Long Hours

I am tired today and would not be sitting here awake were it not for the hour I spent with Duncan at The Ponds. The park itself is nothing special but the walk up--with the sun setting low over the wide fields of tall, yellowing grass that roll and climb uphill, ending at the old barn and the narrow line of elms and cottonwoods mingling in silence on the winding banks of the scratch-thin brook--is always remarkable. I took Duncan to the dog park not to play but to watch the light break from the sky, seep through the barren branches and boughs, drip down onto the grass and stain his coat. I took him to the park with the vague hope that that is where we will meet tonight in our long hours of dreams.

A Conspiracy of Rabbits

Duncan and I were out at a little past six this morning. I'd left the office window cracked open a bit and the air was warm enough that I didn't need a jacket. And even though it was still mostly dark, I could see the rabbits on the other side of the window. There were three huddled along the fence directly behind my apartment, all watching through the glass as Duncan watched me pull on my socks and shoes. They were nearly invisible, dim gray humps against the yellow grass and Duncan would not have noticed them except that when we appeared outside their ears perked up and their bodies went stiff. Duncan tensed, slid into his sleek hunter pose and led me slowly toward them, his feet lifting slowly in the air and almost trembling with anticipation as he stepped forward and brought them back down. It was too early for games so all three bunnies darted through the grass and across the parking lot to the small oasis of green which winds between the three buildings across from our own.

We followed slowly behind, Duncan pulling hard on his leash while I keep murmuring, "Poop. Go poop, Roo." He would have none of it, focused as he was on the bouncing white moons of the retreating rabbits. We crossed after them and as we neared the corner of the closest building we stopped long enough for Duncan to sniff a shrub and raise his leg over it. I squinted into the dim morning and spotted our three rabbits not far away, and just beyond them three more. All six seemed alert, but none of them were paying any attention to us.

And then there was pandemonium like I hadn't expected. The three rabbits closest bolted straight at us, the three beyond them close behind. Duncan jerked, stopped peeing and lunged forward around the corner of the building in time to spot four or five more rabbits charging directly at us, their ears back tight, their bodies sleek as they bounded, hardly touching the ground. I took a step back, startled, wondering if after months of chasing them across the park and all over our property, if the rabbits hadn't held a council and reached some sort of consclusion regarding the fate of Duncan and his companion. Had they lain in wait, plotting, lead us into an ambush? And what exactly would that entail? How much damage could a small herd of rabbits do to a person? I didn't have long to think as they swept around us for Duncan reared up and lunged and a moment later the coyote appeared.

He was in a dead run, chasing rabbits, snapping at them as he went. He was big, taller than Duncan, and very white with spatters of gold and grey along his back and head. But his tongue was wide and pink and lolled out of his mouth in a way that reminded me of Duncan when he chases the raindrops. The rabbits, trapped between us, paused for only a moment and then decided to take their chance with Duncan and me. They skidded past and around the building, scattering under the bushes, making for the other side of the fence. The coyote stopped and stared, maybe twenty feet away.

Duncan didn't know what to make of him, and after our long visit to The Ponds last night, I'm sure he thought he was about to make a new friend. I, on the other hand, knew exactly what he was and didn't like the nearness of him, the look in his eyes, which alternated between playful puppy and feral animal. He simply stared for a long time and when Duncan whined, wagged his tail and pulled on his leash, the coyote retreated a few steps, but all too soon leaned far forward on his long legs and sniffed. I could see his nostrils undulating as he took us in. He took a single step forward before I reacted.

The only thing I could remember about wildness encounters was about mountain lions but I figured, why not. I raised my arms high above my head and in a very low, and very absurd voice, moaned loudly, a deep gutteral Dickensian-ghostly sound that surprised even me. The coyote flinched and darted away, looking back once over his shoulder as he loped off. And once he'd gone I'm sure I felt the eyes of countless rabbits on us, breathing a soft sigh of relief, perhaps reevaluating their earlier plans.

Bad Habits and New Friends

I have made a rookie mistake and have allowed Duncan to develop a bad habit, which, it turns out, proves that people are as easily trained as their dog companions.

As the weather has sweetened Duncan has taken longer and longer each morning to tend to his business and as a result I arrive at work later and later. It finally dawned on me that, in a sense, I've been "punishing" him for positive behavior by taking him inside just after he's completed a Big Job. He is a dog who loves to be outside and is not particular about the season or condition. He is just as happy rolling and snorting in the grass as he is sliding across snow and ice. Sometimes, when I'm relaxing in the living room with a cup of tea and a good book––I'm just starting The Shadow of the Wind––or listening to Big Head Todd and the Monsters on the stereo, I can glance up my red boy, sitting in front of the sliding glass doors, and feel my heart break at his longing to be outside. It's the feeling that drove me to suggest we buy a house–– which nearly ended in disaster––so he could have his own yard to run in. And now, three years later, when that dream is a long way off, I indulge him as often as I can, taking him out with me on the patio or even if I have to run to my car to grab something I've forgotten. He goes with me often because of the guilt I feel if I leave him behind.

Our morning ritual has turned unpleasant for the both of us, with Duncan dillying and dallying and taking his sweet time exploring every new scent, investigating every possible blade of grass while I stand over him, arms crossed impatiently and curse down at him in an effort to get him to poop. Poop now! Now! Poop, I say. Poop now! No one could perform under those conditions and so he takes his time, prolonging his stay outside, basking in whatever color sky or kind of weather the universe has tossed our way because he knows the second he's done and I've scooped it up in my handy green baggy he'll be whisked back inside where he'll sit and brood in the window watching the world pass by until I come home nine hours later.

Bad Papa! Bad! Bad! Bad!

And so we've begun a new strategy. We don't walk in the morning. We stand in one place and wait for the transaction to be completed. Only then do we walk. And this morning we met up with Toby (and his companion, whose name I not only don't know but haven't bothered to ask. I can name most of the dogs here and in the park but with the exception of Melissa, none of their guardians). Toby is a Golden, the same age as Duncan, who from a distance, looks exactly like him. Duncan's hair is a little more coarse and has more wave to it, but the color is spot on. Duncan and Toby took to each other like brothers, and while Toby's dad and I stood around and talked about The Ponds and the dog park at Chatfield Reservoir, they scampered and sprang back and forth like fawns in the high grass. I'm hoping we can make this a regular morning occurrence because I'm sure we'd break this nasty habit in no time at all.*Okay, so it's not the best picture of Toby and Duncan, caught as they are in a rather awkward moment, but it's the only one I could manage with my cell phone. I hope there will be more soon.

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.

Mediation

There's no denying that Duncan enjoys being admired. He revels in it. This morning at the park several children called out to him from their strollers as their mother jogged them past. "Look at the pretty doggie," one cried, waving at him with her chubby little hand. Another girl, perched atop her father's shoulders demanded to be set down so she could pet him. Duncan stood by, lowering his head humbly under all the praise and licked her fingers as she repeated something she must've heard at home. "He's a sweet pea, isn't he? What a sweet pea!" Despite the fact that he's in desperate need of grooming, people comment on his good looks and gentle nature often, and were I single and straight I could probably refer him to him as "a babe magnet."

But he's more than just good looks. As often as he brings me a sense of peace he seeks to preserve it with others, especially at the dog park. We drive down to The Ponds several times a week and on every occasion I've watched Duncan police the other dogs in an attempt to maintain orderly conduct and harmony among the many other dogs gathered there. He is most certainly not an alpha male. He's quick to roll over on his back and expose his belly during play, often defers to younger, smaller dogs, never raises his hackles and only rarely growls. But at the park if two dogs get overly excited and their play becomes louder than Duncan deems acceptable, he'll break off from whatever it is he's doing, chase down the offenders, give them one very big and very stern bark and literally step between them. In every situation the problem has immediately blown over and Dunc has trotted back to me for a pat on the head and a scritch behind his ears. I've held my breath several times and have even tensed up in preparation of stepping in but it's never been necessary. He's the guy everyone likes, the guy whose opinion seems to matter and all the other dogs listen. They back right down and carry on with their business. This afternoon when one of the owners (seriously people, I need a new word for owner! Suggestions, please!), a young guy who had two rugged and coarse Huskies with him, started jumping up and down in an attempt to excite his dogs, the whole pack swarmed around and started yapping. Duncan, who'd decided to rest at my feet after nearly an hour of running and playing and retrieving the tennis ball we'd brought, leapt up, jogged right into the fray and barked––a deep, low bark––at the guy, his face right in the kid's crotch. We all laughed as the kid dropped his hands, covered himself and relented. "Okay, okay," he said. "My bad." Duncan wagged his tail, sniffed some butts and ambled back to where I stood watching, a look of satisfaction on his face.

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.

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.