My Precious Family

We have been sixteen years in the making, this little family of mine. When I first met Ken he already had Ashley and Nikki, our first Goldens, but soon after I moved in we ventured down to Morton Grove Animal Hospital to adopt Pip and Winnie. Six years later, shortly after coming to Denver Olive joined our family. And then two years after that we added Duncan, who I have spent so many hours writing about.

There is a part of me that feels guilty for not writing more about the others, especially these days, but let's be honest, cats simply don't do as much as dogs. Perhaps they do, but in a different way. Olive would never lead me around the lake to point out a perfect sunflower and Pip would scamper away and hide at the mere suggestion. Only Winnie would be game, but it would be slow as she'd pause far more often than Roo, to roll her cheeks against the warm sidewalk and show her pristine white belly to the sun. She has always been the gentlest of our children but also the most assertive and adventurous. She has stood up to Duncan when he and Pip have played too hard and she certainly won't tolerate Olive's aloof, semi-feral attitude for one moment. She's quick to cuddle, claiming her special spot on my hip each time I settle down long enough for her to notice, but is spirited enough to join me in the shower every morning.

She's my precious Bean and it has been incredibly difficult these past two weeks knowing that she'll soon be leaving us.

The day after I returned from New York we were given the bad news that Winnie Mouse has cancer, untreatable and nasty. We were told we may have a few weeks left to spend with her but no one knows for sure. So the days that followed have been spent playing with her outside, cuddling with her whenever she wants, feeding her special meals, watching her lay in puddles of sunlight, a content smile on her face. Not a moment is being wasted until the time comes for her to embark on her next adventure.

Please think good thoughts for my precious family. And most especially for my little Bean. She is more my girl than Duncan is my boy. I love her with all my heart.

Strange Melodies

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 favor of Ken, whose Yooper blood must be sweeter and flow easier than mine. Often in the early evening we would take our two Goldens, Nikki and Ashley, out to one of the many nearby swampy forest preserves for an quiet walk along the tree-lined trails, only to find ourselves drowning in swarms of frantic, biting bugs. Ken would hurry ahead, the dogs running along beside him, his arms and legs flailing while I merely brushed them aside, away from my mouth and eyes, without worrying about my exposed arms and legs, an amused smile on my face. I'm quite proud of the fact that they find me unsatisfying because I never have to worry about their irritating and itchy aftermath.

Tonight, after the sun had set and the world was busying turning from blue to grey, after the air had cooled from 95˚ to 88˚, Duncan and I trekked down The Run hoping the moist grass on our feet would cool us off. Despite the unmoving air a low bank of dark clouds had moved down from the north, trapping the day's heat and cooking us slowly. There was little relief and so we hurried through the long grass. Almost instantly we stepped into a thick cloud of mosquitoes. Duncan dodged below them, but I felt them brushing against my face, sliding over my glasses, hovering near my ear, alighting briefly on the back of my neck. I paid them no heed, brushed them away and pressed on in the hope of passing through their city-sized population once we reached the clearing below Brady's balcony.

We paused a moment for Duncan to run his snout along the line of shrubs and through the fresh, red mulch which had been spread out just last week. I stood nearby, watching him and looking out on the last of the day's light when something big brushed along the top of my head, barely stirring the hair. I swatted at it and turned as a dark shape swept down from one of the three aspens that grow there. It buzzed past my chest, close enough to feel the passing of its wings and then spiraled awkwardly back up into the night. I followed it as best I could and was shocked to discover that we'd stepped from a cloud of mosquitoes directly into a swarm of bats.

They were small things, jittery and even less graceful than the hovering mosquitoes, but their numbers seemed just as vast. Duncan sat back and watched them spin and collide around us while I stood dumbstruck as they circled and brushed against me. I could hardly see them through the dark until they were right before me, in my face, stirring the night around me, snapping at the insects that seemed to have lost interest in disturbing our walk. I could hear them, their high-pitched voices rising like strange, synthesized harmonies, nearly inaudible around us. Eventually, though, as their numbers increased and they came closer, I tightened my grip on Roo's leash and pulled him from our spot under the decades-old aspens and out into the parking lot, which was warm but clear, tame and silent. We walked slowly home, Duncan focused on each and every pebble before him while I scanned the dark sky and listened for strange melodies.

Mom: An Olive Interlude

I have always been "Papa" to the chilluns, except when I first moved in with Ken and I was "Uncle Curt" to Nikki and Ashley.

There was a brief time, though, when Ken and I played the role of "Mom" to Olive and her five siblings. Ken had been working at a vet clinic and one of their patients went into labor. She'd been a cat living on the street outside a hotel in LA who'd been rescued by a concerned woman who'd been there on a business trip. The poor thing was brought back to Denver where her vets learned that not only was she pregnant but that she was recovering from a shattered pelvis, which meant a natural birth was out of the question. She went into labor a week early and unfortunately there was no time to do the blood work. I was at home that afternoon when Ken called and urged me to run to PetSmart to buy a case of formula for newborn kittens. He didn't have time to explain and the urgency in his voice told me I needed to be quick.

When I arrived at the clinic with the formula I learned the sad story. The rescued mother hadn't survived the cesarean and was only being kept alive by a ventilator. They'd attempted to get her six kittens to suckle so that they could get those first, very important nutrients from their mother, but none of them would. I sat with their mother while the staff cleaned up the newborns and checked that each of them was healthy. In her last moments, after they removed her from the ventilator, her eyes fixed and wide, I promised her that her kittens would be safe and she need not worry about them, that they would be loved and cared for.

The next few weeks were difficult ones. Ken volunteered us to take the kittens home nightly and care for them as their mother would have. That meant keeping them warm in a small box, feeding them every two hours, inducing them to go to the bathroom and cleaning up after them. We tended to those kittens like no other animal companion I've ever had, getting up with them three and four times a night, feeding them warm milk, simulating their mother's tongue and wiping their bottoms with a moist cotton ball, holding them and checking on them constantly. It was hard work but well worth it and we got to call each other "Mom" for weeks, and when we were done we got to pick which one got to join our family and stay with us forever.

Where our other children had been perfect angels, Olive was a nightmare, a mean and bitey little demon who preferred Ken to me. She hated me, refusing to cuddle, biting me all night long and hissing whenever I came near either her or Ken. She was the only pet I ever had that I actually considered giving up for adoption, but Ken prevailed and we kept her. It took several years but she finally calmed down and is now the most talkative and friendly one of the bunch. When Ken and I separated last year it seemed only natural that Winnie, Pip and Duncan would come with me, but we agonized over our poor, little orphan, eventually deciding she'd fare better with the others so she stayed with me. But whenever Ken comes over she runs out to greet him, jumps up on his lap and gives him all the love she's saved up for him since their last visit. She may live with me, but she's still very much his girl and he is still her Mom and Dad.

She's become very protective of me, though, sleeping on the pillow above my head with one paw on my ear, greeting me at the door with Duncan when I arrive home each night, and standing guard while I shower in the morning. She has long since shed her devilish ways and is my angel, the one companion I have who can call me "Mom."

Goodbye Riley

My heart is breaking a little bit this morning. Last night we learned that Riley, Duncan's oldest friend, crossed The Rainbow Bridge suddenly and unexpectedly.


It was four years ago this week that Riley, who I'd known casually for some time, came to stay with us while Heather and Emma, his companions, were out of town. He was a big dog, wide and tall with a slow, lackadaisical gate and a face and heart that were without malice. He was a cuddler and one of the sweetest creatures I've ever wrapped my arms around and snuggled my chest and face into. He and Duncan hit it off right away, and although Duncan was still very much a puppy at the time, Riley was kind and patient with him, firm and also fun and a bit mischievous.

Over the course of the four days Riley stayed with us, he taught Duncan every one of the bad habits my boy now possess: climbing up on the counter, begging for food with the droopiest, saddest, most malnourished puppy dog eyes possible, barking at the door, chasing the cats. Most of them I have worked hard on removing, but when Dunc is sly it's because the Riley in him is coming out.

Last night I returned home to learn that Riley was gone Heather had found him on his side, his breathing labored. He was rushed to the vet where he passed shortly after arriving. When Heather called me we spent a good long time together crying and I told her, "He was so brave and strong for you. He didn't want you to worry about him and he didn't want to leave without saying goodbye. In a way, this was his final gift to you. He was very brave."

It was ten years ago this week that Ken and I moved to Colorado, leaving our two Goldens, Nikki and Ashley, with his family. We were dogless and miserable. Riley was the first Golden we got to spend time with, the first dog we befriended before bringing Duncan home. He loved us and gave us exactly what we needed when our hearts were sick from the absence of our own dogs. I will always be grateful to him for that, even when Duncan tries to sneak some food or puts his paws on my counter. From now on out, each time he does, rather than scold him I'll say hello to Riley and send a little blessing in his direction.


"All the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light of a single candle." (Saint Francis of Assisi)

Decade

Ten years ago tonight I was sitting in my dining room with Ken and April, Nikki and Ashley, our two Golden Retrievers, curled at our feet under our big oak table, while Winnie and Pip cuddled on the soft downy top of their tall kitty condo, half dreaming, half awake at the sounds of our laughter mixed with talk of the plans we were making. Our bags were packed and sitting near the door, two Frontier Airline tickets resting atop them. We'd eaten dinner and were discussing the early morning drive to Midway, the things April needed to do to tend to the animals, my anxiety over the entire trip. There had even been a great amount of talk about the shootings at Columbine High School in Littleton which had taken place earlier that day. At some point I stepped outside to let The Girls out, stood in the newly greening and damp grass in our backyard and smoked a cigarette while watching the stars move slowly across the sky. I could hear the soundtrack to Evita playing from inside while Ken and April did the dishes, the gentle chink of the tags on The Girls collars as they sniffed out the yard. I remember feeling like my life was on the cusp of a dramatic change and not liking it one bit. I have never been good at such things and despite my dislike for my job at CDW and the monotony of life in quiet, remote Round Lake Beach, there was comfort in its predictability, safety in routine.


Duncan and I walked the park today and only barely managed to safely navigate the flood of news vans and media which had gathered to mark the 10th anniversary of the shootings which took place at the high school across the street. It was not a pleasant walk, surrounded by sad faces and heavy hearts huddled together under the same blue sky that rose overhead ten years ago. Duncan was anxious and we didn't actually find peace in our walk until much later, when I took him out after dinner under a clear, darkened sky, the stars shining down as a warm April breeze carried the scent of the lake to us. It was the same sky I saw all those years ago in Illinois with the same constellations, only very little of that life remains. April has married and had children and we are no longer in contact, despite an immaculate and untouchable friendship. Nikki and Ashley have crossed the Rainbow Bridge and Winnie and Pip, while still full of vim and vigor, are nearly thirteen and spend far more time napping in the sunlit windows than they do chasing each other. Even Ken, who I always counted on as my constant, the one person who would always stand at my side, isn't here. I don't even own the same clothes I packed and carried across the country. It's all I can do to remember this new address.

But at least I have Duncan and our walks and the stars. On nights like tonight, when my heart feels like it's breaking, there is tremendous comfort to be found in those simple things.

The Bully Stick

It stormed heavily last night, with bed-shaking thunder and flashes of lightning long and brilliant enough to read by. All four of the children slept with us, pushing Ken and I off to the far edges of the bed where we teetered and fought for blankets, bunching them in our fists and holding them under our chins in a vain effort to claim some for ourselves. Duncan slept soundly at the foot of the bed but I awoke several times to find him steadily munching on his Bully Stick. Unlike Ashley and Nikki, who were so afraid of our Illinois storms they actually dug a hole through the wall to reach the crawl space under the house, Duncan has never been afraid of thunder. Last night's storm was pretty intense, though, and when I woke up to discover the stick had been gnawed down to its last inch, I wondered if he'd chewed on it to alleviate some anxiety. He's not normally a chewer but tends to lick things instead––socks, sweatshirts, comforters, carpet, quite often until there are holes in them. Because he liked the stick so much I walked him down to Hero's this afternoon, braving yet another rain shower on the way. He plodded along, merrily hitting each of the puddles, taking extra time at trees and shrubs, rolling in the wet grass, oblivious to the rain. By the time we reached the store, though, the sun had come out and Chelsea was ready with another stick for him. He pranced around, head high, the sick clutched between his teeth. He even carried it all the way home, which almost never happens.

Ah, the lengths we go to to keep our friends happy.

Cat Break

Up until three years ago I always fancied myself a cat person. I got my first cat, Tigger, when I was five. My grandmother noticed her hanging around the wood pile and when she mentioned it to my mother, mom agreed to consider taking her home with us. Several weeks later when we were in Idaho Falls staying with my grandparents, the kitten appeared and Casey and I spent the afternoon playing with her, feeding her and planning on making her a part of our family. When my mother returned from a convention she'd been attending, the kitten had vanished, breaking our hearts. We reluctantly allowed our mother to convince us that we'd get a new kitten once we returned home to Nampa but as we were climbing into the car we discovered Tigger already waiting for us in the backseat, nonchalant, like it meant to be. And it was for the next thirteen years. After Tigger numerous cats came into my life, Pandora, Ling, Cricket and finally Winnie, Pip and Olive and even though dogs were ever present–Skeeter, Auggie, Noah, Nikki and Ashley–I insisted on calling myself a cat person.

Today I changed my mind.

Don't get me wrong, I love my cats. In fact, Winnie is the best cat I've ever had. She's my girl and if I had to choose a favorite from all the kids, it may surprise you to learn that Winnie would take the prize. If I could, she'd get a blog, too, but let's face it, there's not a lot you can do with a cat. They're great cuddlers, incredible contributors to illiteracy, and the best sleeping aid I could ask for, they just don't do much except sleep, eat, groom and puke.

It was the puke that convinced me tonight.

Is there a week I don't clean up cat puke? Pip's favorite game is to stuff himself full of food, drink a ton of water, run around and play with Duncan until he ralphs on the carpet. Olive, who had a rough evening with a Boxer several years ago, prefers the safety of the bedroom. After eating far too much she'll retire to her favorite place on Ken's pillow, moving to mine only when she feels the need to empty the contents of her stomach. Winnie is a dainty little eater. Her only vice is one of my several spider plants. She can't resist climbing up high to bat at them and chew on the leaves, which immediately come up in green little piles on the counter, the back of the couch, amid the pages of a favorite cookbook I've left open and vulnerable.

There's no stopping them. I spray the plants with cayenne pepper. I'm careful about the amount of food they get. I try. I really do. But, as anyone who lives with them knows, you might as well move a mountain than change the will of a cat.

Fix

I've been thinking of Ashley and Nikki, our first Goldens and how difficult it was to come to Colorado without them. They were my first dogs as a grown-up and were part of what made Ken's house in Round Lake Beach my first home after leaving my mother's in Idaho. When Ken decided to attend Bel-Rea in Denver and become a veterinary technician we quickly realized we wouldn't be able to bring The Girls with us. We'd been unable to find a very big apartment let alone one which accepted dogs. Ken arranged to have The Girls move to Michigan with his family and I knew I'd probably never see them again.

The first year we were in Denver was a difficult time, especially because our home seemed so empty without the dogs. Before I found a job I spent long afternoons driving around the city, exploring, enjoying getting myself lost and finding my way home, and walking the local parks. Almost always I'd stumble upon people walking their Goldens and I'd find myself aching to cuddle up next to The Girls. Most of the time I'd walk right up to them, explain that my dogs were in Michigan and ask if they'd mind if I could take a minute and get a quick fix of dog love. While they watched and waited I'd roll my face against their dog, scratching their neck and running my fingers through the long hair near their ears. It was wonderful but walking away almost always broke my heart. I'd turn and watch them scamper off, running in that happy and exuberant ways Goldens have, return home, pull out the pictures and pine for hours on end. I'd always fancied myself a cat person but being away from Ashley and Nikki taught me otherwise.

This morning coming home from The Glen a woman stopped her car in the parking lot, climbed out and rushed toward me. "Can I pet your Golden?" she asked, her face wide with a big smile and beaming big eyes.

"Of course," I told her and watched as she knelt down next to Duncan and buried her face in his neck. She pulled at the fur on his back and played with his paws, taking in every moment as if she were sipping a fine wine or enjoying a remarkable meal.

"How long have you been away from your dog?" I asked.

She looked up at me and I could see tears forming at the edges of her eyes. "We have shared custody and I miss him a lot when he's not here." She smiled, cleared her throat and I recognized myself in her. "It's tough, you know?"

I nodded and told her where we lived. "Any time you need dog-love you come find us, okay?"

She smiled at me and I know we'll see her again.

I never would've understood without Nikki and Ashley. I still miss them. Every single day.

Duncaversary Part One: Meet Jake

It's three years today since Ken called me at work and asked, "What do you think about getting a puppy?"

It seems a simple enough question, but in light of everything that's happened since, it's like asking, "What do you think of willfully submitting yourself to financial ruin?"

Of course I got excited, especially after he mentioned the puppy he had in mind was an eight week old male golden retriever. We'd raised two females, Ashley and Nikki, a mother and daughter, when we lived in Chicago and had been dogless for five years. As I pondered the question I thought of the magnet which sits on our fridge, "A house without a dog is not a home." According to it, all our hard work amounted to nothing; we were homeless. Three cats were great but the magnet said nothing about cats! We needed a dog and Ken had stumbled onto one. And better yet, he was free.

I'm not quite sure how it happened, but a breeder in Fort Collins, where Ken was teaching in the Vet Tech program at Front Range Community College, had several puppies she needed to find homes for immediately. She brought the puppies to the school and Ken got excited. He missed his Girls, who'd been left with Ken's brother in Michigan when we moved to Colorado. He wanted a dog, and when I mentioned I wanted a male, he became even more excited. Pirates of the Mississippi, one of Ken's favorite country bands, had a song called "Feed Jake" and Ken wanted to name his next dog after the song. Not being a fan of country music, or the name Jake, I knew I had my work cut out for me.

I've always believed that animals name themselves and have never been a fan of naming pets or children before you've met them. Names are sometimes the first thing we learn about someone and they are powerful things, keys to who we are. It was days before I named Winnie and Pip, and Olive went nameless for weeks; we'd unsuccessfully tried Daisy and Stella, but neither fit. A name has to be perfect, and it has to tell you something about who it belongs to. It never hurts to compile a short-list, however, and with that in mind I went to work, enlisting the help of my friends in the Student Affairs office at ACC. I explained the rules: it had to be a "people name," but it couldn't be a common name, like Joe or Mike; instead it had to be unusual, something respectable yet quirky. Heather took the job very seriously and spent the better part of the day compiling an extensive list of exotic names, only two of which I now remember: Algernon and D'Artagnon.

D'Artagnon? Obviously she didn't get it.

My assistant, Janet, had recently lost her father, a famous Methodist author, D.A. Reily. She'd returned from his funeral in Brazil only the day before and as we were talking about him, I asked her what the D.A. stood for. "Duncan Alistair," she told me, and the second I heard it, I knew it was perfect. What could be better than a Golden Retriever named Duncan?

Ken spent four days of the week in Fort Collins, living with a friend Monday through Thursday, coming home only on the weekends. I waited up for him that night, anxious to meet the puppy. When they pulled up I ran outside to greet them, and there in a box in the back seat was the cutest face I'd ever seen. A terrible traveler from the beginning, he was shaking and covered in saliva; thankfully, Ken had washed the vomit off him before introducing us. I opened the back door and peered in at him.

"Hi there, little guy," I cooed. He cocked his head at me. "Are you a Jake?" I asked, picking him up. "Or are you a Duncan?" And with that he winked right at me. A good solid wink, not a blink, not a twitch or a spasm, but a wink.

Ken was standing behind me. "Duncan," he said aloud. "I like that."

And almost immediately, Ken's dog became mine.

Like it was meant to be.

Homeland Security

Yesterday, shortly after arriving at work, I somehow managed to convince myself that I'd left the front burner on and that the tea kettle was slowly melting, would catch fire and Ken I would be summoned home to find a smoldering pile of ash and cinder, and also a quite few angry-looking neighbors.

I do this; I turn insanely obsessive-compulsive for a few weeks every couple of years. In Chicago I'd drive halfway to work, decide I'd left the coffeepot or the iron on, or that the windows were open and someone would break into the house, before I consciously knew what I was doing, I'd flip a U-turn and drive 30 minutes back home only to discover the coffeepot and iron off and our two golden retrievers, Ashley and Nikki, sitting up in the closed windows watching me and loving me despite my obvious mental illness. I have no idea if other people do this (please fess up if so!), and would love to know that I'm not too far outside the realm of normal mania.

Amber was in the middle of telling an endless and boring story about several other people we work with when I thought, I don't remember turning the kettle off. On and on she went, who said what to whom and what she thought about the whole situation. I bet the burner is red and smoking even as I sit and listen to this inane story, I told myself. I know my eyes kind of glazed over and Amber's voice turned into the buzzing of a nasty florescent bulb. I bet the kettle is made with lead paint. I bet it comes from China. The cats are running wild, trying to dodge the toxic fumes. Those damn Chinese are at it again, trying to kill our pets. Amberamberamber in the background. She's going to Hawaii for two weeks just as my corner of the world is turning cold and brown. I don't have to listen to her. In five days she'll be sitting on a beach surrounded by palm trees and surf boards. Screw her! Duncan is probably scratching at the door, whimpering for help, unable to understand why his papa would allow this to happen to him, allow the Chinese-lead-based-tea-kettle industry to tear our family apart. Something must be done.

"I'm sorry," I cut Amber off and stand up. "I'm pretty sure I turned my stove off but I need to check. I'm going home. It's insanely OCD, I know, but I'll make myself sick if I don't go now."

Amber has seen me sick, has seen me manic and hopped up on Wellbutrin, and she's my friend, which means she knows better than to question me when I get like this. "Okay, go home," she says, and instantly her voice ceases to sound like the voicees of grown-up in Charlie Brown cartoons.

And then I'm off, driving the eight minutes it takes to get home. I imagine coming across the burning mass of my building, firetrucks and onlookers gathered around, their shapes coming and going amid the dark smoke. Briefly I envision myself leaping selflessly into the flames to rescue our chillins, as we call them, our three cats and Duncan. Would The Post cover the story? What about The Rocky Mountain News? Will there be an outpouring of support for me in my loss and grief? Will Oprah ask me on?

Thankfully the building is exactly as I left it 45 minutes earlier, quiet and almost stately looking with the sun shining on the upper floors. The grass is wet and the sky is high and blue and it's a perfect Autumn morning in every way. A Hollywood set designer could not have placed the leaves more perfectly on the trees and at the base of their trunks. Someone jogs by, and then a woman with her baby stroller pushes past.

Ah, life is good, I almost think, and then, Maybe the Chinese have devised a way to make these lead-ridden tea kettles simmer a long time before they burst into flame and spray kettle shrapnel and cinders of chamomile tea leaves every which way. I better check.

So I unlock the door and step inside. The cats are in conference in the middle of the living room looking guilty and shocked to see me as if they've been planning an attack. Pip scampers away, leaving Winnie and Olive to cover. Winnie turns her back and begins grooming her paws nonchalantly. Olive flashes her best baby eyes at me as I move inside toward the kitchen.

Duncan does not appear, which is most unusual.

The first thing I do is check the burner. It's off. The kettle is still warm from my Egyptian Licorice tea so I move it to the back burner, scan all the knobs and tell myself they're all off. Satisfied, I inspect the coffeepot. The kitchen is all clear. I have successfully averted another attack by the Chinese.

But still no Dunc.

I find him in the bedroom, his Buddy tucked under his chin, resting peacefully on my pillows, eyes closed and smiling. He doesn't move. I don't know if he even really knows I was there.
How's that for Homeland Security?!