On the Radio

Recently Chelsea, friend and owner of Hero's Pets–– was a guest on the internet radio program Awakening Denver. She spoke for an hour about natural, healthy pet products and had a lot of interesting things to say about the pet food industry as well as general pet care and nutrition.

You can listen to the entire interview either from Hero's home page or here. Simply look under Past Shows for the April 22nd show titled "Natural Pet Products--Doggone Good." There's even a shout-out to Duncan, myself and the blog somewhere in there. It's a great program and Chelsea did quite well. Not only that but you can learn a heck of a lot about what's good for your animal companion and what isn't. Let me know what you think, and if you have time, drop Chelsea a note at herospets@gmail.com.

A Single Moment

It was not the whistle of the robin, big and fat, round like some sort of exotic brown-skinned fruit hanging in the tree, or the glad faces of the ever-overlooked dandelions, mangy but decadent and unapolgetic in their brilliance, peeking out from the fraying blanket of snow which fell this morning and then seeped away this afternoon under a warmer but gray sky. It was not the pink ribbon, tied as it was to one of the large goal posts on the soccer field, flapping in the cold breeze, dancing and struggling first one way, then the other against the bonds of its own folded tail.

It was the girl, curled up as she was not far from the big willow where we often spend Sunday mornings sitting. We heard her before we saw her, perched on the cement wall where the small, sometimes invisible stream passes under the parking lot. The willow has not yet begun to sprout leaves along its tendrils, but she was nearly invisible behind its sweeping arms. She was young, probably no more than fifteen, and her blond hair was a mop pulled back behind her head, a few stray locks brushing loose against her cheek, tickling the bone-white nape of her neck. Her black pee coat was pulled tight around her gangly body, its collar turned up, her knees tucked up near her chest.

She was singing uninhibitedly in a buttery, coffee alto, a tune so soft and light not even the breeze could carry it very far. Duncan paused in his walk and leaned toward where she sat, his ears cocked high, his head turned softly into the melody. I knelt down next to him and watched him listen to her, captivated by the music both of them made, serenaded on this cold Spring afternoon by the stranger whose song my dog fell in love with.



*Image courtesy of Yahoo Images

Lullabies and Magic

It was a wet night, with solid sheets of rain painting the sidewalks in shades of Van Gogh, colors blending together and bleeding the way they do under pounding wet. Even Duncan did not want to spend much time dallying under the tall lamp post where the water glowed in bone-white sheets around us. But loving the smell of April rain we stood on the patio and watched it come down, battering the puddles which collected in the parking lot thirty-seven steps below, the ghostly sheen of the street light shimmering like a brilliant eye just below the inch-deep surface.


We went to bed--Duncan curled on the pillow next to me, his Bully resting just beyond his nose and under one curled paw where he can be sure of its presence even as he sleeps-- with a lullaby of pattering drops whispering us to sleep. At some point Winnie, Pip and Olive joined us in their usual spots, Pip tucking his cold, pink nose into my shoulder and purring in time to the rain.

We awoke to a new, old world this morning and as terrible as I knew it would make the traffic, I also knew Duncan would be overjoyed. He hadn't believed me last week when I explained that the snow was most likely our last of the season. He always seems to know more than I do and listens to me patiently in that cocked eyebrow way of his before deciding that my two legs and short nose somehow impair my senses. It doesn't matter, though, because he holds no grudges. He was curled on his pillow next to Pooh Bear and seemed reluctant to rouse until I pulled the blinds open and showed him the snow which had fallen steadily all night, gathering in an ice cream blanket around the tall pines where he likes to roll. Once he saw it his eyes lit up and he hardly paused to stretch before ambling down the hall to the door where I had his leash and my boots waiting for us.


The true joy of having a dog as a companion is the wonder they bring to every morning, making them as magical as Christmas.

Things Remembered

There are a plethora of things I struggle to remember, such as the four constantly changing user-names and passwords assigned to me at work, or the combination of the safe, or even my own phone number, but Duncan, my genius dog, remembers each and every place he's every spotted a rabbit, chased a squirrel or found a tennis ball.

Our walks--through the park, down Leawood, or even around the lake--have become an exercise in memory as Duncan forces me to wait while he inspects the hedges in the yard in front of the apartment, or the lumpy lawn just off the patio behind Hopps Bar and Grill. There are easily ten different spots at the edge of the lake in front of the retirement community which demand his attention, and the entirety of the square cinder block management office at the park where the rabbits have set up a home base of sorts. First we sneak down on them from the side of Rebel Hill, yellowed and crumbling with slowly drying mud. Then we pace the edge of the chain-link fence where they roost on the safe side, their backs turned to us in feigned indifference, an act which drives Roo crazy, eliciting whines and pants and the occasional leap forward, all which cause them to rocket under a nearby shed or parked golf cart. Once the herd has been scattered he pulls me around the side and front of the building, sometimes right up to the office door where rabbits been known to crouch in the bushes like breathing rocks. I have lost track of the number of yards in Leawood where Duncan has hunted, but our constant exploration of those places has earned us familiar waves from the home-owners, many of whom remember his name. "Hello, Duncan," they call, holding their hands out for his inspection. "I haven't seen any rabbits today, but come back tomorrow!" they encourage him, running their fingers through the long curls on his back and patting his hind end as he moves on to the next hedge row. He pauses at countless trees in search of a squirrel he once chased up its trunk and scours the edge of the baseball diamonds for the balls which sometimes roll away and are forgotten. Once, a few months ago he pulled me along the fence where he'd once sniffed out the brightest green tennis ball in his collection only to find a discarded athletic cup lurking under the dead leaves. There is very little that escapes his attention and even less that slips out of his head.

Except for one thing. While I still struggle with my address he has difficulty remembering we live on the third floor. He's content to climb one flight of stairs and head to the first apartment on his left. It takes a great deal of coaching to convince him he has one more set of stairs to go and it's never accomplished without a disapproving, furrowed brow sort of side glance and a deep, heavy sigh before he follows after me.

It's been a month, and most walks around the complex inevitably take us past our old apartment, which has been painted, carpeted, refurbished and finally looks ready for new tenants. I try to pass by without reflecting too hard on the changes we've been through as of late but Duncan, Finder of Rabbits, Squirrels and Balls, always leads us up the walk, down the breezeway and to our old front door, where he pauses as though waiting for me to remove his leash and guide him inside.


He never forgets.

Decade

Ten years ago tonight I was sitting in my dining room with Ken and April, Nikki and Ashley, our two Golden Retrievers, curled at our feet under our big oak table, while Winnie and Pip cuddled on the soft downy top of their tall kitty condo, half dreaming, half awake at the sounds of our laughter mixed with talk of the plans we were making. Our bags were packed and sitting near the door, two Frontier Airline tickets resting atop them. We'd eaten dinner and were discussing the early morning drive to Midway, the things April needed to do to tend to the animals, my anxiety over the entire trip. There had even been a great amount of talk about the shootings at Columbine High School in Littleton which had taken place earlier that day. At some point I stepped outside to let The Girls out, stood in the newly greening and damp grass in our backyard and smoked a cigarette while watching the stars move slowly across the sky. I could hear the soundtrack to Evita playing from inside while Ken and April did the dishes, the gentle chink of the tags on The Girls collars as they sniffed out the yard. I remember feeling like my life was on the cusp of a dramatic change and not liking it one bit. I have never been good at such things and despite my dislike for my job at CDW and the monotony of life in quiet, remote Round Lake Beach, there was comfort in its predictability, safety in routine.


Duncan and I walked the park today and only barely managed to safely navigate the flood of news vans and media which had gathered to mark the 10th anniversary of the shootings which took place at the high school across the street. It was not a pleasant walk, surrounded by sad faces and heavy hearts huddled together under the same blue sky that rose overhead ten years ago. Duncan was anxious and we didn't actually find peace in our walk until much later, when I took him out after dinner under a clear, darkened sky, the stars shining down as a warm April breeze carried the scent of the lake to us. It was the same sky I saw all those years ago in Illinois with the same constellations, only very little of that life remains. April has married and had children and we are no longer in contact, despite an immaculate and untouchable friendship. Nikki and Ashley have crossed the Rainbow Bridge and Winnie and Pip, while still full of vim and vigor, are nearly thirteen and spend far more time napping in the sunlit windows than they do chasing each other. Even Ken, who I always counted on as my constant, the one person who would always stand at my side, isn't here. I don't even own the same clothes I packed and carried across the country. It's all I can do to remember this new address.

But at least I have Duncan and our walks and the stars. On nights like tonight, when my heart feels like it's breaking, there is tremendous comfort to be found in those simple things.

While Watching the World

It has been a cold and gray weekend, wet and misty in the mornings, like a dream that lasts well beyond the pillow and continues to brush across my eyes even as I sip my morning tea and sit in silence before the windows looking out on my new third-story perspective of the world. The cats, when not cuddling on my chest, love the windows and spend most of their days on the wide sills, their eyes only half open, the very tips of their tails twitching with the darting of the little brown birds which flit from branch to branch in the tree below us. Even Duncan has taken to spending a good deal of his day in the window, watching the patch of green directly beneath us for the soft rock-shaped bodies of the bunnies he's fallen in love with, or the nervous undulations of the squirrels who scurry across the parking lot and play near the safety of the wiry tree trunks. My desk faces north west, across the golf course, over an enormous red barn and toward the mountains, which have been invisible for three days. Even our narrow little patio, crowded by the grill and my bike, offers a southwesterly view of the park and the continuing line of Colorado's Front Range, where I can sit and watch the cranes circling overhead, their spindly legs dragging behind, carried aloft by their wide and enormous wings. With all this space around us and these tall, nearly room-wide windows, there is no way to help but look.


Still, I prefer to spend my time on the ground, where I can see things close up, where I can pause and run my fingers along the leather-colored skin of a leaf which made it through the winter intact and beautiful. I love to be able to pause and trace the thick, ridged bark of the cottonwoods with my eyes, imagining the ant highways and cities which will appear on them in only a few weeks. On days like today, when the streets are painted in fine water, reflecting the light and echoing the swish of the cars which move over them like some bright but vague jazz painting, I like the feel of the mist kicked up by the spinning tires. Duncan has taught me to pause at those moments and raise my face into it, eyes closed, and relish the sensation of a million tiny drops barely kissing my cheeks, my forehead and chin.

We walked this morning when there was hardly any traffic, when the sky was low, flirting with the tops of the trees, and then again late in the afternoon, when the mist had lifted but could still be felt with each step we took. It was cold but I could sense, even if I couldn't quite see, the presence of Spring all around, like the water in the air which was collecting in our hair and on my glasses, flavoring our tongues with each breath. Spring is an elusive thing in this part of the world, slow to come and then gone before you notice it. It teases and tricks, and like a ghost you can never seem to look directly at it, only notice its vague shape and movement from the corner of your eye. But every now and then, when the world thinks you're not paying attention, you can see it, in the still-naked trees with their barely perceptible halos of green at the edge of their branches, in the bushes, which teem with frolicking tiny birds, each singing as though they've only just learned how, only to fall silent and motionless when you pass too close.

Everything is a game to Spring, but I never grow tired of playing and sharing.

Thick Skins

Even as I work to figure out my new place in the world, it seems the world has been doing much the same. The skies have alternated between sunny and warm and overcast and gray, almost white. One day we have snow, the next it's nearly hot. This morning we awoke to a fine dusting of snow, which had fallen on top of a misty midnight rain. As Duncan and I strolled the park, the snow––lighter than pillow feathers––seemed to waft out from beneath our feet as the grass, crusted in a fine layer of ice, rustled like wax paper under the weight of each of our steps. By mid-afternoon the sun toyed with the idea of coming out and the snow melted away. Duncan and I ventured out on the patio where we could watch the low clouds play with the foothills above the park. By sundown, however, the rain and snow were taking turns teasing us and the wind was fiercely cold. We tried to play in The Glen but all either of us really wanted to do was hide. So we came back home to continue unpacking and watching the world do what the world does from our new third story windows.



While I sat in the window and watched a bunny in the yard far below, Duncan sprawled on the couch and outside the trees did what trees do when the snow batters their thick skins.

I Will Walk

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After the washer and drier have been hoisted up three flights of narrow stairs, the couch and armoire and every other heavy piece of furniture I own lugged up after them, after the countless over-packed boxes of books, kitchen gadgets, clothing, desk junk, CDs and DVDs, and every other manner of minutiae clogging my life have been tossed into their respective rooms to be opened and sorted, after all the good, kind people who have squeezed my shoulder, offered hugs, listened while I struggled through this have gone, after Mom and Casey––who traveled all this way to lend their support and muscle, to be here for me when I needed them most, enduring the snow and the cold and the treacherous roads––have climbed into their rented Jeep and driven away, leaving me once again alone in a parking lot watching them turn the corner and slip from view, what do I do?

I stood a long time in the parking lot yesterday, the near-constant drip of melting ice and snow playing like a percussive symphony all around me. I remembered that afternoon in Lake Forest seventeen years ago, after the three of us had driven across the country to deliver me to the college of my choosing. After unpacking my room and meeting my roommate they gave me my hugs, tried their hardest to hide their tears and then climbed into the car and drove away, leaving me to build an entire life from nothing. This time, though, things were different; I had a life of my own, but as I climbed those thirty-seven stairs and came into my apartment, the sun sitting on the downward side of its westerly travels, its light spraying my office and living room in deep gold, I couldn't seem to remember exactly what it was and I didn't know exactly what to do with it.

What do you do when everything you know and love seems so far away, when the objects you've surrounded yourself with seem like empty relics and you can't quite remember what they meant or why? I stood for a long time––an hour maybe––trying to remember who I was and what I was supposed to do, feeling more than seeing the sun sink below the jagged line of the mountains, casting my small corner of the world into cool, blue shadow.

It took a long time, working through the numb and then the anger and sadness, but eventually I remembered. At least one little part of it.

I did what I always do. I walked with my best friend, let him lead me across the street to the park where he entertained me with rolls through the snow, snorting and cavorting as though everything would somehow, in some nearly inconceivable way be alright again. If not now, soon.

And when Duncan and I returned to this new home, I dug through boxes until I found the first piece of this new life puzzle––a Christmas gift from my mother––and I hung it on the wall in the door exactly where it belongs.


And somehow it made things a little better.

Seven

Today Sue at Random Ramblings tagged me to name seven things I love (she thought it would make me feel better and already my heart is a little warmer). Thanks for thinking of me, Sue!

In no particular order, here are seven things I love (not most, just love):

• Obviously I love my family, especially the memories we have shared, from my mother removing her sunglasses and handing me a can of beer in order to retrieve our dog Skeeter from the murky depths of the Blackfoot Reservoir, to Casey singing songs we made up while riding in our camper on weekend getaways when we were young. I love Kevin's laugh and his dislike for mushrooms and chocolate.
• My kids, Winnie, Pip, Olive, and, of course, Duncan.
  
• Idaho in the early summer, when the mountains are still green and the smell of sage and Russian Olive trees rise up all around.
• I love my best friends in the whole world: Ruth, who spends her time super-heroing with me in our off-hours; Kevi, whose stories of food poisoning in foreign locations remind me to never take myself too seriously; David, for being my Jewish mama; Jen, for being able to harmonize to anything, including a fart; and Kelly, my "Good Friend."
  
• My Illinois restaurants, The Hoagie Hut in Highwood, where it's best to order a cheese-steak, bacon hoagie and a medium root beer, and Salutos, where everything is good, especially the salad.
• The magic of words, making my own, as well as those of others, such as Tom Spanbauer, Mary Oliver, Tim Muskat, Phil Simmons, Michael Cunningham, Jonathan Franzen, Michael Chabon, Geoffrey Eugenides and John Irving.
• Ken, with all my heart.

And because seven is simply too small a number I've also thrown in some random loves: peanut sauce, new socks, clean sheets, Orion and Venus, tres leches, butterflies and dragonflies, the music of Patty Griffin, the quiet moment of darkness before the sun rises when all the world is holding its breath, Egg Foo Yung, the Grand Canyon, riding my bike down a hill in the sunshine, a brand new pack of Sharpie markers, how much Duncan loves Brady, writing about, campaigning door to door and voting for Barack Obama, the French Quarter, Devil's Tower, Miss Katie's Diner in Milwaukee, acupuncture, and more things than I could name.

And now to pick seven other blogs to tag. You know the drill: once you've been tagged you have to pass it along to seven others.

Property of Kelly
Fermented Fur
The Midnight Garden
Charlie!
Mackenzie Speaks!
A Red Dog in the Red Rocks
Life is Golden


Thank you, Sue, for including me and making me think of the things I love most. It's easy to forget when life does that thing it occasionally does.

A Conspiracy of Rabbits

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

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

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

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

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

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

Walking Away

Early this morning, before the sky had turned blue and was still playing with pinks and golds, before the soccer and baseball crowds claimed the entirety of the park for themselves, the geese and gulls wandered freely, paddling along the shore of the lake, waddling across the fields still covered by their fading, crumbling tootsie roll droppings. It was nice to see the gulls, to sit on the hillside above the water and watch them hover over the shore, the cuh-reek cuh-reek of their voices echoing off the trees and the backs of the strip malls which line the north shore. Duncan rolled in the loose yellow grass, pleased with the way it clung to him, snorting joyously when it refused to be shaken loose, even after I slid my hand along his back to brush it away. He'd found a nice stick and pranced around, plopping down next to me occasionally before galloping off again.

I watched the geese, their comings and goings, the way they flocked together in tight groups and seemed to follow one another as they plodded through the muddy bank then up the grass and into the dim promise of the slow-to-rise sun. They did not venture far from one another as they waded through the flocks and seeing them was a bit like watching the families which fill the playground each afternoon: Father and Mother drive up, unload the strollers and toys and lead their flock of children to the red, yellow and blue plastic behemoth assembled in a pit of wood chips and sand. And when it's time to go Father and Mother gather them all again and herd them back to the van.

The geese, though, after sticking so closely to the same three or four others, eventually drift apart, losing them amid the crowd, and while they may crane their heads back and forth for a bit, barking for their lost friends, even that seems to grow wearisome. By the time a loose golden lab charged down the hill at them, shattering the flock into pieces and driving them into the air above our heads, I was pretty sure their old acquaintances meant nothing, had been forgotten in the rush of flight. I watched one group veer toward the golf course and another head south, perhaps as far as the reservoir at Chatfield. And I wondered, do they pine for the friendships they made on this morning? Do they even remember?

It all seems so casual, these animal relationships, the meeting and the parting. And as I disassemble the life Ken and I began thirteen years ago, I can't help but wonder if their way isn't easier. For the goose or the gull, or the skulk of foxes who have carved out a den in the field on the southern side of the prairie dog town, there is no dividing of lives, reliving of memories, fond fingering of gifts and cards and mementos. They simply walk away. I am not so fortunate. I have to pack my things and watch as Ken packs his. I have to wonder if at the end of this separation we have agreed to, whether we will ever share another Thanksgiving dinner at the dining room table we picked out together, whether our bed will ever hold the six of us again, Duncan sprawled between us, Winnie on my hip, Pip at my chest, one paw resting on Ken's elbow, Olive roosting like an owl on the pillows above our heads, her eyes wide and yellow. There is no walking away. Not when you're in love and confused and unsure of what the future holds for you.

Duncan and I will always walk, but this time, just this once, I'd give anything to know the destination.

Perhaps

Duncan has not been feeling well. Or rather, Duncan doesn't feel well when in my presence. When Ken is home he's all tail wags, smiling face, lolling tongue and solid poop. I get the opposite more often than not. I'm sure it's stress from the appearance of the boxes and the rearranging and sorting and the general sadness which has overtaken our home, and it makes me want to tell him, "It's okay. We'll be okay. I haven't had solid poop since this all began either." But he doesn't understand so I sit with him, always touching him, running my fingers along the dark curls on his back, slipping under his paws or between his toes, sliding my foot along his ribs, back and forth. I take him out when he needs it and I speak softly.

I have not been sleeping well and because he hasn't either we often find ourself making quick trips outside very late, when the stars are bright and seem to roll across our sky, or early in the morning at that moment when the darkness is on the verge of shattering and dawn trembles with anticipation in the east, when the stars and moon hold their breath and watch as night once again concedes the struggle.

This morning Dunc stood at my side of the bed, his nose almost touching my hand and whined softly into the mattress. I am a very light sleeper and snapped awake, the big brown eyes of my dog almost level with mine. He whined softly again, as though taking care not to disturb Ken––who could sleep through the Apocalypse––and then turned to the door, his signal that we must leave now, that he's waited until the very last possible second to wake me and if we're not outside immediately no one will be happy with the results. I hurried into my slippers, grabbed a jacket and leash and ushered him outside.

The dawn was gray with pink and gold foam on its edges, a thin line of clouds hovering just above the horizon. Duncan and I walked up and down the narrow lane of grass behind our home as he searched for a spot to tend to business, which does not happen when his belly is sick. At times like this he's rarely choosy and barely makes it out the door before squatting and avoiding eye contact with me. But this morning he walked with diligence and led me back and forth across the stretch of lawn, sniffing carefully then wheeling suddenly around to hurry in the opposite direction. Having just come from bed the air was blessedly cool on my face and against my sockless ankles. I blinked the sleep from my eyes and followed him up and down the fence line and the accompanying sluice, which when dry collects pine needles, sticks and twigs, the occasional Starbucks cup and all manner of things. It had recently been blown out but a week of high winds had filled it again. Duncan pulled me west, almost in the direction of our new apartment and The Glen and then, at the moment the sun broke the surface of the horizon and erupted into the world, he turned and led me straight into its fresh light. The clouds hovering just above it filtered the rays into a very tight and concentrated band of intense gold, vivid and so thick I almost felt it lap against my slippers.

And then, without having attended to the task which pulled me from bed, he sat at the edge of the run-off ditch and waited. I stood behind him, called his name and pulled a little on the leash but he refused to look at me, staring, instead, straight down the cement line running along the fence. I looked to see if I could spy a squirrel undulating through the grass or a bunny playing statue under a low shrub, but there was nothing, only a single ball of golden fluff bouncing in the soft breeze toward us. Duncan cocked his head and wagged his tail from side to side as it neared, its edges brilliant in the narrow beam of sun. As it rolled forward Duncan climbed to his feet and took an anxious step toward it as if greeting an old friend, someone he'd prearranged a meeting with. He nosed it softly, lifting it away from the cement and into the grass where it ceased to move, then turned to me with the expression I've seen so many times, as if to say, "Here, I brought this for you. It's important. I want you to have it."

It was two feathers, their soft frayed edges glorious with golden light, wrapped up in each other "head to toe," a sort of yin yang. My breath rushed out of me and I knelt in the grass and pressed my face into Duncan's soft chest which caught my tears and carried them away. He licked my cheek and for the first time in a very long time the morning was beautiful again.

Not Walking, Just Standing

I've spent so much time the last few days unaware of the sun and the brilliant bright mornings which have overtaken us, warming my face and painting Duncan a startling gold by seven A.M.. Duncan has been patient and generous with my spirit, but I wonder if perhaps he has been walking me instead of the other way around. This morning he led me outside and down the yard, turning to look at me over his shoulder as if to make sure of me, to see whether or not I'd noticed the blue of the sky or the softness of the grass beneath our feet, the way its slowly beginning to turn green, despite the inevitability of a heavy March snow. I have been a bad walker, oblivious to the world around us, only the dull scuff of each step along the sidewalk, across the streets and through the park, trapped some place between my head and heart, Roo's leash the only thing grounding me, his soft pull a sort of wandering anchor.

This morning, when the sun seemed garish and harsh, when all I wanted was to climb back in bed and forget the boxes littering my living room and the work that should have begun days ago but hasn't because I'm too tired and too fearful, I longed for sunset and the safety of the stars. I craned my head skyward hoping to spy just one, perhaps low in the west where the sun could not quite reach. And when I didn't find any I felt my thoughts drift over the mountains, across the desert to home, where perhaps one or two still twinkled in the sky above Pocatello. I imagined them, resting just above the hillside across the valley from my mother's house, breaking through the bare trees just outside her big picture window, but even that seemed empty and brought little solace.

I'd never considered what stars do during the day but then I realized they're still there, whole constellations I haven't seen and would never know the names of even if I did. They go no where, it's we who drift and move from one side of the world to the other, and maybe if we're patient, if we wait through the day and spot them early enough in the evening, when they are still sleepy-eyed and groggy, they'll listen to us, hear our voices and offer us the peace our hearts seek.

When I left the school tonight, vowing to take Dunc on a long walk through the park and maybe up the hill to overlook the lake, Venus, the Evening Star, was the first thing I saw, shining almost directly over my home three miles away where Duncan sat waiting for me. The sound of the traffic on Santa Fe Drive faded and for a long moment, not walking, just standing and looking at that bright spot above the mountains, it was just Venus and me. I felt I had to say something to her, maybe remind her who I am and praise her, but the only thing I could think of was a child's rhyme, but somehow that seemed perfect.

Star light, star bright,
the first star I see tonight;
I wish I may
I wish I might
Have the wish I wish tonight.

It was a beautiful walk even if my wish doesn't come true.

Image courtesy of www.nasa.gov

The First Sunday in March

Things which sounded like they'd make me feel better but didn't:

• Sunshine on a beautiful March day
• Listening to that last playlist I made on my iPod
• A jalapeno burger from Carl's Jr.
• Laying on my back on the hillside in The Glen watching the few thin clouds pass over the bare uppermost branches of the Aspen trees.
• Phone calls
• A bottle of wine
• Laying in bed for a few hours not doing the laundry, not taking a shower, not finishing the carpet cleaning which I started yesterday morning before everything changed.
• Seeing the park and baseball fields fill up with crowds of people running and playing in the sun.
• Chasing bunnies with Duncan
• A box of Wheat Thins and the really good bad dip from the King Soopers Deli
  
• The movie Singing in the Rain
• Driving with the windows down and my arm hanging out while the song "Against All Odds" played on the radio.
• A visit to Hero's
• Smoking on the patio and watching the thin thread of a spiderweb elongate and shine gold in the afternoon light
• A very long nap, followed by a second one
• A glass of wine in the afternoon
• "Robot Chicken"
• The Winnie the Pooh story which contains the passage, "And then he gave a very long sigh and said, 'I wish Pooh were here. It's so much more friendly with two.'"

The Thing Which Was Unexpected and Brought Sunshine to My Heart:

• Duncan curling himself around me, laying a paw across my chest, licking my cheeks clean and then resting his head quite near my chin, where we both slept, dreaming of other places and other things.

Grapes and Raisins

I'm sure most of you know how deadly grapes and raisins can be to your animal companion, but just in case I wanted to remind you again. Not only should you not feed your dog either of these things but you should be ever vigilant and mindful of any products you keep in your home which may contain them. Most of us are very attentive to our pets but accidents happen to the best of us, as I can attest after the nearly fatal Great Yarn Crisis of 2006.

Recently my friend Traci, a former professional dog walker and devoted companion to two Beagles, Murphy and Chloe, suffered a scare when Murphy got into a bag of raisin bread. Luckily Traci was home when it happened and was able to quickly induce vomiting, which probably saved Murphy's life. She rushed him to the ER, where he was given two charcoal treatments and had fluids administered. Traci made eight different trips to the vet in three days and had to learn to give poor Murphy subcutaneous injections after his IV was removed. Needless to say it was a difficult week for both of them and even though it looks as though Murphy will be fine Traci has been blaming herself for the entire incident. She shouldn't, of course, because none of us can anticipate what our pets will do or try or get into. All we can do is learn from others and make small adjustments in our own homes.

Traci urged me to remind everyone that danger lurks in the most unlikely places (raisin bread is a double whammy because of the raisins and the sugars, which can cause pancreatitis) and adamantly insists, "The earlier treatment begins the greater the chances are for a complete recovery. Don't wait for symptoms to begin. It can take 48 to 72 hours for the kidneys to show signs of toxicity. By that time, it may be too late." Make sure you know where to locate the closest animal ER in your area and keep your vet's contact information where it will be handy (mine is programmed into both my cell phone and land line).

If you have any questions about what not to feed the dogs in your life a simple internet search will turn up a wealth of information, or you can click here for a quick list of things to avoid giving your animal friends.

A Walk with Grandma

It was warm today with a donut sky, a big swath of blue ringed by a wide band of clouds which seemed content to swirl around us without ever quite swallowing our patch of sunshine. It was windy, however. A cold wind, the kind that left the fetal folds of my ears feeling bruised and as heavy as stone while the tender pink insides stung and throbbed as though they'd been filled with sand or angry bees. It was a grimacing wind, forcing a pained and rabid smile across my face and my teeth still ache as though I've bitten straight down into hard vanilla ice cream. Even the bottoms of my feet, which were covered by heavy socks and thick rubber soles, are cold, especially the very tips of my big toes. I wonder, on walks like this, when the wind has stripped and plucked the weakest branches from the trees, scattering them across the brittle yellow grass, how Duncan can love it so much, how his tender paws––which feel like soft, stern pillows against my cheeks when we cuddle or wrestle–– can be strong enough to endure the rough cold of the road or the bite of the twigs as they snap beneath him. But there is joy in each step he takes, joy and work, and that's what got me thinking about the hardest walk I've made.

Today would've been my grandmother's eightieth birthday. As Duncan and I trudged across the park, leaning into and cursing the wind even as I said a quiet blessing for the sunshine, which has only recently reappeared on our evening walks, I thought of my last walk with Grandma, which was probably the most important walk we shared. She was an expert at walking and taught me an appreciation for the slow journey and all the unfoldings it can offer our senses. Unlike the rest of my family, I never really enjoyed fishing, unless, of course, I landed one. On most of our family outings Grandma kept me occupied, making the best peanut butter and raspberry sandwiches I've ever had, telling long stories about my mother and uncles, the farm they'd all lived on when the family was young and new, the animals they'd loved and cared for. And we'd walk. While Grandpa was fly-fishing downstream of us, Grandma would lead me down a rutted dirt road, the thick smell of mint rising up as loudly as the horse flies and cicadas which droned insanely from their unseen perches in the trees and undergrowth. It was on those walks she taught me to be vigilant for the deer, which became a sort of trademark of our bond. She taught me to listen and to hum and to tell stories with her.

Her death was a very difficult experience for me but when I was asked to deliver her eulogy I was able to take the lessons she'd taught me and share them with the rest of the family. It was an excruciatingly hot July day so I retreated to my special spot in the mountains south of Pocatello, climbed a hill and settled down under a tall pine on a low rock with a bed of cracked and broken shale spread out around me. With only the sound of the bees and the breeze running down the valley before me, I found the kind of words I think Grandma would've been proud of, words which as hard as they were to speak, brought a silent and tremendous joy to my heart.

It was the last walk which was the most difficult. I hadn't expected to be a pallbearer, and was shocked to see my name included on the list of cousins at the bottom of the program. It was not something I wanted to do and rebelled at the thought. Writing and speaking the eulogy, keeping my composure when all I wanted to do was shout and cry, seemed more than enough for one person to do. I could not imagine carrying her coffin to its spot on the hillside which overlooked the valley where she grew up. I refused and threw what was the last tantrum of my adult life, until my friend Mike called and explained that I should look on it as an honor, to carry her on the last walk we would share. And so I did it, my cousins at my side. We lifted the casket from the car and moved solemnly across the grass to her spot in the shade under a tall tree. I remember each and every step we took and the weight, not just of her dazzling white casket, but of every memory and emotion I carried with me on that hot afternoon, of the faces gathered around watching, the hands clasped tightly together, the heat and perspiration running in a straight line from my collar down my spine.

Duncan entered our lives shortly after my grandmother died and I have been walking nearly every day since, not with the same heaviness of heart, but with the same attention to detail Grandma inspired in me on all those walks all those years ago. And on days like today, when the sun is bright but the wind in our faces is bitter and ornery, when every thought somehow finds its way back to the absence of her, I can take comfort in the details, in humming a little song as I go, in the light dancing through and playing with the wild hair at Duncan's ears and the curls across his back. There is solace and peace in every step we take.

The Feel of the World

I have been sick and not excited about leaving the safe confines of my couch, wrapped in my unzipped sleeping bag, surrounded by a platoon of tissue boxes, a vapor rub jar, glasses and mugs with the residue of licorice tea and orange juice ringing their bottoms. It was a sudden thing, this sinus condition of mine, and although not the worst, bad enough that it knocked me off my feet for three days and has now taken up residence in my chest, where it likes to remind me of its presence with a pounding cough that hurts my ribs and the muscles of my back. Duncan and the cats have been kind and generous, camping out with me, manning their posts at various stations along my body, from my ankles all the way up to the crook made when my chin and chest almost meet.

It was only with some reluctance that Duncan and I ventured out today, our first walk since Sunday night when the sky seemed so beautiful, Orion lazing on his back as he dipped into the west, Venus long since gone and the sky awash with innumerable nameless points of light. The day looked colder than it actually felt, but I was hurried and hacking, still weak and not at all invigorated by Duncan's tug down the path. Still, once we settled into the spot on the edge of the lake where we can watch the ducks and listen to the geese mimic the occasional pounding of my lungs, I felt invigorated at the sight of him turning his face into the breeze, dry and cool, and only slightly French-fry-scented. He closed his eyes and smiled and for those few seconds I remembered what it was like to be well and to love the feel of the world around me.

Rat Dogs & Fluff

I am not a lover of all dogs. Not by a long shot. I try, and every dog gets the benefit of the doubt, but sometimes even I have to draw the line. Take for instance The Shepherds who menaced us in the park last year, or The Hyenas who live right across the hall, an angry looking duo made up of a squat gray Dalmatian with red eyes, bowed fore legs and tall, wide shoulders, and her sister, a white Canaan, dwarfish and vaguely Shepherd-looking. Both growl and froth at the mouth each time they see or hear us coming, which is quite often. They moved in late last Spring and their companion––a man who is eerily friendly one moment and completely indifferent the next––and I have spent much of our walk time avoiding one another. They are the kind of dogs who squeeze their heads through the railings on their patio and begin yowling and foaming at the mere sight of anyone, or climb onto the low window sills to scratch and bark and smear the glass with spittle each time Duncan and I venture out late at night for one last bathroom stop. I've been told they're very friendly, but only after they establish dominance over every other dog they come in contact with. Needless to say, we steer clear.

More often than not, though, the troublemakers are the Rat Dogs and the small fluffy four-legged rugs who sniff and pull and yip excitedly. When we first moved here the complex seemed a big dog haven, with countless Boxers and Labs, a few Mastiffs, innumerable Goldens, even a Saint Bernard and a Great Dane. Now, however, I feel as though we've been invaded by rabid rodents and aggressive living things no bigger than the hairballs coughed up by my cats, toy poodles, Shiz-Zus and Chiuauas, Schnauzers, Pekingese, Maltese and Jack Russell Terriers, all whom strain toward us on their leashes as we pass, barking in the highest of pitches which echo and make a peaceful walk all but impossible. It is rare that a dog doesn't like Duncan and he loves almost every one we pass, but its become apparent that the big dogs, who are content to exchange butt-sniffs and begin the easy business of play are our friends, while The Rats and Fluff are not. They wear their Napoleonic Complexes of their collars and rush at us, jumping and lunging as though defying the laws of the universe which created them, eager to prove they are not just paper weights or dust mops imbued with precious life. They are angry little things and eager to share it and I am tired of watching my big-hearted wonderful dog get nipped at on the cheeks or throat as he attempts to maneuver around their insane and wicked dancing attacks.

Just this morning a woman somehow lost control of of her Dachsund, which chased after us, leapt into Duncan's face and nipped at his cheeks until he backed himself between my legs and hid behind me while I leaned down and scolded the obnoxious little brute. The woman, who was slow to approach us, actually seemed annoyed that I'd used my Grown Up Voice to reprimand her dog and stop him from attacking mine.

Obviously there are nice Rat and Fluff dogs out there, but it's been a very long time since we've encountered one on our walks, which only makes me work harder to remember that dogs are merely extensions of the time and love their human companions put into them.

Another lesson in patience, I guess. For both Dunc and me.

While Walking in Dreams

And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?

And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life? (Mary Oliver)

The grass is golden and tall, reaching nearly to my hip, and in some places where perhaps water has pooled and trickled through shallow channels, it rises even taller, to the middle of my chest, reaching with spindly fingers to the soft place just beneath my arms where it hopes to coax and tickle a smile from my lips. But I am not smiling, not entirely, only the smile of one who walks with his face pointed directly into the sun, squinted and necessary, almost uncomfortable were it not for the joy of the heat kissing my cheeks and lips. The sky is blue, cool and frosty, not Summerish in its delight, but tinted and artificial, distant, something that clings, like dust motes in the thick air of a tightly cluttered space. My hands are flat out at my sides and my passing stirs the long grass around me, the tall blades reach up to brush against the flat warm terrain of my palms, a map of valleys and canyons, wide plains, forgotten winding paths that end subtly, vanishing as the last song on an album fades further and deeper into silence. There is a soft wind, and although the field around me stirs and undulates, rising and falling in wide waves, there is no sound, just the sound of my feet on the earth and my breath in my ears. My pocket is heavy and deep with a few of the things I hold most precious. When I reach into it my fingers are able to discern the names of the things without pulling them free for my eyes to dance across: the sound of a flock of night-flying geese skimming the upper surface of a low cloud beneath which I stand, the silver shimmer of mist caught in low clumps of wet morning grass, the fat round face of a full moon peeking through the clouds on the eastern horizon, the spearmint and perfume scent of my grandmother's purse, a photo of Ken's shadow-dappled face taken on the bank of the river up Boulder Canyon, the color of my mother's yard under the Christmas lights, the rabid laughter of Kevi when she's on a roll and the gentle hmmmm of Ruth when she listens to me talk of fears and sadness, every word written by Mary Oliver, the steps of the kittens when they climb onto my back, turn in a circle and settle down in tight little balls between my shoulder blades. The other pocket is empty so there is plenty of room for the scent of the Linden and Russian Olive trees, the bounce of the road on my bike ride to work, the feeling of Ken's hand in mine, the bubbled laughter and songs of the children I may or may not get to have, shooting stars and the wishes bound to them. When my fingers fumble in all that empty space my pace quickens, the walk becomes a jog and then a crouching run and from somewhere close by I hear a steady rush, movement through the grass, which seems to whisper my location and give me away. I smile and run harder, one hand clutching the pocket, careful to keep the call of the geese safely tucked inside. I stumble but the grass catches me, is cool against my face, a thousand tiny fingers massaging my scalp, the back of my arms, stealing peeks down my collar. The rushing is close, coming faster and I give up crawling and hiding and roll onto my back, the blue of the air obscured by the gold of the grass, and then Duncan has found me, his tongue big and pink, his eyes brown and joyous as they push through the field, dragging the rest of him behind. He sees me, does that little leap of his where his front feet leave the ground for only a moment, as if dancing, and then falls onto my chest, the long red hair at his neck pushing into my face, his scent filling my nostrils, the cold of his nose a chill across my neck into my ear.

And as the dream ends I think, there are many things I want, and may even need, but for now I am content in the love of such a good dog.

Another Evolution

The world feels as though it is slowly greening up around me but having lived in Denver for the past nine and a half years I know better than to trust the weather. We folk on the edge of the Front Range have enjoyed seventy-degree temperatures for the past week, sitting out on the grass in our t-shirts and shorts, taking long lunches outside in the shade of our naked trees, biking to work. It has been a bittersweet heaven and there has been something almost rabid in our enjoyment of it because we know it will not last. A few months from now while the rest of the world is warming up and basking in the delicious golden glow of the sun we will be hunkered down under feet of snow and fierce winds desperately clinging to the memory of our brief January and February springtime.


Duncan and I have walked for hours and hours, across the park, where the shirtless boys have gathered at the skate park, showing off for the girls who snap their gum and twist their hair around their nervous fingers while they watch. Bees and fat hairy flies have suddenly appeared, flying recklessly, sometimes smacking right into us before bouncing away. The little birds practically scream their joy from the barren branches outside my windows, which sit open, wide and cool and fresh, filling my apartment with skittish hope. We have walked down Leawood, examining the dry hard patches which will soon overflow with flowers and clover and lavender and make nice little resting spots for the bunnies Duncan loves so much. Duncan and I are perfect companions for we both crave attention to detail nearly as much as air and water and sleep. We take our time, going slow, stopping to check in with each other and share in our discoveries. The world may be evolving around us, but we are in no hurry to reach a destination. After all, it's the journey that matters most, fair or foul weather.

I'm not sure how much longer we'll be here. Ken and I have decided we need to move to a smaller apartment in an effort to save money and although I hope we don't venture too far from where we live now, I'm not sure my windows will continue to overlook the park and lake we have explored and watched over in the dark months and have grown to love so deeply during the light ones. Duncan––who has spent the past two years memorizing the places where the bunnies roost and the trees where the squirrels squat and scream down at us––may have to coax the secrets from a whole new setting, and although it will be tiring and tedious work I'm sure he's up for the task. I've never known him to shy away from exploration. More often than not it's Dunc who has to guide me through the process. The world evolves and pushes on and as challenging as that can sometimes be I would grow quite bored if it didn't.

For now, though, we'll continue to do what we do, walking every morning and afternoon, taking our time along the low hedges and the the gnarled tree trunks along out path, paying special attention to the fattening moon in the afternoon sky and the dimpled edges where the craters seem to jut out beyond her edges. We will walk and breath in this deep woodsy and red-scented earth and witness the world change and change back again all around us, each step a memento of the journey we've made together and a promise of steps still to come.

"There is a grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally breathed into a few forms or into one another; and that, whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved." (Charles Darwin, The Origin of Species)

A Halo at Thirty-Eight

Some days are better than others, that much is clear. Today––my birthday––was spent, not at a party and certainly not watching The Football Show, but with Duncan, celebrating in the quietest and most simple of ways, enjoying the sunshine both outside and in, alongside the cats, who found patches of light and curled up like golden gumdrops in the window sills, under the table, on pillows. It was not quite the day I'd hoped for, but in its own way it was perfect and complete, with patches of magic scattered throughout. And I was reminded that even on these less memorable days, when it seems the world has somehow forgotten us, or we have forgotten it, when adventure takes a back seat to chores, domesticity and the minutiae of every day life, there are halos if only we remember to look in the right places.

They are everywhere.