentor, he's also my dog. There is magic in the places he leads me and the things he shares with me––the simplicity and details of the world––but there is beauty in just watching him be a dog, doing the things dogs do.

Today we ventured back down to Wynetka Ponds where we met Melissa and Kona and five or six other dogs. I've always been a little nervous about dog parks. Our first experiences at the one in Stapleton were often frustrating and occasionally fearful. Maddie, Denise's dog, was attacked and injured several times so Duncan and I stopped visiting but walked the greenway in front of the park quite often. Our two trips to The Ponds, the park the community purchased to spare us more condos, have been quite different experiences. Today, while the dogs––Kona, two Jack Russells, a Collie, a Boxer, and two sort of mutty hunting dogs––played, I stood back with the grown-ups and simply watched. Duncan was beautiful beyond words, his red coat shining in the last of the afternoon sun. He romped and chased without fear, only occasionally returning to me, almost as if to check and make sure I was okay without him, before returning to the pack. He flaunted as he played, holding his tail and head high as he chased after whichever dog carried the lone tennis ball in its mouth, keeping quiet as most of the others barked and snapped playfully at each other. Someone once told me they imagined Golden Retrievers as laid-back surfer dudes, mellow, perhaps stoned, and willing to go along with anything. That comparison never quite seemed right to me. Today, though, I saw Duncan for what his breed really is: everyone's most trusted and reliable best friend, brave, smart, courteous, the one girls fall for and guys want to be, trustworthy and kind in everything he does. A perfect gentleman.

But he's not everyone's best friend. He's mine. And I'm his, and together we're just about as perfect as friends can be.

Grief in the Warming of the Year

A goose was hit by a car in front of the building today at work. They are slow creatures, and as stubborn as crabgrass. They go where they want and move at their own pace, which isn't always a terrible thing (unless, of course, it pits you against the wheels of a car and its impatient driver). Geese, like most things, require a special understanding. They adhere to a time schedule that is far greater and vastly different from our own. A honking horn, a green light, a break in the traffic mean nothing to them. Right now what matters most to a goose is finding a mate––which they hold on to for life––and settling down in a nice quiet, protected spot to tend to their eggs (which is an entirely human thing to do). I have watched them gather in the fields surrounding our building, have seen them conversing and huddling together, picking out the perfect partner and breaking off into tight little pairs. They move away from the flock and find a place to call their own, all but hanging do-not-disturb signs from their necks.

It is not hard to miss a goose (although quite often extraordinarily difficult to dodge the treats they leave behind, smeared across the sidewalk or embedded in the grass). They naturally avoid us and will only hiss and pose and posture when they fear for the safety of a nest or a mate. There is no reason a car could not navigate around an earthbound goose.

It's been on my mind a great deal today. Animal Control was called to tend to the injured creature, whose wing had been crushed so badly they fear it will not survive. As they took it away its mate marched back and forth across the sidewalk, squawking anxiously as a crowd, no doubt, gathered to witness the event.

After playing with Kona and Melissa at The Glen this evening Duncan and I walked across the street and down to the lake where the ducks and geese are pairing off in the reeds while the gulls set up house in the lamp boxes above. I watched them, the geese I have so reviled all winter, and I saw them as delicate and vulnerable, as things that seek each other out and tend to one another, who dote and primp and preen and look after. They are at their best when they are coupled up, amazing to the eyes and this Spring heart of mine. I don't know if animals love in the same sense that humans do (I'm sure science would insist they do not) but it was hard not to believe they could love. And why not? They don't mate for life just because they find a nice piece of tail and decide to stick with it. These creatures care for one another; you can see it when you watch them, really watch them. And while Duncan sat next to me I thought of that goose out in front of the building this afternoon, the one I passed as I left the parking lot. It was alone, still pacing, still calling after its missing mate. Its tiny head swiveled back and forth on that long stalk of a neck and its black ball bearing eyes were wide. It was searching for the mate it lost today, the mate it will most likely never see again. No one will come calling to offer condolences or offer an explanation, tell it that its union has been severed and that it must now spend this season, this warming, greening, life-erupting season solo.

How lucky we are to have loved ones in our lives, be they dogs or cats, partners, friends we don't see nearly as often as we'd like. Every moment we share with another, no matter how brief, is a gift from the universe and should be treasured as precious and fleeting, unique and immaculate.

The Ponds: A Community Saves the Day

It was a great day to be a Duncan, or at the least a Duncan who lives with me. Not only did the patient pup get a nice long walk in the park, complete with ball throwing and squirrel chasing, but we ventured down the street to a brand new dog park on the corner of Bowles and Platte Canyon. Melissa had mentioned it last week, and I'd even suggested it to some new neighbors who were looking for some place wide and open to take their Boxer, Khan (not sure of the spelling, although I like to imagine they were thinking of the Star Trek character, although they may be too young). This afternoon Duncan and I leashed up and, because it was chilly and windy even though the morning's snow had melted off, drove down the street in search of the grand and glorious park known as Wynetka Ponds.

We found it easily enough and bumped into a woman whose Golden, Raleigh, we'd met a few months back on a cold December morning in the park. I mentioned that this was our first trip to The Ponds and she explained that the vast hillside with its rolling brook and occasional copse of elms and pines had been slated for condominium development. I sighed remembering the northern Chicago suburbs where Ken and I had lived before coming to Denver. Much of the farm country there had been transformed into housing developments in the three short years I lived in Round Lake Beach and I've heard from others since that what little remained has also been swallowed up. The woman went on to explain that she lived in the development across the street and the entire community was up in arms over the impending arrival of the condos so they raised the funds, bought the land and sold it to the City of Littleton on the condition that it be turned into a park and that a sizable chunk of it be dog friendly.

It was an amazing thing for a group of people to do, especially in this day and age (there, I've become my grandfather! I actually used the phrase, "In this day and age!") when people will do almost anything to get ahead. It was a community in action and I know that every time I'm at that park I will silently thank them and hope the universe looks after them for the kindness and generosity.

Duncan was quite a hit at The Ponds, where six little Toto dogs nipped and chased after him while their owners (such an ugly word for a dog companion. Someone PLEASE help me find a better term! Post your suggestions as comments!), two little girls, ran with him, grabbed his head and hugged him, threw the ball for him and wouldn't give him a moment's rest. He wouldn't listen to a word they said, not coming, not dropping, not shaking or giving them five, but bless them for loving him so much and trying so hard. He smiled and played, galloped and cavorted, and I loved every minute of watching him. After a week of not getting it his way, it was wonderful to see him in action again.

And when it was done, after he'd been served his dinner and the sun began its descent in the western sky, I took him across the street to the park where we tossed the ball and rolled on the grass, just the two of us. He smiled and danced for me and once again, as every day, reminded me how lucky I am he is in my life.

Too Much Room

I came home tonight very aware that Kevi, Mike, Elijah and Jonah have left Denver and returned to Pocatello. We had a wonderful weekend, from seeing the zoo to grilling burgers, playing at the park to sprawling on the couches making each other laugh. It felt good to have these people in my home, these friends who have become family to us. But it also felt good to know my space was my own again. After spending time with Melissa and Kona at The Glen I was almost giddy knowing that if I wanted to talk to myself I could, if I wanted to lay on the floor and pet Olive I wouldn't be pounced on by a four-year old. Duncan, who loves children, started looking a bit wilted this morning and I knew he was looking forward to reclaiming his home as much as I was, but after coming home and throwing ourselves onto the floor in the office to roll around and relax, I think we both realized how empty the place seemed, and not quite as solid. Kind of tinny and echoey. And Dunc, who spent the past three days trying to lay low, seemed kind of lost, too.The apartment seemed awfully big and empty without the sound of Elijah or the voices of my friends. And as happy as we were to have our place back, we can't help but feel a bit lonely.

We Are The Shepherds

I fell tonight coming home from work. A good one, with a little sideways dance on a patch of ice. I came down on my left side, wrenching my neck and shoulders, my back and my ribs, and although I didn't hit my head, I had a sensation that can only be described as "a brain bounce." My vision got all funny for a minute, like when you lay on your side and watch TV, or when you were a kid hanging upside-down on the monkey bars and you sat up suddenly. While I spawled halfway out in the parking-lot a woman––who I'm sure is a member of the Juicy Buns Club––drove by in her SUV without stopping to check whether I was dead or merely unconscious, and didn't seem at all phased by the fact that I'd decided to lay down in the road. Eventually it all evened out and I was able to pick myself up and drag myself inside. The world seemed a little strange for a bit––it still does, actually––and so rather than venture out into the park where I was sure I'd keel over in a goose poop-laden puddle of water, I called Melissa to see if she wanted to let Kona play with Duncan. I didn't want to be alone and thought, as A.A. Milne wrote, "It's so much more friendly with two."

And so we went down to The Glen, which––were it not located right on the edge of one of the busiest and loudest streets in all of Littleton, or sandwiched between a parking lot and a golf course––would make a nice, almost passable corner of The Hundred Acre Wood. It's my favorite place in the complex, shaded and grassy in the summertime, warm and glowing in Autumn. It's not so good at winter, with its slushy bowl of a middle and steep hillsides perfect for slipping and sliding down, getting your pants all wet and snow down your boots, but I'm excited to see what it has in store for us come Spring.

Duncan and Kona are good friends, and as such they enjoy rolling and wrestling and gnawing on the spots behind each others ears while making sure to leave as much good, thick saliva in the general vicinity of their heads as possible. They're friendly dogs, eager to play hard with one another and especially excited to welcome new dogs to the area, even if those dogs happen to be on the sidewalk around the side of the fence, for which there is no gate.
While Melissa and I chatted (Melissa kept her eyes on my pupils to make sure they stayed the same size) a woman, who I'm sure is quite pleasant under normal circumstances, happened to walk by with her little white poodle. Kona noticed the poodle first, then Duncan caught sight of them and trotted around the side of fence and onto the sidewalk to greet them. Kona darted right after him and by the time Melissa and I, running, were able to catch up to them, the poor woman had lifted her frightened white ball of wriggling yipping fur into the air above her head (which you're not supposed to do should your dog ever be attacked). But Duncan and Kona were not attacking, merely trying to sniff butts and bump noses and do all the other things dogs do when they greet each other. Obviously this was made more difficult by the poodle's placement on her mistresses shoulder, but Kona and Duncan were up to the challenge and persisted in their efforts at Canine Hospitality.

"Don't worry," I called. "They're very friendly." I grabbed Duncan's collar as Melissa scooped up Kona and the woman, fire in her eyes and venom in her voice spat out, "That's what the last guy said right before his dog attacked my dog."

I didn't know what to say. I felt extremely embarrassed, but, to be honest, also a little annoyed. This was Duncan she was talking about. The famous Duncan. If my Google Analytics is to be believed a superstar in Eastern Europe (way to go Poland and The Czech Republic!) and southeast Asia––but that could be because (prepare yourself for the really bad pun and also slightly racist joke) they think my blog should be called While Wokking Duncan (you knew I'd do it eventually, right?!). This is Duncan, angel of Clement Park, the sweetest, kindest dog in all the world (yes, Chicago Ruth, he is really as sweet as he looks! Head bath thing and all!). How could this stranger, this person carrying what looked like a mop-head on her shoulder imply such things!?!

Melissa and I dragged our dogs back to The Glen. I quickly leashed Duncan and didn't let go of him for the rest of the evening.

"What did she say to you?" Melissa asked. When I explained she got very quiet for a moment and shook her head, fighting the smile that was forming on her face. "This isn't funny, it's terrible, but that's the poodle my boyfriend's dog attacked. And then the other day Kona jumped her again. Just to play, of course!"

The smile was contagious; I felt it forming at the corners of my mouth. "Are you telling me that dog has been 'attacked' three times in a row?"

Melissa nodded. "In the exact same spot."

It was not funny but we sat on the hillside for ten minutes laughing, especially when I pointed out how we'd become no different than The Shepherds, the horrible, barking dogs who've haunted us at the park for the past eight months. I'd become no better than them; my beautiful, handsome boy had become a snarling beast. I know we'll be in trouble when The Poodle Woman starts carrying a cudgel on her walks.

Laughter

I've been listening to my favorite podcast, Radio Lab. In one of the most recent episodes, Laughter, it's explained that Aristotle theorized that laughter was the one thing which set us apart from all other living creatures and in fact we don't really become human until our first giggle as a baby, typically around the fortieth day of our lives. Science has since slowly chipped away at Aristotle's idea and has determined that not only do babies enjoy their first laugh around day ninety, but that perhaps humans aren't alone in their ability to laugh. Several studies have shown that rats laugh, as do primates and several other species.

But what is laughter? One of the theories put forth by the Radio Lab episode is that we laugh as a sort of defense mechanism, a way of signaling non-malicious intent while behaving aggressively. For instance, baby rats who play together laugh to remind the rest of the community that they're not actually fighting, simply playing, a way of saying, "There's no trouble here. It's all fun and games." Radio Lab go on to report that laughter has developed for societal reasons, that without the aid of books or film or recordings or other media we don't laugh when we're alone because there's simply no reason to do so.

Science has a remarkable way of removing the fun and magic from life even as it offers explanation and enlightenment. But that's science's job and I can't lay any blame. I, however, am a romantic and have a difficult time thinking in such black and white ways. But as Tom Robbins said, "Romanticism and science are good for each other. The scientist keeps the romantic honest and the romantic keeps the scientist human."

I have spent countless hours playing with Duncan and were Dr. Lab Coat to tell me that Dunc does not experience joy and knows nothing of laughter, I would smile politely but think him an idiot. This morning––a gorgeous 70˚ morning––Melissa and I took Duncan and Kona on a walk through the park, down to Starbucks. The dogs played almost constantly, wrestling and nipping, stealing sticks and treats from one another. It was clear they enjoyed the other's company. And even when they weren't interacting––what the scientists call "parallel play"––they were enjoying being outside, the blue of the sky, the warmth of the air, the fragrance of Spring rising up all around us. I needed no rationale to tell me my dog was happy.

And I do not need years of study and research to tell me that it's possible Duncan may laugh. When we wrestle, or when he rolls in the grass, or even when we've been working hard on some new "trick" and he sees he's pleased me, his joy is apparent; I have heard his laughter. We laugh alone together all the time. I need no other proof.

If this is not a laughing face, I am an idiot.