Good Neighbors

I know a lot of dogs (Sofie with the broken leg, Patrick the brooding Basset Hound, Cleo the yappy Bijon who sings a chorus with Sophia and Biscuit, the twin Matlese; Toaster, the Schnauzer and Tyson the minpin; Toby, Honey, Emma, Champ and Lucy, the resident Goldens; Katie, the delicate, white-muzzled chihuahua who walks as slowly and carefully as her aged companions; the three Konas, all Black Labs; Bella the Yellow Lab and Nixon the Boxer Mastiff mix; Winston the Pekingese; Judith, the Chow and Diamond, the Dalmatian, who I have referred to here as The Hyenas because they froth and snarl whenever we walk past them; Mollie the barker who has since quieted down and Pepper the short, stumpy mutt of a work dog who loves Duncan more than she loves food; Hank the American Bulldog, Moose and Ellie the pugs who huff and puff, and Akasha, the timid German Shepherd) but I know few of their people. We talk, of course, but most of us never bother to introduce ourselves. We're content to let the dogs sniff and roll around but mostly we just smile and stand while we wait for butts to be sniffed and slobber to be exchanged. We're a happy lot, and friendly, too, but not very neighborly.

It has been a stressful year here at Raccoon Creek with the required renovations. The residents who live in unrenovated apartments have been asked to move to allow for upgrades. While some have left most have stayed, moving to the far side of the complex (or Siberia as I think of it), but nearly all have complained. I was fortunate in that my apartment was one of the first to be updated so I don't have to worry about it, but I've listened and commiserated and counseled while Duncan has sniffed their ankles for any stray crumbs which may have fallen into the folds of their socks.

The other day I noticed that the neighbor who lives across from me, a nice man in his late fifties, was beginning to move. His son had gone away to college and the man was attempting to do it all himself. We've chatted many times, mostly about the weather or his golf game, but we've never bothered to introduce ourselves until Duncan, off-leash, climbed the stairs ahead of me and ambled into his apartment. The door had been propped open while he carried boxes down the stairs to his waiting car.

I apologized profusely but Steve shrugged it off, relating a story about his son as a toddler, wandering across the hall and into someone's apartment where he helped himself to a plate of cookies. Duncan,  who is curious and friendly, and a complete whore for attention, has never been so bold. Steve and I chatted and before I knew it I'd volunteered to help. So for much of last night I carried boxes down three flights of stairs and spent a good portion of tonight helping stow shelves and dressers, desks and disassembled beds into the back of a moving van. Steve is a good chap and even offered to buy me a gift card or give me cash for my assistance but I declined, telling him that it's never too late to be a good neighbor. I'm not sure if I'll ever see Steve again but thanks to Dunc someone who needed help got it and I got to make the acquaintance of someone other than a dog.

A Season of Falls

I have taken tremendous pleasure in our unseasonably warm temperatures over the past several days. My friend David is the recipient of much of my gloating and to his credit, handles it pretty well with only minimal name-calling. This morning, though, I couldn't help but think that perhaps he got a bit of revenge for all my talk of sunshine and temperatures which came awfully close to 80 this week.

I fell asleep on the couch again last night, a bad habit I really need to get a handle on. I had a short but vivid dream of talking on the telephone with David and boasting once again about the perfection of Denver's weather. I could hear him scowl all the way from Illinois and rather than call me a "dirty rat," as he usually does, he said, "You just watch yourself, mister. You'll get yours."

I finally woke up a little after 2 and took Duncan out for one last bathroom break. Our nearly balmy night had been replaced by frigid air and a thick, heavy mist which cast orange rings around the lamps in the park and made the street on the other side of gate shine like a black snake's back. It was a wet mist, and because it was cold it was already freezing. The grass was stiff and slippery and crunched with each tentative and sleepy step Duncan took. I did not envy him having to lean into it to pee.

After he finished we walked around the side of the building just to stretch our legs a bit before heading back inside to the warmth of the two comforters Ken had pulled over the bed. As we came up the slight incline of the front walk in front of our apartment, I felt my feet slip on the fine layer of ice which had formed and before I knew it I was at that place I came to know so well last Winter, the place between the sky and the ground where I hover--arms and legs akimbo--only long enough to anticipate how hard and cold the ground will be when I return to it once again.

Duncan stopped dead and turned just in time to see me come back down, first on all fours, and then when the ice did not approve, flat on my belly, a hhwump sound echoing off the buildings all around. He seemed to shake his head and glance around to make sure Kona or Toby or even the Wretched Hyenas who froth and growl and threaten us from their window next door did not witness my grace. I picked myself up, wiping crystals from my pajamas, some of which slipped down my naked ankle and into my slippers where they stung the soft warm part of my heel.

It is the season I dread most, my season of falls. Let's hope both Duncan's pride and my head survive.

Somewhere I know David is smiling. I got mine.

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.