Winnie Day

There are times when it seems like forever since Winnie Bean left us. And at other times the hurt of her departure feels just as fresh as it did on that afternoon two years ago. But it has been two years and even though we have moved and our family has undergone some changes, her little water glass still sits on the table, always full, always waiting. She may be gone, but I will never abandon her.

Last year I cried a bit and missed her, but today was a day of wonderful memories, and creating new ones. I called her out name while I made dinner for Pip and Olive, and held her urn close to my chest and rocked it back and forth, but I refused to cry. She's never far from me and if we both choose we can meet in my dreams. I will always wait for her.

“You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always love you. That’s where I’ll be waiting.” 

 (J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan)

Winnie Day Update: Together

Earlier this afternoon I set Winnie's urn out on her chair where she spent much of last summer laying on the little blanket my mother crocheted for her. Almost immediately Pip, who rarely sits there, crawled up and laid down next to it and hasn't budged once.

I'm not waiting alone.

Winnie Day

It was a year ago today that Winnie left us and I can honestly say not a single day has gone by that she hasn't been in my thoughts. I have dutifully refilled her glass of water on the coffee table and each time I feed Pip and Olive I call out, "Come on, Bean. Come on, Mouse." For a very long time I kept her feathered urn on the kitchen counter where she liked to perch and watch me cook but recently moved it to my bedside bookshelf where she can sit next to me while I sleep, which she also liked to do. I'm as loyal and dedicated to her now as I was every day of her life. And I miss her more than I thought possible.

 

I would be lying if I said I hadn't spent portions of the day crying. I look at her spot on the chair and tear up. I feel an emptiness on my hip where she used to perch. But I've decided I'm not going to be sad. Instead I'm going to make a bowl of popcorn and eat it. She loved popcorn more than just about anything else, so much so that on that last afternoon together, when she'd stopped eating, I was desperate and made her some, which she eagerly devoured one last time. So I'll make my popcorn and think of the day Ken and I brought her and Pip home and all the good days in between, and celebrate her life as it deserves to be celebrated.

I'll remember the last time I took her outside, the last time I held her little paws in my hand, and that beautiful face of hers, with the diamond on her nose. She was my most precious girl, my Bean, my Mouse. And I was her Papa. And someday I'll get to see her again. I know it. I can't believe anything else, but that just wouldn't make sense.

“You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always love you. That’s where I’ll be waiting.” 

 (J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan)

Childhood

“Sometimes,' said Pooh, 'the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.” (A. A. Milne)       

I discovered Winnie the Pooh in college. One evening, after many hours of studying in the library, and fretting and trying to cram more into my brain than felt like could possibly fit, I stumbled downstairs to the children's section, sat myself down on the floor and pulled out the first book I could find, a heavy, hardcover thing, well-worn and loved, which happened to be The Complete Tales of Winnie the Pooh. From the moment I read the first page I was hooked. There was a whimsy and thoughtfulness, a sharp wit and a clever sort wink and nod to the stories that cleared my head, filled my heart with joy, and warmed my spirit. I checked the book out, read it cover to cover that night, and every night after until the library refused to let me check it out again. Reluctantly I returned it but immediately bought all of Milne's books and began amassing my collection of Pooh memorabilia, including the tattoo which adorns my left arm. It's not the toughest of tattoos, and certainly not the kind of thing I would care to put on display at a biker bar, but it's a reminder of the innocence and tenderness of childhood that I carry with me every day.

Duncan is no Pooh Bear; he's far too adventurous and care-free, but there is a purity to his spirit that reminds me of Pooh and his adventures in the Hundred Acre Wood. He is thoughtful and gentle, kind and brave and when I am with him, when we are walking alone in the park together, when the fields and sunshine are all ours and I can take him off his leash and let him wander where his heart desires, I feel like a child again, like we are on the verge of discovery, as though something magnificent is about to be revealed.

And when we come home, when the day is done and we have cuddled and played ourselves into sleepiness, when we have taken the last of our walks and night has pulled herself over the world like a blanket, we climb into our beds and sometimes, when we are lucky, we meet in our dreams and cuddle and play there, too.

And Pooh is never far away.

 

“I think we dream so we don’t have to be apart for so long. If we’re in each other’s dreams, 

we can be together all the time.”  (A. A. Milne)

Fire

These are my favorite nights, when Duncan and I are home, good music (by my friend Sean Renner) is playing while dinner (homemade chicken curry) is simmering on the stove, a couple of candles are burning, the air coming through the open windows is cool and sweet, and the world three flights below is unmoving and quiet. While I cooked and cleaned up after myself Duncan curled up on the couch and watched the flicker of the flames from the candles on the coffee table, his eyes rolling closed, his eyebrows dancing with dreams. Soon I'll snuggle up next to him, he'll rest his head on my hip where Winnie used to lay, and together we'll enjoy the creeping darkness, the smell of dinner, and the simple pleasure of each others' company.

These are the nights I wish I could hold onto forever, that I'll dream about in my old age, that I could spend eternity reliving. My dog and me, together, content, lazy by the smallest of fires.

One More Feather

We are getting through this the best way we know how. It helps to believe we did the best thing possible for Winnie every moment of her life––from the moment she stumbled into our laps, her Dalmatian spots and graceful, careful steps around her scampering, awkward litter-mates, including Pip, to the moment she closed her eyes for the last time while I held her in my arms, wrapped in my baby blanket, whispering close in her ear, "Papa is here, Bean. I'm here. It's okay. Find me again. I'll look for you." Our apartment is small and plenty full between Ken and me, Duncan, Olive and Pip, but the enormity of her absence is felt every moment, creating a much bigger space than I remember before.

Aside from myself Pip seems the most effected. I assured Winnie that he was safe, that I would look after him and make sure he always knows he is loved. We had the vet, Dr. Jason Cordeiro, come to our apartment to assist in her passing, sparing her the anxiety of being moved to an unfamiliar, sterile place away from the others. After she was gone, curled up on my lap, each of her siblings came to her, touching their noses to her nose, sniffing and then moving on. Only Pip lingered, standing over her protectively, his body taut and straight, unmoving, for a long time. He has stayed close to me ever since, snuggling to my chest, climbing onto my hip where she once laid, constantly reassuring himself that I am nearby. The night her ashes were returned to us and we placed her in the beautiful urn we picked out, Pip lingered long moments nearby as though understanding that his sister was back home where she belonged but unsure why he couldn't see her. Wednesday night, long after Ken and I had tucked ourselves into bed, Pip's screams pulled me, running, down the hall to him. It was a sound I'd never heard him make, a tortured yowl that was pained and desperate. I found him curled up on the arm of the couch looking at her urn, his body trembling. He ran to me when I appeared and let me carry him back to bed where he stayed curled against my shoulder all night. I stayed awake long after he and Ken had fallen asleep, each of them snoring in the soft way they have, stroking his back, running his paws between my fingers, kissing his ears and telling him he was safe, just as I promised I would.

I cannot tell you how fortunate I feel that Dr. Jason was the man who assisted Winnie in her transition. He was empathetic and kind, patient and sincere. He stayed with us for several hours, letting us take our time, laughing as we shared memories, holding our hands and hugging us when we needed it. Tonight I received a heartfelt condolence card from him that brought me peace even as it brought tears to my eyes. He is a good man, the kind of person I'd like to know better, and I am grateful for his presence at such an important moment in our lives. You can read more about the work he does on his website, One Last Gift. If you live in the Denver area and are in need of such services, I cannot recommend him enough.

We bought Winnie's urn at Hero's Pets, from a local artist, Lee Wolfe. Despite being larger than we needed, Ken and I knew the moment we saw it that it was perfect in every way, especially because of the feathers that were hand-painted across it, one more to give me strength as I move forward. 

I still call out her name, especially when I'm in the shower, where she liked to join me in the mornings, sitting safe and dry behind the liner, watching me, occasionally talking and rubbing up against the plastic while she waited for me to finish so I could spank her gently on her rump while she rolled on the bathmat. I still see her from the corner of my eye, especially in those places she spent her last days with us, curled up behind the guitar, sleeping peacefully on the chair, perched on the table drinking from her glass of water.

It's still there. Waiting for her. As am I.

A Waiting Glass of Water

I have taken you on many walks since last we visited, and although I have not spoken much since then there has been a great deal I've wanted to share with you.

Like the morning not too long ago, when the air was surprisingly cool, almost cold, and even though I wanted to wear a jacket I didn't because there was something invigorating about it, about how my skin puckered up and relaxed all at once, absorbed it and seemed to smile at the relief from the heat. And how on that very same morning, while enjoying the chikka-chikka-chikka of the big sprinklers at the park with Duncan, throwing the ball into their rainbow-colored arcs for him to chase after, a water main exploded, a strange pop-pop-pop, like champagne corks coming loose, and the ground beneath our feet seemed to tremble for a moment before an enormous jet of water broke loose from its containment and ignited the air above us with a brilliant rainbow. Roo danced on his hind legs and snapped at the cascade and didn't mind the wet one bit, while I smiled and laughed and felt my heart ease, if for only a moment.

I wanted to tell you about the lone balloon we saw moving slowly over the fields, low and bright in the evening light, its path seeming somehow careful and deliberate, and almost observant, but I kept trying to turn it into a metaphor that felt forced and grim and I didn't think you wanted to hear about that.

How some friends are not the kind of friends we need them to be and how it seems, especially in times of grief, that only our four-legged companions know what to give us and when to give it, which is what makes their love all the more precious and relevant.

Or the way the leaves are beginning to fall. They almost always begin in July when the Lindens are done perfuming the night air that wafts in through my windows while we sleep, coloring the mornings in my apartment with their honey-mint scent. The moment they are done and their blossoms turn to gold dust their leaves slip like husks from their trees, and even though we have been walking on them for months the appearance of the elms among them has been disquieting and upsetting. And because our nights have been occasionally cool enough to turn off the air and sleep with the windows open, the tips of the maple leaves have started to fray with red and delicate veins of gold. I have never been a fan of Autumn, but this year it seems an especially terrible change, like the passing of the summer means leaving someone behind, watching them fade away in the distance, wondering why you're going and not bringing them with you.

I wanted to tell you how especially handsome Pip looks sleeping on the window sill and in the patch of sunlight where his sister spent so many hours, how his little paws seem to clutch at the carpet as though he's dreaming of her and holding on as tightly as he can.

But then that makes me think of how he's suddenly learned to curl up on my hip exactly as Winnie used to do and how surprised I was when he first did it because he's never done it before and I wondered if she'd somehow told him, "Now Pip, this is very important so you must listen to me and do exactly as I say. Papa needs a soft weight on his hip when he lays down, to reassure him, even when he's fast asleep and it seems like nothing is important to him at all. Your weight will calm him and bring him sweet dreams. This has been my mission every night and now it must be yours. Do you understand?"

And that makes me think of the water glass, still sitting on the coffee table, the one Winnie drank out of, the soft pink of her tongue lapping at the edge of the glass and curling the cold water into her mouth. It is the same glass that was there the last time she drank from it and even though I know it should be washed I can't bring myself to do it because to do so would be like washing a part of her away and that thought frightens me terribly.

I am not a religious person. In fact I'm not sure I believe in God and Heaven the way most people do. But I'm not sure I don't believe either. I have always found comfort in the notion that death is a dream, the sort of place we invent ourselves and whatever we believe in life, whatever faith has shaped the roads and paths we have traveled, is there, waiting for us to make real. My childhood was a wonderful thing, something I miss often, and when I feel the fear of death creeping upon me I try to take comfort in imagining I'll be able to visit those days again, to walk through them and understand with the wisdom of an adult, how magnificent and precious those faces and voices and colors and fragrances were and are. I do not believe in God but in the power of The Universe and the life-force that resides in each of us, waiting to take us back to days when we were young and carefree, when our spirits were still gentle and not as fragile.

When Winnie left us it was difficult because even though I don't believe in Heaven I wanted––and still want––to believe in a Heaven for her. I want to believe there are sunny sills to sit on and delicious tuna to eat, and glasses of cold water waiting whenever she wants. Oh, how she loved cold water from my glass! I want to believe that there is a bridge and that someday, when I am dreaming the long dream, she will be there waiting, perhaps as a kitten, when she was all ears, or as the lean beauty she would grow into. She'll be there, ready to climb up on my hip to ensure all my dreams from that moment on are safe and happy and sweeter than the sweetest ones I've enjoyed on the wakeful side of my existence.

But until then I will keep a glass of cold water waiting for her. I will not wash her away.

Farewell

 

“You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always love you. That’s where I’ll be waiting.” 

 (J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan)

I love you, Winnie Bean. Find me again soon. I'll look for you among the stars, my sweet Mouse.

Comedy of Errors

It's astounding the number of things that can occur in a single moment, from the large events that shape the direction of our lives, to the minutiae of which I am so incredibly fond.

Our walk tonight started out as any other walk starts: I came home, changed out of my work clothes, fed Winnie some tuna from her fancy bowl atop our coffee table (she's been incredibly spoiled the last seven weeks), gave gargantuan Olive and precocious Pip their dinner of chicken kibble mixed with rabbit stew and blueberries (they eat better than Ken and I do, IsweartoGod!) and ventured down The Run with Duncan. It has been very hot the last few days (and tomorrow plans to be even hotter) so we were going slow and easy, enjoying the shade of the maples, birch and linden trees along the way, watching the succulent light from the low sun dance along the tips of the tall, wild grass, leaving golden footsteps on everything it touched, enjoying the rich scent of the freshly mowed grass (something that always brings me great pleasure, especially now that I don't have to mow myself and haven't done so for nearly seven years). It was shaping up to be a peaceful evening with Duncan plodding along beside me, head down, nose hunting out the peanuts Jeffrey scatters for the bluejays and squirrels. I was already envisioning making a spinach salad for dinner before settling down to read the latest John Irving novel which I have been enjoying very much.

And then all hell broke loose. In a single second I was ready to flee home, grab a bottle of Xanax (of which there are several) and spend the rest of the night trying to sort through the chain of events even as I convinced myself that such a thing was possible only in movies starring Steve Martin and produced by Nickelodeon.

A new dog has moved in next door to Jeffrey. She's a fat old Golden, nearly as wide as she is tall, with a white heart expanding across her face and down her chest. She's as loud as she is friendly and when she saw Duncan she announced it to everyone within earshot. Roo immediately forgot the foraging he'd been doing in the bushes outside Jeffrey's patio and launched (and I mean launched!) into the air toward her. He nearly cleared the shrubs, but not quite, which is what upset the rabbit who had been relaxing in the cool shade there. Duncan landed with a thud, which startled the rabbit, who darted out of the bushes right in front of me. I would have tripped over her if a wandering horsefly hadn't chose that moment to buzz by and lodge itself firmly between my eye and my glasses. I squeaked (which, admittedly, was not the most masculine of reactions) and reached for my face to free the bug which in its impatience had decided to bash itself between the softness of my fluttering and startled eyeball and the lens of my glasses (which is what I've observed countless flies do when confronted with an invisible barrier). The rabbit hurried toward the long grass on the other side of the fence and leapt right over the very long and very dark garter snake which, I presume, had also been enjoying the cool of the shade and the softness of the freshly mowed grass. It startled and slithered toward the shrubs where I was hobbling back and forth, my hands and glasses caught under the visor of my ball cap, the horsefly practically roaring at me in protest, while my feet danced back and forth, eventually coming down on the thickness of the snake, which coiled up around my ankle, its slimy skin all the warning I needed to determine that my situation had gone from bad to worse, which, of course, changed my less-than-masculine squeak into a full-throated and über-feminine scream which I'm not even sure the most-feminine of women would admit to being capable of. Duncan, who never barks at other dogs, decided to test his voice out on Ginger,  who was barking back while her two-legged companions scurried to the patio door to see what all the commotion was about. I was still dancing, clutching my face to free the fly, bringing my knees and feet up high like a Cossack having a seizure in an attempt to avoid the snake, which had vanished as quickly as it appeared. After freeing the cap from my head and knocking my glasses to the newly trimmed grass, the fly finally dislodged itself and vanished into the melting sunlight. And while Duncan ceased his barking Ginger did not, which resulted in a stern scolding from her people, who could only stare at me as I flailed around manically.

"Are you okay?" the man asked, his wide-eyed wife standing behind him, clutching his shoulders.

I froze where I stood, looking not for my glasses but for the snake. "Yeah," I replied, out of breath. "I'm good. I'm Curt. You're new. Welcome to the neighborhood."

(Now tell me that wasn't worth the wait!)

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.

Bad Dream

Winnie was on my hip, where she spends most of every night, her weight soft and warm, her nose tucked into a curled paw. Ken was sleeping next to me, his arm wrapped around Pip, whose purrs nearly matched the snores from his dad. The apartment was silent except for the jangle of ice cubes dropping from the maker in the freezer.

I don't remember the dream but it was terrible enough to jerk me out of sleep, disturbing Winnie, who tensed and lifted her head. The light coming from the lunette above our windows danced across her whiskers and caught her eyes as she watched me, waiting for me to settle back down into more pleasant dreams. My body was rigid and hot and weighted down by the single sheet pulled over me. I took a deep breath trying to calm the tears that felt close to bubbling up and spilling down my cheeks. The nightmare was gone but the fear remained. I laid a long time in the dark, turning over onto my belly, slowly so as not to disturb Bean, who had already dropped her nose down into her paw and was breathing deeply.

Sleep was not coming, not until I heard Duncan shift in his bed, climb out of his kennel, stretch once and then jump up at the foot of the bed. He moved carefully between Ken and me, careful of the cats and Ken, and laid down, his body a long warm pillow between us. He laid down and licked my shoulder, slipping a warm paw across the small of my back. He licked again, quietly and with great care, and rested his head on me, squeezing me with one paw and continued to lick until the feeling passed and sleep took me again.

It is good to know I am watched over and guarded, safe at all hours.

Weathering the Storms

It has been a rough twenty-four hours for Duncan. Leaving work last night I saw the black skies above Littleton and knew he was home, huddled in the dark of the bathroom, panting and pacing in circles as the thunder cracked the sky outside. I hurried as fast as I could but when I got home the worst of seemed to have passed. He was glad to see me so we went on a walk until the shadows darkened the sky and the raindrops began to come down, big and warm, evaporating on the hot sidewalk almost as soon as they touched. The clouds to the south billowed up miles tall, bigger than mountains, and almost as soon as we were safe inside the storm began again in earnest. I turned on the television, pulled the blinds, slipped Dunc into his Thundershirt, gave him some of the Valerian Root drops Chelsea at Hero's Pets recommended and distracted him with a good game of tug on the stuffed frog he loves so much, the one that used have arms and legs and eyes.

The storm was bad, especially south and east of here, where they always seem to go on Summer evenings. I stood on the patio watching the sky ignite, listening to the continuous thunder as each veiny branch and limb of the trees was illuminated by the lightning. An hour or so later I fell asleep on the couch and didn't wake again until 12:30, when, it seems, all of Denver woke up. At first I didn't know what was happening, only that Winnie, Pip and Olive were fighting for a place on my chest as they leaned into my face, all three staring intently at me, their whiskers ticking my chin and cheeks. Duncan was whining and climbing onto the couch next to me. The TV was loud and the blinds were closed so I jumped up, opened the patio doors and stepped out into the most incredible storm I've ever seen in Denver.

The thunder was loud and unending, each blast bleeding into the next so that the night sounded like a freight train was passing over it. The lightning was constant, so much so that I daresay I could have read my Kindle comfortably in the flashes. The rain was heavy and loud, coming down in solid sheets, slapping the pavement and pooling up until the parking lot looked like a lake. And then it began to hail, big rocks of ice that pelted the windows and drove me indoors. The cats and Dunc stayed close on my heels, following me from room to room as I checked the windows. Duncan was far more anxious than he would have been without the shirt, but the storm was so loud he couldn't help but be afraid. I stood in the window and watched, fascinated, as the night exploded above us. But the strangest thing was that throughout it all, the trees, not even the big Linden outside my window, moved at all. The air was motionless except for the churning of the water and ice. There was no wind at all.

The storm had abated by 1:30, when Ken finally arrived home from work, but the rain was still heavy and the ground outside was thick with ice. I wanted to take Duncan out but he wouldn't go, so we went to bed, the cats climbing on top of us, their eyes glued to the windows where bursts of lightning continued to flash around and between the slats of the blinds.

The morning was calm and cool, and smelled sweeter than any I can remember. The creek behind the house, which only yesterday was barely a trickle, was swollen and near to reaching its banks, but the morning seemed calm and quiet. Even the birds were silent, as though afraid to move for fear that the storm would return. Duncan and I ventured across the street to the park where I expected to see branches and limbs, torn from the trees, littering the grounds. But that was not the case. Leaves, tattered by the hail, their green skins mottled and limp and reptilian, were scattered everywhere, and the last of the blossoms littered the ground in brown, gelatinous clumps, some of them sticking to patches of hail so deep it looked like snow. 

The morning warmed but another band of storms began to form to the north and west of us so we have spent much of the day playing inside trying to ignore the low thunder which will continue into the wee hours of the morning. Dunc is exhausted from the anxiety, but the Thundershirt is keeping him more relaxed than those terrible days before we had one.

The sky is blue now, the birds are loud, singing a whole days worth of songs, but clouds are gathering and rising, and the storms have promised to return tonight. I'll keep close to Roo and together we'll weather it.

Couch Clemency

The morning the new furniture arrived was pandemonium. Ken and I got up early to pull the couch out and ready it for delivery to Good Will. Pip, who spends much of his day buddying up to the rough bunch of dust bunnies which congregate in the darkness beneath the couch, was quite frantic and didn't know what to make of the situation. He scampered, low and flat to the ground, around the periphery of the apartment, taking refuge where he could find it: with his hind end sticking out of the litter box or with his face stuffed into one of my slippers while the rest of him pushed and struggled to force itself the rest of the way. Winnie and Olive simply retreated to friendly patches of sunshine in the sills and watched with bemused grins as Pip made a fool of himself.

Duncan, though, was not happy with the decision at all. The couch has been his preferred spot for quite some time now. After we pulled it out and removed the wires and cable which ran beneath it he climbed right up onto his favorite spot, hunkered down, refused to move and gave us the saddest, most forlorn face he could muster. Even when I turned the vacuum on and began taking care of Pip's bunny gang Roo didn't move. He only watched, his paws hooked tightly into the cushion, his eyes focused entirely on Ken, pleading silently for couch clemency.

Being all too easily swayed by the appearance of pumpkin treat and a belly scritch his tactics did not work. Once he was down we worked quickly to take the couch downstairs and load it into the truck. And as we drove off I couldn't help but glance up at the bedroom window where he'd relocated to watch us take away his favorite thing in all the world.

The new furniture arrived later in the afternoon and almost immediately he attempted to climb up and test it out. Unfortunately, that's not in the cards and he was redirected to the comfort of the floor. The cats, even Pip, eventually came out to inspect it. And although I don't want them up there either, I'm not quite sure how to keep them away. Last night when I came back from checking the mail I discovered all three in places they shouldn't be, as though they'd waited for the door to close behind me and my steps to retreat down the stairs. Even Olive, who rarely comes out of the bedroom except to eat, had claimed her spot on the new recliner. Duncan met me at the door and led me right into the living room where I could see for myself how the cats were in flagrant violation of the new rules. I attempted to scatter them but after a few moments of humoring me all three returned to their favorite spots while Duncan sighed loudly into his paws from his new spot under the coffee table.

 

Sometimes life just isn't fair, but I have faith that with a few treats and lots of love everything will right itself once again.

Frenzy

What the heck??? It's my birthday. I should be the one waiting for someone to serve me dinner!

 

(Honestly, though, it was a little creepy to turn around and discover four sets of eyes focused on me. I was almost afraid to move for fear of inciting a feeding frenzy!)

First Christmas

It has been a busy week. Ken and I finally decided that we wanted to stay here together for Christmas, with Duncan and the cats, and start our own tradition rather than separate and go home for the holidays as usually happens. So we decided that in in honor of our first Christmas back together after a two year separation we'd go all out. We bought our first Christmas tree since 2005, dragged out all the decorations we've amassed over the past sixteen years, and have spent our free time making the apartment look as though the North Pole exploded all over it. Duncan and the cats have been quite patient and well-behaved. There have been no incidents involving the digestion of tinsel or marking of the tree. In fact, Pip, Olive and Winnie have spent much of their time laying peacefully under the tree gazing up at the lights and shadows among the thick branches. Duncan was initially a bit unsure of the Santa I put up in the window but he seems to have come to terms with his presence here.

We even put up the Christmas village my grandmother hand-painted. And Ken had the great idea of stringing icicle lights around the edge of the ceiling in the kitchen so they look like stars shining over it.

 

This Christmas will be the first in my life I haven't been home with my family in Idaho but I'm looking forward to the time with Ken and the new traditions we'll start together. Duncan will miss running across Mom's mountain and watching the herds of deer as they move across her yard under the pale Idaho moon, but we'll find a way to make it up to him.

I have no doubt there is love enough in this home to make up for all the things that will be missed.

WinPipO

Several years ago Ken and I decided that we didn't want to pay outlandish prices for scratching posts for our cats when we could easily make our own for far cheaper. We went to several stores, looked at how they were constructed, consulted some online resources, paid a visit to our local hardware store and got what we needed. In almost no time at all we'd made three posts, one for each of the cats and spent the next eight years watching Winnie, Pip and Olive love the heck out of them. But at some point during the Thanksgiving weekend I came to the conclusion that the posts had been loved nearly to death. They still stood straight and tall but the rope had come loose and the Berber carpet we'd used was in tatters. So we stripped them clean, bought new carpet and fixed them up. And when we were done, Chelsea at Hero's Pets liked them so much she offered to make a place in her store for them if we wanted to make more and sell them.

So we hurried back to the hardware store, bought more materials and spent the last two days of the holiday break making more posts, which were delivered to Hero's this morning under the name WinPipO Scratching Posts.

One member of the family wasn't too pleased with the lack of attention and spent much of his time sulking around, getting in the way, whining to be taken outside and finally––when he realized we weren't going to stop––pouting, sighing loudly and watching us out of the corner of his eye.

 

Can you guess who???

Late

I am not a fan of this time change, most especially because Duncan and the cats don't quite know what to think of it and have somehow decided to hold me accountable.

First they thought I overslept this morning, which Olive and Pip were more than happy to inform me of at 4:30 by yowling and nuzzling against my cheek. Winnie, ever polite and always a lady, merely jumped from her perch on my hip to the floor then back to my hip, over and over again. Duncan, sleeping beside me in place of Ken, who has taken to the couch to recover from the cold that's been busy trying to infect me, merely stood up, stretched, leaned over my face, snorted once then settled back down on my pillow. I shooed the cats away, pulled the pillow over my head and tried to catch a few more winks but was unable to do so amid their clamoring insistence. The sun was up when I finally crawled from beneath the covers, and as I prepared their dish they were not at all reserved in voicing their displeasure at the lateness of their breakfast.

Twelve hours later when I finally returned home I was greeted by all three cats and Roo sitting in a half moon around the door, stern looks of displeasure on their faces, visible even in the darkness and the sliver of light shining through the door from the breezeway behind me. I stumbled down the hall, my back aching, and attempted to change from my work clothes to my walking attire. While trying to slip out of my khakis, one leg in and one leg out, Olive winding her way around one leg and trying to climb into my pants, Pip decided it was the perfect time to climb up my back, one crisp, sharp paw at a time. Winnie, patient and kind, merely yowled from the doorway as I hopped around the room, trapped between my clothes and Olive with Pip attempting to ride my shoulders for the full eight seconds.

Duncan, unhappy with the darkness and the necessity of the leash and the walk down the parking lot to the place where we cross the street, rather than his free ambling down The Run, eventually softened to me and stayed by my side once we reached the park and I could untether him and let him roam free, far and wide. He seemed to understand the circumstances were beyond my control and forgave me, and even stepped protectively in front of me when we returned home an hour later and were met by a cacophony of cats screaming for their dinner.

I do not like this change in the hours and the new, deep darkness of our walks, but he was like a golden light guiding me through it.

Thankfully it's only seven more weeks until the stupid southern hemisphere loosens its grip on our sun and allows it to creep earlier into our lives and stay later.

Waiting in the Window

I cannot count the mornings I have kissed each of the children on the head before heading out the door and off to work. Typically Winnie sits perched on the sill looking out on the birds in the Linden while Pip and Olive stretch out on the big pillows thrown across the head of the bed. Duncan often lays in front of the door and looks dejected and sad, especially after a weekend of long walks in the park, early mornings playing in The Glen or exploring The Wrangle. After I am gone, locking the door and descending the thirty-seven steps to the parking lot I can find him in the window looking down on me, his eyebrows raised and his head cocked quizzically. Many times, with a paw resting against the glass, he looks so broken-hearted I've climbed the stairs and returned just to give him one extra hug and a pep talk to get him through the day, whispering promises of bunnies and games of fetch, treats and belly rubs when I return.

This morning while I poured a cup of tea in the kitchen I watched as Ken gathered his things and left for work, kissing each of the cats and pausing in the door to scratch Duncan's chin before he went. "You be good," he said and was gone. Duncan turned and wandered down the hall to the bedroom window where he stood in the morning sunshine and waited for his dad to appear at the bottom of the stairs. Ken, unaware that I was there, turned and looked up at the window, waved at Roo and climbed into his truck. Dunc's tail thumped happily three or four times while he waited for the truck to back out, drive down the parking lot and turn the corner. Once Ken was gone he sighed softly and climbed into his bed, his chin perched on the edge of his pillow, his eyes looking out on the sky on the other side of the glass, as though counting the minutes until the far side of this day when we'll both come back home to him.

Panic

It came suddenly, the storm that rocked our neighborhood this morning, shaking the apartment and igniting the sky south and east of us with tall lightning that razored the dark morning with brilliant streaks like outstretched fingers. It was not the kind of storm I remember from my days in The Shire-like Midwest, and it wasn't even the worst I've experienced here, but it was enough to make me nervous. Pip scrambled under the couch to take comfort with his gang of dust bunnies while Winnie hunkered down deep among the pillows on the bed. Olive was hardly fazed and slept through it in the center of the floor throughout the entire thing. Duncan, however, did not do well at all.

He began whining long before I heard even the first distant rumbles––little more than the sound of heavy trucks on Bowles––but by the time it arrived he was pacing and panting and trying to climb into my lap. I moved my computer to the couch so he could crawl up next to me and take comfort by leaning his full weight against my body, but even that wasn't good enough. He wanted to crawl onto me, maybe even push himself all the way through me.

I am no stranger to anxiety. I have been well-acquainted with the terror it brings since the Spring of 2005 when it changed my entire life. I remember driving to work and feeling the horrible flush of adrenaline course through my body, grabbing me by the knees first, then moving upward, flooding my joints and muscles, terrorizing my stomach and bowels, finally grabbing me by the brain and shaking me until it was all I could do to keep from passing out. That Spring was the worst of my life because we did not know what the problem was, but even now that we know and I have been trained to manage it, behind the safety of therapy and prescriptions, it occasionally has its way with me. Duncan was there with me through the worst of it, still only a puppy, less than a year old, but courageous and wise enough for the two of us.

Pressed against me as he was this morning I could feel his heart racing and every muscle of his tight little body quivering. He big, pink tongue lolled out of his mouth and desperation ignited his eyes. I kept hugging him, pressing my lips to his cheeks and brows, whispering soft words of encouragement and comfort. It was the least I could do after the days he laid with me, leaned against and supported me when I was so dizzy I couldn't walk to the bathroom, or the time he stood on my chest, stared straight into my eyes and matched his breathing to my own until he eventually calmed me down.

When I finally had to climb into the shower (something I rarely do because of my not-entirely irrational fear of being electrocuted while bathing) Duncan followed me to the tub. My voice was not enough, nor my constant conversation with him. I showered as quickly as possible while he continually tried to climb in next to me, peeking around the curtain and sliding it away, lifting his paws onto the edge in an attempt to pull himself in.

I know that fear and know there is little reassurance anyone can offer. Ken was with me during many of my attacks and tried his hardest to comfort and calm me, and while I knew I was not going to die, I wasn't entirely convinced of it. There was little I could do for Duncan except hold him and offer him two droppers of Animal Apawthecary Tranquility Blend herbal tincture which Chelsea at Hero's Pets had recommended for our long road trips to Idaho. It's foul smelling stuff, brown and syrupy, and I don't even want to imagine what it tastes like (we always wash it down with a nice treat afterward) but it does the trick. Duncan soon found a cool spot on the linoleum in the kitchen and relaxed.

I left shortly after that for a meeting and when I returned home two hours later he was fast asleep next to Ken on the couch. I understand the exhaustion that follows such episodes of anxiety, so I curled up next to him, around him, whispered in his ear, held his paw and took a brief nap alongside him, matching my breathing to his.

It was a tough morning for Roo and although I felt helpless to ease his fears I know I did all I could, which was not half of what he has done for me. We give each other what we can when we need it and that is why we are best friends.

Return

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

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