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.

Sweet Yellow Spot

Some painters transform the sun into a yellow spot;
others transform a yellow spot into the sun. (Pablo Picasso)

It's difficult to write about sunshine when you're not walking straight into it, your face up high, chin above the line of your shoulders, the warmth of it radiating against your forehead and cheeks, down along your jaw and across your exposed throat and neck. Difficult to explain how the light of it shines not only on you but in you as well, through every part of you, igniting those dim places we lock up and try not to think about. In the sun there's a temptation to throw open our inner doors, fling back the curtains and unlatch our windows until we can lean out. Way out. Far, until our hands and wrists are trembling under our own weight. Lean out, close our eyes and sing our secrets to the world, secrets which thrive in the dark and don't hold up under the glorious scrutiny of Spring daylight. Writing about sunshine is like trying to have sex through telegrams. Nothing said or written quite pulls it off. There are no words to describe the feeling of walking and walking and walking still, straight into it, pulled and not wanting to turn away from it. Sunshine lives, but as fluid as words and language can be, they do not. They are as stationary as stone. "Words," wrote Charles Frazier, "when they've been captured and imprisoned on paper, become a barrier against the world, one best left unerected." But still I write.

When Duncan and I walk the lake in the afternoons we head straight into the sun which hovers just above the mountains, but eventually we reach a point where we have to turn and when we do its light is on only one side of our face, bathing a single arm, a single leg, still beautiful but not whole. A piece of the sun, and a piece is not enough. A piece of sun of like a sip of orange juice, just enough to coat your lips and tantalize your tongue but not so much that you actually have to swallow. Just a hint of sweetness and flavor that leaves you wanting more, stretches your arms out and curls your fingers around the glass before you've even decided you want another drink.

Far too soon in our walk we reach another point where we turn our backs on the sun completely. No matter how hard we try we can't do it any other way. We could walk west and walk west some more, stumble through the scrub-brush and up the foothills, climb the mountain and come down the other side, but still we'd lose it. The sun is not meant to be walked straight into for long. And so we turn and even though we can't see it we know it's there. On our neck, the back of our legs. Pushing even as it pulls.

My love of the sun this evening was almost desperate. As the ghost moon appeared over the plains in the east, bone white and transparent along one side, like a charcoal sketch with the lines smudged over by a thumb, I thought how easy it is to look at the moon. It takes no effort whatsoever. We look at the moon on accident almost nightly. But the sun? The sun takes work. How many days or weeks or more has it been since you gazed right into it, big and whole above the horizon? We strain to look into it but turn our gaze instead on everything around and under it. Never it alone. So I looked at it, over my shoulder and only for a second, but enough to see the ball of it, the blaze around that ball. My eyes stung instantly and even now when I type I think I can see it, dancing before my fingers, floating in space between the walls and me. It'll pass and honestly, I don't mind.

I didn't settle for a sip. I ate the whole damn orange.

And so we walked home, Duncan and me, the moon our guide, early and dim, unable to cast a single shadow. So I looked at the ground, at the shapes leading us, two echoes of the sun pushing forward over the grass. A man and his dog. An afternoon of sweetness and near perfection.* Image courtesy of http://www.art.net/thegallery/art.net/

"Happy Birthday, Dad!"

It's Ken's birthday! Duncan helped with the cake (and by helped I mean he plopped down in the middle of the kitchen floor, the spot most likely to cause me to trip and fall, which was a very cat-like thing to do), didn't like the balloons so much and kept time with his tail while I sang "Happy Birthday." It was a grand evening.

Coronation

This morning before leaving for work I was forced to tromp through mounds of snow and scrape it from my windows. It was heavy and wet and required very little effort but by the time I was done my shirt and socks were soaked all the way through and I needed to change clothes. Duncan watched me huff and puff and curse, and wondered, I'm sure, why I didn't just throw myself into the stuff and roll around like he does. What else is it for? After all, this morning was most likely the last opportunity I'll have until October. It's a lesson he's attempted to teach me over and over and over again, but I don't appear to fully understand. Still, he doesn't mind demonstrating.

Like Duncan, fickle, darling Spring has many lessons to teach. For instance, what we see is not always what we get. What is true one hour can be false the next. My cigarettes and I kept tabs on the day, stepping out every few hours from the dark corner where my desk sits in the back of the bookstore to turn my face up into the strengthening sunshine and warmth until the hour I arrived back at home to my dog, waiting as patiently as the grass, victorious over yesterday's snow, green––more green than before––and exposed. I took him back to the park, back to the places we'd played yesterday, recreating our walk, this time without the snow-angels or the blowing flakes flying into my glasses or sneaking under my collar.

The world is different today and I can't help but hope it will stay different, greening up more and more, turning bright with exploding flowers and the scent of so much growth, creating itself anew every few minutes. I do not hold a grudge against winter's last gasp because it made this afternoon all the sweeter.

See for yourself.


What a difference a single day can make. How happy my Willow Queen must be in her coronation gown.

One Last White

I tried so hard to be lazy, wanted it so badly, wanted nothing more than not to walk the dog, not to change into my heavy coat, the one I'd hung at the back of the closet. I sprawled on the bed in my sweater, Duncan spread across me, one eye on my face, one darting to the window where the snow fell on the other side in thick, heavy globs, shattering on the sidewalk but catching on the delicate branches of the shrubs where the little birds have only recently spent their afternoons hopping and playing. Oh, he wanted it so badly, more than I wanted to stay warm and dry and dozy on my soft pillows. My shoes had somehow found their way free of my feet and had fallen like fat, brown sticks, one on top of the other, both halfway under the bed where Duncan sometimes sleeps, neither wanting to be found. Olive curled up on the big pillow closet to my head and the warmth of her heavy, gray and white body was already beginning to pull me into a nap. Duncan was patient but finally the call of the now was too loud for him so he jumped up, shook the entire bed as he pounced on me and startled Olive away. I had no choice; it was snowing what will certainly be the last snow of the season and I could not deprive him of a good long gallop through all the fluff and fuzz collecting in the park, erasing the greening fields and chasing away the children and their hovering, droning parents.

I don't remember how it happened. I can't imagine I moved quickly, certainly not quick enough for Duncan. Somehow or another I was coated and shoed, a bag of treats in one pocket, my camera in the other, out the door and down the yard, ducking under the drooping, snow-blanketed branches on my way to the park, Duncan mushing ahead, scooping snow in his jaws as he moved forward. And then there I was, in the park, standing atop the mound looking first up into the branches at the snow sifting through them and the few flakes that managed to navigate their way to the pine needle-covered earth at my feet, then at the expanse of white spread out around us in all directions, thick with lumps like cottage cheese. The grass was buried with only some of the taller blades protruding, periscopes made for ants and roly-poly bugs. The willow standing guard near the west field was frosted in sugar and up to her ankles in melted snow, but she looked magnificent and regal in her new dress, a tall queen surveying her kingdom.

Quiet joy all around, the kind only sudden Spring snow can bring.

Three

It was three years ago this afternoon that my life changed. I'd been taking Wellbutrin to stop smoking and had traveled to Atlanta on a business trip when midway through our very first meeting the world as I knew it fell apart. Later, after many months, many doctors and tests, and many dollars, it was surmised that the Wellbutrin had rewired my brain and activated (or unmasked, depending on who's talking) a severe physiological anxiety disorder. From that point on I was unable to go to movies, couldn't stand loud music, was unable to read, lost all tolerance of warm weather, became terrified of travel and withdrew almost completely from society for the first several months I was sick. Gradually over the past three years I've worked hard at reintroducing myself to the life I once had. Many of you, who've been with me from the beginning will recall my Christmas request for Magic Feathers, a collection of talismans meant to see me safely home for the holidays. Through it all, of course, was my most loyal and effective treatment, Duncan, the dog who helped nurse me back to health and who daily reminds me what I'm living for.

Our walk this afternoon was special to me. I didn't want to focus on that day three years ago, but rather all the days since. I felt full of life, excited to be out with my best friend enjoying the world around us. It was well over 70˚ and the wind was quite strong but it didn't stop us. We walked down to the lake and the sight of that choppy water reflecting a thousand suns was spectacular. I stood on the hill looking down on the backside of the park and the water, stretched out my arms, closed my eyes and let the wind blow over me, warm and loud––the only sound I could hear––pushing against me, slapping my shirt and shorts against my skin. I was a skydiver on my feet, imagining myself hurtling through sunshine space with my dog at my side.

The anniversary was part of the walk only in that the world seemed sweeter today because of it. I remember the end of June that year because it had slipped past me without much notice. A friend had driven me to the doctor and on our way home I noticed the Russian Olive Trees had already bloomed and their buttery sweet fragrance had faded. I'd been trapped indoors, unable to concentrate only on not losing my grasp on sanity. I'd been so caught up in my own head that one of the highlights of my year had passed unnoticed. Anyone who knows me knows how much those Russian Olives mean to me, how I can pause in a walk or a drive and do nothing but tilt my head back and breath their scent like it's the only thing keeping me alive. Paula pulled the car over near an enormous tree and waited while I tried and tried to catch the faintest whiff of them, and when I didn't and began to weep she held my hand and drove me home in silence. Before I climbed out of the car I turned to her and said, "I will never miss them again. I refuse to spend another June trapped in my own head this way." And that's where I believe my recovery began and the seed for today's walk was planted. The spirit of those missed trees––my trees!––guided my eye with every step I took.

While most of the trees, not just the Russian Olives, are only just beginning to bud, the willows are filling in nicely. From a distance they look almost yellow, but up close they are spectacularly green against the blue of the sky.Up high, soon to be concealed by long tendrils, a woodpecker had plowed the gnarled drab bark of one willow with it's beak, revealing the sandy, bright grain beneath.
Basking on a rock near the bank of the brook that runs through Lilley Gulch I caught sight of a strange insect sunning itself on the warm, mottled surface. As I knelt and examined its bright yellow wings and rough body I realized it wasn't an insect at all but a seed pod fallen from one of the nearby trees or carried by the wind and set gently atop the stone like an infant released unharmed from the tornado that destroyed its home. I turned it over in my hand, rubbed my fingers across its course surface, watched bits of it flake away only to gasp as Duncan, impatient with me, leaned down and sucked it up, chewed once and swallowed. There, his eyes seemed to say. Can we go now?

Up on Pierce, quite near the high school, on a sidewalk I've walked a hundred times I noticed an ancient map of the old world peeling away from the back of a bus stop bench, tan bodies of land surrounded by vibrant green oceans lacking only the words, "Here be dragons."There were willows along the road, tall and gold with small black birds perched delicately on their points, the red tips at their wings brilliant under the sun. There was the call of some bird of bug which sounded like a screen door squeaking open and closed echoing across the greenway. There were the shadows dancing all along the sidewalk as we passed beneath the trees. But my favorite shadow of all was the shadow Duncan and I cast, walking together, anniversary or no anniversary, the most important detail of the walk.

"YOURS!"

Children are sociopaths. It's that simple. They think of nothing but themselves. There is little to no consideration as to how their actions or words affect others and so they plow merrily through their day, screaming, yelling, throwing themselves onto the ground in tremendous fits of rage or sadness, kicking, biting and hitting. One child I once worked with, a four-year-old boy, had even honed his skills at stabbing his playmates with plastic forks, not to the point of drawing blood or scratching, only just enough so as to always leave a mark––a series of little red dots, like beauty marks––a fact he was well aware of and had, in a sense, cultivated.

And then there's the concept of sharing, which admittedly, as a child, is a frightening prospect. Even now, my childhood mostly gone, I sometimes struggle with it. Sharing, for a child, is a difficult thing. What if the toy isn't returned? Or returned broken? Why share the cookie? That's less for me and I want it all. I am, after all, the center of the universe! The word "MINE," as screeched by a child has a nails-on-a-chalkboard effect for me. My shoulders tighten, my lower back goes into spasm, my head immediately begins to throb and I want nothing more to do with the wretched thing. It's one of the benefits of getting to play uncle instead of dad: I get to walk away.

I had a friend several years ago who complained about all the people who treat their dogs like children and refer to themselves as Mom or Dad when clearly they are. She'd just had a baby and was––rightfully so!––utterly absorbed by the midnight feedings, the crying jags, the colic, the complete and utter neediness of her baby. She mocked me for complaining about how difficult it had been raising Duncan almost entirely on my own. Ken had brought him home and then went to work out of town four days a week, leaving me with cute red....thing I had to idea how to operate. I was on my own, making it up as I went. I'd never raised a puppy, I had no idea what to do. It was a trial and error experience and one I'm not quite ready to jump into so lightly again.

I've been thinking about my friend and what she said and I don't believe she's right at all; raising a puppy is just as difficult as raising a baby. I was up every night for the first few months, every few hours, to let him out. When he didn't want to sleep alone in his kennel I laid awake and listened to him whine and cry and scratch at the gate. I dealt with vomit and accidents several times a day and wondered if I was doing something wrong, and put my vet tech friends and vet through hell each time he coughed or puked because I was convinced he was deathly ill. Based on how I handled Duncan, I know for a fact I should be the last person allowed to raise a child, which is why I'm perfectly fine with my dog.

Duncan is deep into his threes. There are no temper tantrums, no screaming, no fits (although he does pout if he feels a walk wasn't long enough), and best of all, no "MINE!" If anything it's always "YOURS!" He's perfectly willing to share. It's not always sharing that's difficult. Toys are useless unless someone has joined in playing with them. He doesn't mind one of the cats poking into his water dish or food bowl, or even sneaking into his spot of sunshine on the bed or the floor of the office. He has no concept of withholding anything from anyone, especially his love. Duncan is not the center of his universe, it's whomever he's with that his world rotates around.

Ah, if only we could teach our children to be like our dogs.

Morning at Lilley Gulch

So much depends on light and time of day. When I was young and spent the night at a friend's house I often didn't sleep well, woke early and laid in my sleeping bag, which was typically unrolled on the living room floor or couch. I'd watch the light creep around the drawn curtains, glowing at the edges, trickling up along the textured ceiling. I lay on my back staring at the walls and carpeted floors, listening to the unfamiliar sounds from the kitchen, the ticking of the fridge, the drip of water from a faucet, the cat playing with the kibble in its dish, or even the early morning birds chirping outside the window. It was all foreign to me; I was used to these places in the afternoons when we played with Star Wars action figures, sipped Fanta Red Cream Soda and snacked on graham crackers and chocolate frosting. The silence and dimness made me uncomfortable and I was quick to leave once the house came to life, thanking the parents, declining breakfast and gathering my things. I'd race home on Trigger, my black dirt bike and hurry inside where my mother sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee and listening to the Oldies Hour on 95 Alive, 94.9 FM. Dan, my former step-father, would be in the driveway washing and waxing the cars, the sound of the water running through the pipes all around us. The sound of TV drifted up from downstairs where Casey would be curled up on the big pillow chair watching it. These were the things I was used to, that I was lost without.

Duncan and I walked Lilley Gulch early this morning, a little after nine before the sun was all the way up, when the sky was blade blue and clear and the breeze was clean and a little sharp. It was much brighter than our afternoon walk last week and the entire stretch of green-way seemed different, bleached, maybe. The sounds were different, too, different bird calls from the trees that run along both sides, squirrels scrambling up and down their trunks chasing each other rather than lounging on branches and boughs. Children were out on the their bikes and playing in the brook that passes right down the middle. That rich, Spring smell was gone, too, replaced by frying bacon and eggs wafting through open windows. I could hear the television sound of pundits babbling on those Sunday morning talking head news shows. It was not the walk I expected, with very little of the quiet and calm I'd hoped for. Lilley Gulch is an afternoon walk, a place that's best with the sun low before us, the calm of the afternoon settling across the park.

Sundays are not Fridays, but Duncan is always Duncan; morning or afternoon he is beautiful. My most precious constant.

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.

Salvation in the Details

Spring is sooner recognized by plants than by men
(Chinese Proverb)

It can be rough, this Springing of the world, as rough as childbirth, with its groaning and pains, pushing and thrusting, and difficult to look beyond what we think we feel and see at any given moment. It would be all to easy to think Spring had forsaken us this year, in this long and dreary April, which all too often has worn the guise of March. Long gray days strung together do little to lift the spirits. But, as I've often said, God is in the details and it takes a sharp eye and a willing heart to truly see.

I did not want to walk today. The afternoon did exactly as I predicted by churning up winds and snow at the precise moment I leashed up Duncan and pulled my scarf tight around my neck. Duncan, who'd laid on the bed staring out the window all afternoon, was not as reluctant as I so he did what any good dog does on a walk, which is pull and drag in all the right spots, pause and sniff at appropriate places and wait and wait and wait for me to make a discovery that I should have seen but missed because of laziness and unwillingness. April has been lost on me, behind the clouds and the snow bursts which cover the yards and cars, then melt only to burst upon us again, over and over, days without sunshine or color.But there before me were all the details of the world, the delicate, struggling things which persevere and push through the lingering winter. While Duncan rolls on the ground in the last of the once-leaves, the fuzzy tails of the Aspens in bloom dance across my vision, tickling my cheek before I notice them. Other trees whose names I don't know are covered in blossoms of fine red hair that catches the snow, pulling it like an anemone grasping for food in the dark, wet places of the world. The junipers are exploding with berries and soon the ground beneath them will be littered with thousands of bright blue balls. When I was young we gathered them, clutching them until they burst and smeared thick purple skins and green pulp between our fingers. We played war with the remnants in the ravine behind my home, using wide drinking straws to blow them at each other, sending them flying through the air like bombs.

There is so much of Spring all around us, minute and easily overlooked. But on days that aren't quite what we yearn for or feel we deserve it's especially important to open our eyes and seek out these tiny blessings. They are the things that make the walks worthwhile. They are the salvation of our spirit in these bland and cold days.

Old Foes

As lovely as the park has been as of late, I can't help but feel Duncan and I have been robbed of the peace and quiet we found there all winter. The fields where we've romped and played and rolled have been overrun with kicking screaming kids in soccer and lacrosse garb whose parents can't seem to find the common decency to pick up and recycle their discarded water bottles. Almost daily the entire park is turned into one giant garbage dump full of deflated balls, spat-out plastic mouth guards, crushed soda cans and more cigarette butts than I can count. It's disheartening, but because Duncan and I love the park, and because it allows us to feel somewhat heroic, more deserving and superior, we try to clean up as much as we can.

This afternoon as the snow began to melt we headed to the park, which was blissfully free of children and their wretched parents. It was cold and windy but the park was ours! We could run wide circles and Duncan could tend to business without feeling the reproachful eyes of coaches and disapproving mothers on us.

Apparently we weren't the only ones who felt that way. After crossing the street and inspecting each of the trees on The Mound for squirrels, we caught sight of our old foes, The Shepherds. They were, of course, off leash and running wild, far ahead of their owners (again, I need a better word for "owner." Keep those suggestions coming!). I stiffened up and tightened my grip on Duncan's leash. We paused for a long moment, just outside of the trees in plain view. I thought they'd leash up the dogs once they spotted us but they did not. They paused at our appearance but merely pushed on, heedless and without consideration.

It wasn't quite the walk I wanted, keeping my eye out for the beasts, and without my cudgel I felt vulnerable. Thankfully the walk passed without incident but their appearance on such a day was reminder that Spring can pose as many dangers as the dark winter months.

April Games

We work and hope so long and so hard for Spring that it's easy to forgot that sometimes it snows in April. Occasionally we wake to discover the ground has turned white, the sidewalks have frozen over and our windshields are in need of a good scraping. It's a heartbreaking moment, sliding the curtains open, pulling the blinds up and seeing the big fluffy flakes falling on the grass we rolled on just yesterday. It shouldn't be this way, we think. It's hard to remember that here in Denver April is the snowiest month, that nearly every Spring we suffer a crushing setback, the kind of storm that stops traffic for hours and takes down power lines, along with budding, and slowly leafing tree limbs. As sweet as April is there are moments I wish she'd stay gray and dreary on the promise that come May Day there would be only sunshine and blue skies. But, like I said, she's sweet and it's a hard thing to do, to turn one's back on sweetness.

The world was white this morning and while my feet became heavy and the still-damp hair on the back of my head froze, Duncan couldn't have looked more pleased. He did that Duncan Thing, running in circles around me, cutting deep green trails through the fluff. He is delighted by everything but, after weeks of flowers and afternoons sitting on the patio reading a book, it was hard to follow suit. It was hard to do anything but sigh. As we walked down the yard, following the drainage trough which runs the length of the fence I noticed that what little remained of last night's rain had frozen into very thin and very clear puddles across the cement surface of the trough. While Duncan peed I looked down at one of the puddles and saw a single worm, now white and curled up upon itself, caught in the ice, frozen solid. Mere hours earlier it had crawled out of the damp earth, happy the ground had thawed and somehow or another found itself trapped and cold and dead. Kapow! Just like that. My own weariness at April's games paled in comparison. I may be cold, my socks may get wet but at least I'm not a wormcicle frozen by what will surely be the last storm of the year. I'd rather be on the bright and fluffy side of the snow than the frozen side of the drainage trough.

Damn Paparazzi

Some days seem to fly by. Even for Duncan, who, while playing catch at The Glen, couldn't be bothered to hold still or be cute for longer than a few seconds.And when I did finally catch up to him, after nearly forty-five minutes of running and dashing and rolling and snorting, he seemed none too pleased with my efforts.This is a face I make far too often, especially at work. I know exactly how he feels.

All That

Spring is all around, at least for today. Tomorrow and the rest of the week are looking rather bleak (once again, look out dear friends in the Midwest), but today Spring was here, or rather, Colorado's version of it. The sky was gray but the air and sun were warm and as long as that wind that creeps down through the mountains kept quiet it was actually quite nice. All I needed was a sweatshirt and a light jacket, my sunglasses and a couple of poop bags (for Dunc, not myself) and I was good to go. Duncan just needed his leash and my pocket full of Grandma Lucy pumpkin treats (which I like to snack on as well).

We walked down near the lake and even though the trees are still quite bare, and the reeds along the shore rather yellow, the ducks were guarding their nests, the gulls were singing songs to one another and the gnats were out in full force. We passed through clouds of the things along the trail and each time I squeezed my lips closed and felt them brush against my cheeks and neck like fine, silky feathers caught in the air. Even the other walkers seemed caught up in Spring, holding hands, leaning into one another, lowering their voices to whisper sweet things to each other. I couldn't help but smile at them. "She got flowers and she wouldn't tell us who they were from," one Juicy Bun said to another as they marched past us in their velour track suits, ponytails bouncing behind them. "I can't fight this feeling any longer," sang our roller-blading priest (I'm still not sure if he's an actual priest or just someone who enjoys dressing as one while enjoying the outdoors) over his ear buds. We haven't seen him for many months and I actually got at excited at his appearance. Then there were the random snippets of conversations I caught passing several teenagers. "She's hot, man! And her mom's fine, too!" Or the girl talking to her boyfriend as they strolled ahead of us, arms entwined (and I'm not making this up), "She said she'd never have a threesome. I mean, who does she think she is?!"

Yes, Spring is certainly here. I'm so lucky to have Ken and happy that when I walk with Duncan all I have to do is walk and snap the occasional picture. All that guarding and speaking and singing and roller-blading and Juicy-Bunning and... threesome-ing. It just seems a bit much. Give me some tulips, a Golden Retriever and a warm day I'm good to go!

Independence

Sometimes while walking Duncan I get the feeling I'm playing the role of the parent to the embarrassed and annoyed child. I'll be enjoying a perfectly lovely walk, whistling as I go, looking at the trees and the new buds which are swelling up nicely, watching the progress of all the flowers whose names I haven't learned or can't remember and talking with him as I occasionally do––asking little questions like, "Ooo! There's a stick! Is that a good stick?" or "Wanna go chase a squirrel?" or "This looks like a good spot. Do you need to pee?" those kind of things) and I notice he starts pulling further and further away from me––three feet, four feet––until eventually we're walking almost directly across from one another, the leash stretched as far as it can reach. Sometimes he won't acknowledge I'm even there. When I reach down and scritch behind his ears or pat him affectionately on the rump he'll actually skip right past me, practically ducking under and away from my hand. I smile and think of those days back in junior high when I was young and thought I'd figured it all out even though my mother still drove me to school each morning. She'd pull right up in front of the building and I'd give her a quick peck before I got out of the car. Although I never actually recoiled I was very aware of all the eyes potentially watching and as I climbed those long steps in front of Franklin Junior High I waited for someone, one of the older, cooler kids perhaps, to say something, make some comment, fearful that if they did that would be the end of it, that I'd have to shun my own mother to save my reputation.

I don't mind Duncan's occasional independent streaks. They make me smile and I simply drop the leash and watch as he fumbles about for a bit trying to get his bearing without the familiar pressure of my grip to hold him steady or to pull away from. He may think he's tough on his own, but I know better. Just this morning as I went outside to start my car and wipe away the snow which fell while we slept, I took him out with me. I left him in the front yard to sniff out a good potty spot and pulled the car up close to the building. Duncan was sitting nervously by the breezeway, a look on his face like a child frightened of being left alone. When I climbed out of the car and walked with him back to our door, he jumped all over me, whined and clutched my wrist between his teeth as if to say, "Don't ever do that again! You scared me to death."

I could no more leave him than I could my arm. In fact the arm would probably be easier.

Sunshine Day

I have hated Sundays most of my life. It's never been a day of rest but the day I spend fretting about chores, grocery shopping, laundry, house cleaning, the impending arrival of Monday and the week that looms ahead.

Duncan, however, sees Sunday as the day we get up early and go to the park to throw the ball and chase the little birds that dart through the low bushes. Sunday is the day he's ready to go from the moment he senses a change in my breathing and my eyes creak open. And because I'm a good papa, I don't even turn the tea kettle on before I throw on some jeans and a hoodie and head out the door with him. Sunday is the day when I know Duncan would whistle if he could, a happy tune, like "Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah", or perhaps, "Sunshine Day" by The Brady Bunch. He'd drag me down the sidewalk and across the street, his head up, cheeks full of air and his lips pursed together. Sunday is the finest day of the week to be a Duncan and for awhile, before the list of things to be done starts to accumulate in my head, I get to share in it.

And even if he can't whistle I'm good enough at it for the both of us, and besides, there's always a ball to chase and grass and sunshine to roll in. And quite often, like this morning I throw myself down right next to him and enjoy the morning as every morning should be enjoyed.

Ghost Games

Some days are too good to end, the air too warm, bleeding into the night. We walked this morning, we walked this afternoon, and after a long play with Khan down at The Glen, we ventured to the park and back. But even being home and tired isn't enough so we've found ourselves sitting on the patio, sipping Chamomile tea and breathing in the April air.

Warm weather brings phantoms. From my patio I can hear them playing in the park––echoes of laughter from the darkness––and if I squint I can even see them, thin shadows running back and forth across the fields. Bowles is mostly deserted this time of night with only a few cars crossing every couple of minutes but the voices are continuous, heedless of the hour. Duncan leans through the patio into the sound, his ears rising as the night catches and plays phantom calls. He cocks his head when he sees them, stick shapes chasing back and forth between the trees on the wide expanse of grass we walk every day. We listen and watch, and sometimes we can see a flash of green––although sometimes it is red, dull and not very bright, little more than a dim slice of movement––or even bright yellow. The voices rise up and the shadows run again, the sound of their quick steps an imagined stampede we almost think we can feel trembling the earth at our feet. They always make me smile and I wonder, if I came from another time, what would I think of the glow-in-the-dark Ultimate Frisbee game that has taken over the park, the nearly formless shapes of the players, ghosts under the orange street lamps, crossing back and forth calling out to one another, laughing as they move? I remember days that don't seem all that long ago when late still seemed early, when my night started as the nights of most people wound down. Duncan watches the glowing disc and wants to chase it, grip it in his jaws and carry it away, his head and tail high. I merely want to remember what it was like to run and play without thought.

Spring is the time when the world––our half of it, at least––comes back to life. But every Spring I find myself remembering Springs of old when I didn't feel quite so tired or my obligations seemed nearly as heavy. It would be nice to forget tomorrow and run across the street and join those shadows in play, if only to remind myself that I am not a shadow but still very much muscle and bone and breath.
April is a good time to play. I think we'll do that tomorrow.

Walk with Everything

It's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see.
(Henry David Thoreau)

I let Duncan lead the way again today––this glorious, bright and beautiful April day––and he walked me down Pierce, past Columbine to Polk, where we've walked before, but not since the heat of Summer had just passed and Autumn was on its way. We'd bypassed the trail there and walked through the neighborhood instead, where we could smell grilling burgers and hear the sounds of families sitting down to dinner or TV, or both, and came out just south of Clement Park, near the lake and the hillside prairie dog town. Today, however, Duncan pulled me up the trail through the Lilley Gulch greenbelt, which follows the path of a narrow creek, not full but babbling and trickling over rocks, wending its way through tall yellow and red reeds, under small bridges, and between grand willow trees, their long vines hanging low, swaying softly and just beginning to bud. The sun was in my face and my sunglasses kept slipping down my nose so I closed my eyes and did that thing I sometimes do when I pretend I'm blind just to see how well Duncan will guide me.

Our discovery of the park had seemed rich enough but blind it was like the whole world opened before me. The sun was still bright and warm on my face and even with my eyes closed I could "see" a yellow glow before me. The calls of the birds magnified, as did their rustling in the tall grass along the creek, their hops and skips along the wet rocks and downed branches lining its shallow bank. I wish I knew birds better so I could share, give them their proper names so that even in print their voices could be heard. There were flitting, nervous little kilddeer, though, and sparrows, robins, doves, poetic and cautious, woodpeckers drumming the trunks of trees. There were so many birds, so many sounds that the symphony of them brought a smile to my face, something that could not be contained and burst from me as a sudden and surprising laugh that seemed unnatural for a moment and heard by anyone else would've labeled me as crazy, but even it was beautiful and harmonized almost perfectly with the chorus around me. The creek didn't mind, nor did the birds, and the squirrel, who lounging on a low branch in a tree, draped and lazy, unmoving, only yawned and continued his meditation. It was joy, simple and fine, sudden and perfect.

I was recently asked how I'm able to take something as mundane as walking a dog and turn it into adventure and discovery, even on those walks when nothing happens. "It must be your words," I was told. "You're a story-teller; it's something you've learned to do." The secret is not the story or the language, the secret is nothing. Nothing is what I strive for, the whole point of the walk. Being empty means you can only be filled. It's the something that leads you astray, that distracts and bends your spirit away from the poetry of exploration and discovery. Walk with nothing and you walk with everything.

That is the wisdom of dogs. That is why they are our best friends. They have many lessons to teach and we have much to learn.

The Day's Gold

It was a gray day, gray and cloud-heavy, cold and wet. A September day, only it's April and that means that the grass is slowly turning green and the days are growing longer. It means that the trees are beginning to bud and very soon my view of the mountains will be obscured behind all the leaves in Clement.

It was cold until just before sunset when suddenly the clouds pulled back from the west and sped away east, trapping the sun between their dissipating bodies and the mountains, creating my favorite kind of light, an intense focused gold that outlines the trees, their branches and boughs, the grass just beginning to stand up and the droplets of water that had collected on the surface of each blade. Walking in light like that is one of my favorite things, especially with Duncan, who basks in his pleasure like no creature I know. It did not matter what the day had been only what it had become, what it was at that moment. While I watched him he sat down on the sidewalk and turned his head into the sun. There was no hurry to get across the street and into the park. He was content where he was and his love of the light and warmth took precedence over the rest of it. So we sat, side by side, my arm over his shoulder, squinting into the last of the day's blue and all of the day's gold.

God, he is beautiful. Inside and out.

Grief in the Warming of the Year

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

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

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

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

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

Better

This morning was not our typical morning. Duncan had crawled under the bed last night, rather than claim our part of it for himself as he usually does, but when I awoke this morning, Ken had been pushed almost completely off, his poor legs draped over the side, and Duncan was asleep between the two of us. I got up and took my shower, and usually, by the time I've dressed and started my breakfast, Duncan ambles down the hall for his morning walk. He didn't do that and when I went to investigate he was standing in the hall, his head hanging as low as his leg was lifted high, a single, very powerful arch of urine burning the wall and the carpet. I raised my voice and when he didn't respond I grabbed a towel and tossed it under him. I couldn't very well get mad since this is not typical behavior and he's been sick, so I led him outside where we walked aimlessly for nearly twenty minutes without finding a spot to tend to the rest of his business, which is also unusual.

I came home from work in the early afternoon to check on him––one of the few benefits of my miserable job being that I work only seven minutes away from home––and although he was in greater spirits and a bit more animated he still had not had a good squat. We cuddled for a bit on the bed where he keeps guard all day, watching the cars come and go in the parking lot from the big window and I went back to work.

The dog I came home to after work, however, was completely different. He ran down the hall toward me, his head high, his tail wagging and we wrestled on the floor with typical abandon. He was anxious to get out for a walk so I leashed him and headed down Bowles toward the library. It was a cold, silver day, miserable and windy with just a bite of snow in the air. Funny how only three weeks ago the high 40's seemed like Nirvana but now it's painful and just plain ridiculous. The gulls had returned to the lake and all the light boxes atop the lamp posts were full of happy, barking couples, their white heads and yellow beaks peeking down at us. We cut through the park behind the library and skirted the edge of the lake where the ducks had paired up in the reeds along the shore. The colorful mallards, with their heads more purple than green, stood watch over their females, who were low to the ground, probably resting on their clutch of eggs. In a few weeks, just as the trees are budding up nicely and the grass has greened all the way up, the shores will be teeming with fuzzy, awkward ducklings following after their parents and careening off of each other like bumper cars.

Up around the bend in the trail, not far from Hopps Bar and Grill we spotted the first of three rabbits, all of whom seemed quite startled to see Duncan. Word must've spread like wildfire that he was incapacitated for each seemed surprised, then kind of casual about his presence, as though thinking it was safe to play cool since he obviously wouldn't be chasing them, but then quickly startled when they discovered he was fully functionable.

We made our way down to Hero's where Chelsea, who'd heard Duncan was miserable with the Jonah Blues, was quite startled to discover a very exuberant and perky-eared dog. It earned him a treat, a scratch behind the ears and a long walk back home where we rolled in the grass and, as sad as it sounds, I was finally rewarded with that nice, healthy squat I'd been waiting for all day. Is it is the little things that matter, after all.

Duncan is fine. Thanks for the good thoughts.