Spring Night

It's been a long time since I've really looked at the stars. It doesn't seem all that long ago that most of my walks with Duncan were spent under cold dark skies, Orion rising in the south and prowling across the sky above the park while we plodded through the snow or laid down on the firm crust of ice that covered the hillside above the lower soccer field. Those were such magnificent evenings despite the cold, simply because they were quiet and all the night seemed ours. Now, when Orion has moved on and the Big Dipper is righting itself in the northern sky, Duncan and I are settling in for the evening and cuddling on the couch while we wait for Ken to come home. We make a few trips out for quick bathroom breaks, but we don't stay for long and I can't remember ever stopping to look and listen to the night.

Tonight, because it was our first hot night of the season, I refused to cook and made a nice salad instead, and although we took a quick walk through the park after work, I saved our big stroll until after the sun had set and the Ultimate Frisbee players had gathered in one of the baseball fields to chase their red and blue glowing discs. Except for the grunts and cheers from the twenty or so players, the park was quiet after the traffic died down and it seemed our own again. No runners, no crowds of after-work leaguers vying for time on the diamond, no thugs menacing the skate park. A nice warm breeze drifted over us and even in the dark I could see the snow falling from the Cottonwoods which ring the soccer field. The lower field is my favorite because it is the darkest and the shadows are the deepest and the willows, which stand at the northern end look magnificent under the moonlight, their long, slender, branches swaying in the breeze, their long fingers reaching out to stroke the dancing moths. Duncan and I could lay in the cool, clipped grass and go unnoticed by anyone who happened to be walking at that hour. Last Winter, after the after-school sports teams had moved on and the park emptied out, I felt as though we were its guardians, there alone to enjoy and revel in it, but when Spring returned, with her noisy kiddie soccer teams and their terrible SUV-driving parents, it seemed as though our devotion to it during the long, dark months meant nothing. But tonight, under a clear sky overflowing with stars, the park was ours again, and the sway and rustle of the willow tendrils and the slow arc of the moon and stars above us were reminder enough that the park has not forgotten our devotion and has saved some of her best moments for our eyes alone.

High Spring

Sometimes, even when you aren't aren't expecting one or hardly think you deserve it, the universe hands you the loveliest of afternoons, when the sky is a rich, deep blue without a cloud, the kind you remember from childhood summers, and the air is filled with darting insects which glow golden in the light, like dancing dust, and somehow manage to stay out of your mouth and away from your eyes. Such was today, when the Cottonwoods were suddenly full and the shade they offered was solid and complete, and even though the afternoon was warm and not quite hot, their far-reaching shadows offered unexpected and simple comfort as their seeds, white and fluffy, drifted all around through the air, mingling with the gnats, a June snow storm that drifted across the grass and caught on the edges of the paths like candy-coating. June, not October––resplendent with color and tragedy and dulled by layers of clothing and layers of emotion––is my favorite month. An enormous pelican, gangly as a Great Dane, and pale, floated on the lake, paddling aimlessly across the tranquil water, his head and beady red eyes peering into the green murk for the big fish which jump and slap themselves against the water. We must've watched him for twenty minutes as the joggers and other walkers moved past us, entirely ignorant of his quiet, graceful hunt. In Lilley Gluch, where we have not walked for several weeks, the afternoon seemed to stand still and all the world held its breath as the sun hovered above the mountains, painting the grass and trees and paths a kind of gold that can not be enriched even by memory. The Russian Olives are at their peak so I stopped and plucked big clumps of leaves and blossoms to carry home and keep protected for those months when their scent could not seem further away. Duncan trotted lazily in front of me, lost in his own thoughts and occasionally getting quite far ahead but suddenly realizing it and so stopped and turned and waited for me, the place where his red body meets the air dazzlingly outlined by the sun. The ferns along the path were huge and far more lush than I would've expected out here on the edge of the high prairie. They seemed out of place, a lost tribe who wandered away from Oregon or the California coast and somehow found their way here where they settled and made the most of it. On the path ahead of us a man and his small son were working with their chocolate lab, tossing things that looked like dead ducks into the creek and the tall, stiff reeds that line its shore, where the dog leapt and cavorted and retrieved. Perhaps it was the light or the nostalgia I feel on days like this, but the way they moved seemed so familiar, the turn of the man's head, the swing of his son's arms as he ran after the dog, the shape of their hands; I might've known them a long time ago, maybe not even in this life, but I felt my heart well up at the sight of them, as I would upon seeing an old friend from a distance.

There are few things in this world that are perfect but I will go on record claiming that this afternoon, this glorious day with Duncan plodding ahead of me, his tail wagging at each new discovery of bird or bee, was as perfect as I've ever witnessed.

Taunt 2

There's this rabbit, a cocky little snot of a thing who's started messing with my morning routine, which, you may remember, Duncan and I have been retooling. A few weeks back I realized that Duncan was taking his sweet time tending to business, sniffing and investigating and refusing to deliver the goods because, like an idiot, I was taking him back inside as soon as he finished, which, to a dog who lives for the outdoors, was like being punished for a job well done. Now we don't walk in the morning until after everything is wrapped up. We stand in one place and look awkwardly at each other until it's done, then we walk. It's been a slow process but just when I started to notice some improvements this horrible little hare arrived on the scene and is threatening to undo all my hard work.

Four mornings in a row now, just after Duncan has picked his spot, tamped down the grass to an appropriate degree, shuffled around so that his back is to me and finally assumes the position, our friend, Bad Boy Bunny shoots out from under a shrub, streaks past us, right in front of Duncan, and bounds lazily down the yard, his fluffy tail flitting and waving all the way. Duncan, being the marvelous hunter is, forgets the task at hand and lunges after him pulling me behind. I slam on the brakes, reel in the leash and listen to Dunc wheeze and strain against his collar as our friend skips under a bush and vanishes along a row of lattice. From that point on pooping is out of the question as Duncan drags me along the side of the building in search of the hare, who's probably already at home laughing about it with the wife and kids. At that point I can't do anything but take Duncan back inside and hope he doesn't need to go too badly because it's going to be a long nine hours before I get home and take him back out.

One of these mornings, though, the next time we see our friend, I'm simply going to let go of the leash and see just how funny he thinks it is. Duncan may not be able to poop, but I have a feeling we'll be able to follow a trail of it all the way back to our rogue rabbit's home under the flowers.

His First Film!

Duncan has always been a pretty quick learner. In fact, at his very first obedience class his instructor decided to skip the beginning lessons and move him up to the advanced course. He excelled and we still work on "tricks" all the time. His latest, which we're still perfecting, and doesn't come out as well as I'd hoped in the video, is a response to a question. Sometimes he nails it dead on, sometimes he just barks, and sometimes he just runs through every "trick" he knows. But stay tuned because one of these days you'll hear it very clearly.

*I apologize for the poor video quality. There's only so much my phone can do!

Scent as Journal

But what is a Russian Olive, some of you have asked? I can import pictures and I can tell you about the vivid memories which race through my head each time I breathe their scent, but the true beauty of the tree is not in its shape or its leaves or its color, or the way its bark seems to flake away in long fibrous strands, it can not be truly described by its sharp thorns or even the long, tubular faded yellow flowers that gush forth along its branches in June. Honestly, they are not pretty trees. When mature they look like enormous, unruly clumps of sagebrush. The true miracle of the Russian Olive can be discovered not with your eyes but with your nose. Its fragrance, which––glory and praise to the universe––I was able to enjoy fully today, is the binding on the spell that is cast on me each June. I've described it as sweet and buttery, but that's only in texture. Scents have textures that rise up and fall away from one another like the strange architecture of M.C. Escher, winding in intricate and unexpected lines, twisting back and forth on each other, distorting perspective and reason. The scent of the Russian Olive is just as obvious and elusive, sweet and buttery, like heavy cream with a bit of lemon meringue whipped into it, but there's also a top note of mint that is countered with a very subtle cinnamon bass note, both so caught up in their dance and mingling that neither exists apart from the other, becoming, instead, something wholly unique, neither mint or cinnamon. There is the scent of green, not like grass or earth or wet, but the light and warmth around those things, the yellow that makes them green. There is also something dusty about the perfume, like a room left closed off for too long that has rendered breathing almost impossible. In my part of the world the explosion of its scent is the grand finale of all Spring's work, the crescendo that signals the burning advance of odorless Summer; it is to Spring as the changing of the leaves are to Autumn, just as bright, just as significant and, ultimately, just as heartbreaking. If I could I would send each of you a sprig which you could hold to your face as I'm holding the one I picked this afternoon near the lake on the most splendid of Spring days, and although it would not hold the same significance to you as it does in my life, you would understand its depth and allure, but unlike opening a page of my journal and reading my most private thoughts, you would learn a great deal more about me than simple words can convey.

A Whimper and a Bang*

As predicted the day started off with a whimper, from both the wet, dreary, truly March-like weather pouting around on the other side of my window, and from me when the alarm when off and I was made aware, once again, of my rotten sinuses. I knew it was cold because all three cats and Duncan had resumed their usual positions on the bed, a luxury they forgo during the warmer months when snuggling gets too hot and unbearable. Nights tend to cool off remarkably up here at 5280 feet until the end of June, but we've kept the windows open the last few nights because it's stayed warmer later. Last night, however, it turned cold and even with the windows closed I expected to discover a fine white crust covering everything from poor Ken, whose head barely peeked out from under the comforter, to the carpets. Duncan groaned and stayed put until after both Ken and I had showered and decided to put off the morning routine until the very last minute. The apartment stayed dark even after the curtains were drawn, and once they were flung open I thought it a perfect day to stay home again, curl up on the couch and watch a Bette Davis or even a Great Garbo film. But alas, work was calling and although still not fully recovered, I felt well enough to make a go of it.

It stayed gloomy all day and only when I returned home did the rain give up as the sun crept out from behind her gauzy blanket of clouds. Duncan was practically beside himself with joy to see me, grabbing my wrist in his mouth and guiding me around the apartment as if showing it to me for the first time. His tail wagged furiously, rocking his entire southern half from side to side and the bird-chirp had returned to his voice. He waited patiently while I changed clothes, donned a sweatshirt and grabbed a bag of pumpkin treats for our first walk in the park in nearly a week.

Since school ended, the soccer hoards have been absent, which suits me just fine. Only one team was practicing––a nearly grown-up one at that so there were no milling parents clogging the sidewalks, buzzing on their cell phones like annoying little gnats–– and not even the baseball diamonds had filled up with the after-work leagues. With the exception of the teenage couple having sex among the willows (my willows!) we had the park almost entirely to ourselves. It was not a long walk but we were out for quite a while as Duncan had a great deal of catching up to do. He'd been away for six days and apparently all sorts of messages and memos had been posted on every tree trunk, on the sides of all the big rocks, the posts of the fences, several tall clumps of grass and a single tire of the UPS truck which parks in the lot late in the afternoon while its driver catches some shut-eye. I simply stood for most of our walk, watching him sniff and peruse the news, scroll through the gossip section and catch up on all the current events. Normally I don't tolerate too much of this and urge him along but today I simply let him do as he pleased. I do owe him that much for his patience.

It felt good to stretch my legs again, even if I couldn't breath and my head still pounded from the gridlock still stuck in my sinuses. Nothing seems more miserable than a walk when I'm ill, and although I still feel wretched, it was a wonderful way to end the afternoon, with something familiar and relaxing, the sun warm in the cool air, Duncan marching along beside me. And as we were coming back, waiting on the sidewalk to cross Bowles, I think I may have caught a hint of the Russian Olives I've fretted over the past week. It was fleeting and not very strong, but my spine stiffened and I felt my joy receptors sit up, do a little dance and proclaim a loud, "How-dee-doo!" I'm not there yet, but very soon I'll be back. With a bang!

*Actually, there were two bangs if you count the incident in the willows. My willows!

Guardian and Companion

This was the perfect day to (still) be sick at home. The skies were gray and heavy and I think––although it's difficult to say with any certainty since I spent most of the day passed out on the couch, Pip curled up in a bunny-ball on my shoulder, one paw curled up and tucked under my chin––it rained and turned Bowles into a hissing line as the cars passed over it, spraying water onto the sidewalks and the tree-lined island which runs down its six-lane center. It was cool and tomorrow promises to actually be cold before the high heat which will consume us this weekend. I don't think Duncan minded staying in so much but he was still anxious to get down to The Glen where he and Kona wrestled and ran while Melissa and I stood on its grassy slopes and watched. Earlier today Melissa witnessed a black lab––very similar to Kona––getting hit by a car. Luckily several professionals were on the scene, including a PetSmart delivery van, which picked the poor thing up and radioed back to their clinic for a surgery-prep. Melissa was very shaken and it reminded me of a similar scene which Mom and Kevin and I witnessed several years ago when they were in town for a weekend visit. While driving back from dinner we saw a large Boxer get hit, a sight that replayed in my head every time I blinked and which is still quite vivid. I was a little more protective of Duncan this afternoon, a little quick to use my Big Deep Papa Voice (which sounds rather funny now that I'm congested and half hoarse) when he didn't respond to a command. I think I scared Kona, who hunkered down next to me, something she almost never does. Duncan was resistant but I was firm and we eventually reached an agreement. I only use The Voice because I love him and constantly watch out for him. I guess this makes me his Guardian, which made me ponder whether or not I'd voted correctly, but eventually, when we sat down in the long damp grass and he rolled his head against my knee and reached out for me, I remembered that I try to be his friend far more often than I play parent, which is exactly as it should be. I'm happy Companion won. From now on that's the word I'll use instead of "owner."

Thank you all for voting and thank you for the well-wishes. I hope tomorrow is the day we're back to the park even if the weather is cold and wet. We deserve it.

Soon

I did make it out of the house today, briefly this morning with Duncan and only long enough to tend to business and to chase one nesting bunny out from beneath a short, red-leafed shrub, and then later, sadly without Duncan, on a visit to see my doctor, who, I'm convinced, is the most amazing doctor in the entire world. It was a three hour round trip and I came home with a bottle of horse pills to fight off the sinus and ear infections which have taken up residence inside my head (she actually gasped when she peered up my nose and in my ears, but then let me look into her ears with that pointy little instrument minutes later, so it's all good). It was a long day (my fever woke me at 4 AM and I've been awake ever since). I did manage to take Duncan out early this evening, bundled up in a hoodie to keep warm despite the near 90˚ temperature, to throw the ball up and down the yard and to sniff out even more bunnies. He's such a good hunter, crouching down low and moving with very slow and cautious steps, careful not to let his chain rattle, although he's terrible at spotting them. All it takes is a "Duncan, look," from me and he's peering up at the top of a tree, or somewhere in the sky, but never at the rabbit crouched five feet away. I kneel down next to him, grab his head and point it in the right direction and hold him until I feel his body tense, a sure sign that the target has been spotted and locked on. But if I don't do that he'll drag me under cars, over cars, and every possible place a rabbit won't roost. He's quite remarkable this way and sometimes I come home feeling like the Annie Sullivan of the Golden Retriever world. I've spent a lot more time today tossing his ball down the long hallway or from the couch into the dining room so he's not quite as annoyed with me as he has been the last few days, but tonight he stopped and stared a long time at the park while I shivered and imagined I could almost smell my trees wafting up from down by the lake.

"Soon," I tell him. But I'm also telling myself.

Companion

It looks like "Companion" may be the winner of my little poll. "Guardian" held its own for most of the month but I've watched my personal favorite slowly creep up and surpass it the last few days. There could be a sudden change at the last minute (there are, after all, still two hours to vote), but in this day and age anything can happen. Just ask Al Gore.

Oh, the Trees!

It's no fun, this being sick during my favorite time of the year. I can see the Russian Olives--God bless the Russian Olives!––blooming outside and I know the air is slowly being filled by their sweet, buttery fragrance. Their leaves are the softest shade of green, an almost-not-green green, like green erased or bleached by the sun and the blossoms––so tiny––are a dusty yellow and could easily be overlooked if they didn't smell so unbelievably delicious. The Russian Olive is Idaho to me, Idaho at the height of my adolescence, Summer nights spent driving up and down Johnny Creek, skirting the foothills with my windows down breathing in that heavy perfume while listening to Poi Dog Pondering or Summertime as sung by Janis Joplin. I cannot miss the Russian Olives! I don't care if my nose refuses to cooperate. I will make it work! Come hell or high water, Duncan and I will be down by the lake tomorrow night, walking and breathing, caught entirely in the moment even as I'm revisiting years and years of my favorite Russian Olive memories. They are the Scent Track of my life.

View from the Couch

Much of my day was spent on the couch, Pip curled on my chest purring against my cheek, his whiskers tickling my chin. Duncan, still pouting about my health and lack of energy to take him outside, stayed under the table, his back to me most of the day. I did manage to take him for a brief walk around the grassy space between the building and the fence and we shared a soft pink and blue sunset with spectacular clouds, but I had to drag him back inside where he sighed and snorted his disapproval. Luckily he got to chase a bunny and a squirrel, and was rewarded with some nice pumpkin snacks for his effort.The worst part of being sick is not the aches and pains, or the fever on a hot afternoon, or even the sinuses which are packed full, it's not the constant discomfort and tossing at night under the blankets, it's the disappointment in Duncan's eyes. I fight to get better just to make that go away.

Sick

I swear to God, if I'd been born into the animal kingdom I would've been cast out of the den for being too frail and sickly. Once again I've come down with a little something-something, this time one of my infamous sinus problems, which literally started with a swallow last night. One moment I was fine, the next my head had exploded and I was miserable.

Duncan has been quiet all day, sleeping on the couch while I've nested up on the love-seat, my sinuses packed and inflamed, my throat swollen and raw, a fever coming and going and coming again. He's glanced over at me every now and then and then out the window, an act which is usually followed by a long sigh and the rising and falling of his expressive eyebrows. He's not happy with me and would much rather have spent the day outside but sadly, that was not to be.

If someone locates a four-leafed clover, please send it my way.

Little Steps

For all the walking Duncan and I do, places we go together and people we visit, it's the little steps that matter the most, like making the long journey home over the holidays with a little help from some significant friends, Duncan's first swim at Easter, learning to fly a kite, or even the very first day I ventured out and wrote about our walks together. Miles and miles and words and words but despite the mountains we've climbed or paths we've followed, I'm still mindful of the little things, the easily overlooked and all-important details of life, like the ants scurrying across the sidewalk and being careful not to step on them or disturb the amazing little mounds––teeming with all their comings and goings––they erect along the places between sidewalk and grass, entire cities constructed of dust and pebbles, built by blind armies with devotion and hard work. It's the little steps that get us where we're going, one at a time, that make the most difference. For me it was traveling home solo for the first time since getting sick three years ago. Today for Duncan it was standing five feet away from the fountain at the park, big splashes of water slapping the ground around us, some even hitting the bill of my cap or falling on the curling red hair of his back. We sat for quite a long time and I know that soon, some hot, blue afternoon, while the leaguers play ball on the diamonds and the kids skateboard around us, Duncan will take those last little steps into the water and we'll share a moment of joy and triumph, like so many of the others we've shared together.

The Shire

I grew up in a very dusty place, dry and arid in Summer, a place where the true definition of humidity is almost unknown. There is a brief period toward the end of May when the mountains turn a surprising shade of green and tall willows sprung up along the banks of the Portneuf and Snake rivers, but most years it fades quickly in June and turns a bland yellow before burning into brown in July and August. I never thought of my hometown as a beautiful place until I took a job at the front desk of a local hotel and overheard tourists remark upon the stark radiance of the wide deserts and the quiet splendor of our narrow, little valley. It took many years of being away from there before I was able to appreciate all the seasons of my hometown for their subtle grace and austere beauty.

It wasn't until I moved to Chicago that I learned what humidity was really like. In fact, I didn't know my own hair curled naturally until my first full day living on the edge of Lake Michigan in Lake Forest. I marveled at the way sheets stayed damp all day and bath towels refused to dry overnight, or how my envelopes seemed to seal themselves and the way, at night, every street lamp held a halo of orange. In August, as school was starting, the last of the lightening bugs were still rising up among the trees and every year I was there I stood outside long into the night and watched their dance, breathing in the deep, loud scent of the lake.

I was never very happy in the Midwest; life was too quiet, too normal, too peaches and cream, milk-and-cookies-before-bed. I compared it to The Shire in Tolkien's Middle Earth, where the Hobbits were content to remain outside of the rest of the world, proud of their ignorance, basking in their perceived, but naive, safety. I was a man of Gondor, where the mountains rose up tall and dangerous, where life was still wild and spontaneous. But it wasn't until Ken and I settled in Denver that I realized how fully that humidity and the scent of the lake had permeated my being, like some sort of odor burnt into your nose or a stain that can't be washed away. There are still moments just before the rain falls, when the clouds are carving their way down the foothills but before the wind arrives, when I stand outside and close my eyes and imagine I'm on the shore of Lake Michigan, the waves lapping against the beach, the smell of fish and wet the deep washing over me.

This morning was the closest I have come to actually being there in nine years. Almost immediately after waking I leashed Duncan and we stepped out into a thick and fragrant mist which obscured the trees in the park, painting them in a sort of rich and mysterious kind of weather-poetry, turning them into something different while making them even more of what they already are. It took my breath away. The fog was heavy; I could feel it moving across my face and after the cars on Bowles passed by and the morning returned to silence, I thought I could hear it prowling through the grass, bending the blades and driving the ants and gnats ahead of it. While Duncan searched out a good spot under one of the short Junipers, I held very still and took long deep breaths and felt myself pulled back to The Shire, where life is not at all bland, but rich and full of meaning and steeped in memory.

I really must go back. It would be nice to walk Duncan along the beach and play with him in the waves, to chase the lightening bugs at sunset and sit with my friends in silence and appreciate the simplicity and quiet of a thick Midwest night and the glowing halos ringing the lamp posts around us.

Happy Dance

There was a moment this afternoon between heavy, gray doldrums, when one field of rippling clouds had moved to the east and the other was only just beginning to creep over the mountains, smudging the strict dark line between rock and sky with pale fluffy fingers, when the sun came out, bursting into a sky so suddenly blue it caught my breath and tickled the hair on my arms and legs. We had swung past the eastern edge of the lake, climbed the hill behind the amphitheater and had raised a ruckus among the local prairie dog population when the sun slid out, igniting the world in golden light. Duncan pulled me into the grass where the leash was wrenched from my hand as he began rolling madly in the green, the leash coiling around him, under him, entwining among his legs, all splayed in the air at all angles, rising and falling at various times like women in some frenetic synchronized swimming competition, if the women were incredibly thin and worse fuzzy red coats and were hopped up on sunshine and pumpkin treats, that is. I watched a portion of his exuberance up close, through the lens of my camera and caught only a portion of the dance as an occasional splash of red against at lush green background, followed by a grin almost maniacal in its joy.

No one knows how to savor a moment like a dog.

Bad Habits and New Friends

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

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

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

Bad Papa! Bad! Bad! Bad!

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

Green and Gray

The best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain.

(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

It is lush and green and fragrant out, but the sky is low and gray and has spat rain in intervals throughout the day. Duncan and I moped together on the couch, his head resting on my ankles while I alternated between finishing up a book––Thirteen Moons, a perfect gray day read, beautiful and melodious and as lyrical as the patter of raindrops against my windows––and knitting the blanket I foolishly vowed to have completed by the end of Summer. Neither of us could quite wake up or summon the energy to do much beyond eat breakfast and laze about. The rain, from our side of the windows, was a crushing way to end the long weekend, which has been as sweet as strawberry juice and busy, too. Figuring we'd both go insane with longing, we made the most of it and ventured out into the park to play in the mist, dampening our feet and chilling us only slightly. We played despite the wet, rolling in the grass and running, kicking up wakes of water as we passed. Duncan was not content until his ears were soaked and the hair on the tall point of his head stood up in spikes, until blades of grass had collected like a wreath in the chinks of his collar. My jeans were soaked and my hands pink and cold but it didn't matter because we'd found a way to enjoy the afternoon in our own pleasant way, splashing the puddles and smiling into the place where we knew the sun shone even though we could not see his face.

Wish

Finally a beautiful day. Finally a walk in the park without a jacket or keeping a watchful eye on the clouds spilling down from the mountains, turning them white until they're almost gone entirely. Not mountains at all but the memory of them. Finally sunshine and the smell of dew on grass and dandelions and bark. Finally a day when wishing from behind windows paid off, when the breeze was warm and the park was our own again, blessedly silent except for the birds and the softness of their flitterings through the trees, the dancing jingle of Duncan dragging his leash behind him as he chased after his ball.

A million dollars would be nice. A small house with a big yard would be a dream come true. Even having someone to do my chores would seem glorious. But if I had to wish on a dandelion I'd ask for more mornings like this.
Exactly like this.

Roiled Sky

From sunshine to snow to tornadoes, the week in weather has certainly been interesting. Today could not decide quite what it wanted to be. Our first walk of the morning was bright and clear if only a little brisk with a taste of sun still to come. By afternoon the sky has turned ragged, the wind had picked up and because the temperatures dropped I closed all the windows and settled on the couch with a blanket. By evening, though, when we took out last walk, our sunset walk, it had warmed back up and the as the clouds pulled away the sky did amazing tricks for us. We settled on the hillside in The Glen, Duncan and I laying on our backs, the grass cool against my neck and bare feet, watching our small patch of sky roil past. When the fading sun caught the top of the clouds and illuminated them in gold against a pink background of churning vapor, we hurried to the park where we stood on the hillside overlooking the lake and watched the sky change minute to minute. Even Duncan seemed transfixed by the endless shifting and the warm wind that caught in his red ears and tail. It was amazing to see.

Fountain

There is a fountain in the park, not far from the baseball diamonds, a simple thing really, that sends low towers of water, maybe ten or twelve in all, shooting up from the floor of a small, simple cement courtyard. I discovered it last Summer shortly after we moved in, when the nights had begun to cool off and the days were slipping into darkness earlier and earlier. On hot afternoons I watched as barefoot children and dogs danced through the columns of rippling and cascading water, parents and companions gathered around to smile and clap their approval. Duncan has never enjoyed getting wet, going so far as to sidestep even the smallest of puddles on our daily walks. He'd eyed the thing nervously last year but I'd hoped that after his spectacular swimming escapade on Easter that he'd be willing to at least investigate it. Today was the first day the water has been on since August and as we approached it, I noticed he hung back, falling directly behind me, as if to keep me as a barrier against even the smallest of drops or the mist that was carried away by the wind. When I turned and stepped aside to let him see it, he stepped right with me, staying behind me, not even wanting to look at the thing. I faked right then quickly hopped left only to turn and see he hadn't been phased at all and was still shielded from it. After several minutes of coaxing and faking and pulling he grew tired of my antics and grabbed the leash in his jaw and began pulling me away. For once I was the uncooperative one not doing as I should. He pulled and reeled me in exactly as I collect the slack when we near the baby bunnies. He would have none of it and slowly but surely pulled me well out of range and back toward the safety of the grass where, exhausted and relieved, he collapsed and refused to look directly at me.

Raked

Duncan has never been groomed. Not professionally, anyway. He gets regular baths and a fair share of brushing, but recently I've started pricing groomers and browsing Craigslist for someone who could do it inexpensively without having to kennel him. When I mentioned this to Chelsea at Heroes Pets, she suggested I try the Oster Rake. We'd talked brushes once before, but because her store doesn't carry The Furminator I thought she didn't know a brush from a blender and didn't pay much attention to her. But when she opened up a Rake and let me take it home to try it out, I was forced, once again, to admit that when it comes to pets and all that comes with them, Chelsea knows best. The rake was the most amazing brush I've ever used! With only six or seven very light passes over Duncan's back I pulled up more undercoat hair than I would've had I spent an hour using my rinky-dink and suddenly inadequate Furminator. And as if to sweeten the deal, Duncan sat calmly while I brushed him. There was no chasing him around the apartment or sitting and trying to brush him while he attempts to lick my hand. I didn't even have to crack open his treats as a bribe. He merely sat, and at one point even seemed to doze off. Granted, The Rake is a pricey little number ($42.99) but maybe Santa will be nice next year and stick one in Duncan's stocking if he's good and promises to only look at the bunnies. I must have one. And so must you. It is simply the most amazing brush I've ever used. Now if only Oster had something that made giving baths easier!

*This clump is the result of seven trips across his shoulders alone. How many dogs is he hiding in there?