Two Sides

Duncan has become quite the determined hunter since we've started exploring The Run, which is both squirrel and bunny-laden. He even stalks the small gray birds which mind their own business as they hop and chirp among the low growing shrubs. Dunc charges ahead of me, leaping through the bushes, snapping at the birds, rousting the squirrels and scattering the rabbits. He's the rudest alarm clock imaginable.

This morning he sniffed out a squirrel lazing on someone's patio and chased it first up the air-conditioning unit, where the poor thing realized it was completely exposed and vulnerable. As Duncan sprang forward the squirrel leapt over his head, caught itself on the screen door and scampered all the way to the top where it screamed and chittered a litany of curses at us. Duncan couldn't squeeze through the bars on the patio but was content to sit and pace and pant and torment the poor thing until I caught up to him and pulled him back. No sooner had he turned away than he was barking up another tree at four squirrels.
I watched him watch them and was amazed at his attention. It's like I'm not there, like nothing in the world is there, just the tree and the squirrels and the light catching his coat. He is a remarkable creature, so tender and quiet as he cuddles against me in bed, then so fierce and determined moments later when he's outside, oblivious to all but his prey.
I could watch him for hours.

One Wise Choice

There is a desperation to coming home, to getting Duncan on the leash and outside before the day has entirely faded. Although it is not always possible I try awfully hard because it doesn't seem fair to sit in a window all day, looking out on the world and not feeling the sun on your face and the crisp Autumn air in your lungs. So tonight I raced home and ran with him across the street, up the hill where the two trees stand overlooking the lake. We plopped down in the cool grass and rolled around and over each other, tangling the leash between us until I finally took it off and rolled it up into my pocket. When the day seemed settled and the night an inevitability, we found a comfortable silence to sit in, Duncan resting his chin on my knee while I played with curls at his ears and stroked his soft cheek, two of my favorite parts of The Duncan. The night whispered around us and swallowed our reverence.
Racing home to spend a few precious fleeting moments of light with my boy seemed the wisest decision I'd made all day.

The Ugly Side

For two and a half years Duncan and I have made the park our own, running its vast lengths in the hot summer months, appreciating its every nuance in Spring and Autumn--stopping to gaze in wonder upon the blossoms, or reflecting with terrible but sweet nostalgia on the fallen, curling leaves. Even in Winter, my least favorite season, we coast over the snow and blue ice as though gliding over a bright but forgotten moon on the far edge of the galaxy. We know its scents and flavors, the sound of the wind in the elms or the calls of the boys who play late night Frisbee on the baseball fields. We know the way the stars look in June as well as January, the Dipper held firmly in the northern sky or Orion on the hunt days after Christmas. There have been long February nights when snow covers everything and I believe our feet have been the only ones to crack the frozen crust of white.

But there is a dark side to the park which breaks my heart. More times than I could count I have written about the soccer hoards or the children athletes and "their wretched parents." Duncan and I have navigated their gatherings with great difficulty in the Fall and Spring, sometimes staying away for weeks, not returning until they have moved on, their discarded water bottles and fast food wrappers the only reminder that they were there at all.

I do not like sports. I never have. I find them brutal and arrogant and lacking the very sportsmanlike ideals they claim to foster. The public, and especially children, have been duped when it comes to turning athletes into role models, coaches into sages and paradigms of wisdom.

The soccer hoards have left, as have the baseball teams. Now the lights of the park are lit for the kiddie football league, my least favorite of all sports. Tonight we circled the baseball diamonds where they practice and I winced each time I heard a coach scream at his charges. It's not the yelling that bothers me so much; after all, it can be a great motivator, but the language they use, the things they imply. It was a warm and lovely night, but I felt myself hardening up, growing angry and more than once I stopped and listened and considered saying something.

One coach growled at his team as he strode back and forth in front of them. "What the hell was that?" he roared. "You're all prancing around out there like a bunch of pussies. C'mon, you're in the fifth grade! Act like it!"

Another accused his team of being girls and then paraded before them, his wrist falling limp, a distinct and offense sashay in his step, an intolerant lisp in his voice. I got the message.

Another made the boys run laps, calling the one who'd fallen behind a fatso.

And where were the parents? There were none on the perimeter or in the stands. None watching at all. No, they were seated in their running cars, some asleep, some talking on the phone, none involved in the training of their children. It was heart breaking.
So we climbed the hill and sat on the swings at the jungle gym. Duncan rolled in the sawdust below the slide while I tried to block out the sound of the whistles, each one a violent shove, pushing childhood further and further away.

A Crack in the Sky

Now that the hours have changed and there is light waiting to greet us when our eyes slip open in the morning, I rarely get to see the sun come up. As difficult as it was to climb out of bed in the darkness I'd grown accustomed to watching the sky change in the east, easing into my day as smoothly as I eased into my socks. Duncan and I had spent weeks in the soft early pink of morning walking The Run, him chasing squirrels while I marveled at the color of light on the trunks of the aspens. Now the better colors are reserved for those in the evening on the western horizon, jagged and darkened by The Rockies.

Sleep has not been easy coming to me lately, and even harder to hold onto once I've found it. Much of my nights are spent on the couch, watching movies or reading until my eyes grow heavy. But once in bed I toss and turn, cough and try to make room for myself among the dog and three cats who share my space with me.

This morning when it was still dark, Duncan woke me early, standing beside the bed, his nose nearly touching my own, a soft whine in his voice. He does not like to wake me but when he does I know it's time to go, that there is no time to spare. I pulled on my shoes and a jacket--my camera still tucked in the inside pocket--found my knit cap and stumbled downstairs with him. He trotted ahead, the tag on his collar jingling like a Christmas bell in the morning silence, and crossed the parking lot to his grassy spot before I'd even cleared the last landing. But when I did I stopped and caught my breath.

Light had just barely cracked the darkness, splitting the sky in two, one half black and silent, the other red and gold and as violent as a wide burst of lightning. I sat down on the brittle grass with Duncan at my side and watched the night break above us like we were the only two sets of eyes in all of existence. Like this morning was made solely for us.

Comfort at Sunset

Duncan dragged me to the lake tonight, a place we have looked upon but not visited recently. He was on another of his missions it seemed, pulling me behind him, that determined and set look on his face, ignoring the rustling of the leaves in the shrubs where the rabbits crouch, slipping past the trunks of the trees where the squirrels squat and watch the day pass from indigo to blue to gold and back to indigo. We cut across the park and up the hill near the library and down onto the path the leads past the restaurant and Hero's and around the bookstore and the coffee shop to the quiet side where the retirees have built a small community, their front doors and porches facing the shore and the sunrise but never the sunset.
It was quiet out, as though the world was holding its breath, afraid to move 'less the warmth of the day and the season be startled away and replaced with clouds and wind and gray. Dunc sniffed the edges of the path, found a nice tall clump of grass to examine for a few moments and then redoubled his efforts at leading me in the direction of his choosing. Not long into our walk we caught up with a woman pushing a tiny beaming face with a mop of blond curls in a stroller. As we pulled alongside them Dunc slowed his pace and huffed once or twice to catch her attention. She looked at me and smiled, but when her eyes settled on Roo her pace slowed and something in her turned and caught itself.

"Your dog is beautiful," she said. "We have––had one the same color. Her name was Maggie. We had to put her to sleep three weeks ago."

"I'm sorry for your loss," I offered. "Was she with you a long time?"

She smiled and nodded and loosened her grip on the stroller just a bit. "Yes, she was fifteen. Last year when she turned fourteen we threw her a big birthday party and all the family came. And not just the dogs. Everyone. We didn't think she'd make it to fifteen." She looked away and out at the lake, which caught the colors of the sky and somehow made them truer than the originals. "But she did. Fifteen plus three days."

"You're very blessed to have had so much time with her," I said.

Duncan stepped up beside her and brushed her leg as he passed. She smiled and reached down with one hand to stroke his back. Her fingers traced the curls on his shoulders. "He looks so much like her. Same color. Same curls. They could be twins." A flash of embarrassment crossed her face as she withdrew her hand and placed it back on the stroller.

"Would you like to pet him?" I asked. "I think he'd like that very much."

She faltered a moment and then came to a slow and awkward stop. Duncan eased up beside her and without being told sat down. She clicked the lock on the wheel of the stroller and then knelt before him, watching my face for any sign of impatience or weariness. I smiled and nodded.

And then she buried her face in Duncan's chest, ran her fingers over his ears and down his shoulders, entwining them in the long hair on his back. She pulled herself into him and Duncan merely sat and watched, sniffed her hair, breathed softly in her ear. I dropped the leash and let them sit together on the lake path. She hugged him tightly, played with a paw and kissed his cheek, causing his tail to thump once or twice. I was proud of him and not at all shocked by her sudden display of emotion, and yet there was a part of me that felt obligated to say something, to offer some word of consolation. But that was not my part to play. Duncan had led me here for her and for him. My job was to remain silent. So I turned and looked out on the last colors of the day and listened to the gentle splash of the ducks skirting the beach, the silence of the moment, the very soft sighs of the woman grieving her loss.

There is too much noise in this world. Not enough comfort and quiet.

Next time what I'd do is look at
the earth before saying anything. I'd stop
just before going into a house
and be an emperor for a minute
and listen better to the wind
or to the air being still.

When anyone talked to me, whether
blame or praise or just passing time,
I'd watch the face, how the mouth
has to work, and see any strain, any
sign of what lifted the voice.

And for all, I'd know more -- the earth
bracing itself and soaring, the air
finding every leaf and feather over
forest and water, and for every person
the body glowing inside the clothes
like a light.

("Next Time" Mary Oliver)

Sometimes the walks are not for me at all, but the silence I have to offer to the world.

Superior Scribbler

My friend Lori over at Fermented Fur, who I've had the distinct honor of actually meeting and walking with, recently (okay, not so recently) bestowed an award on yours truly for his (on again/off again) efforts at chronicling his adventures (both mis- and otherwise) with his best friend, Duncan. Lori is a gem, a truly gifted writer with a razor sharp wit and a heart of gold and this award means a lot especially since my reports of walks with Duncan have been rather lax as of late. Although I may not have been writing as much as I have in the past, Duncan and I continue to walk and my little "outpost" on the internet (as David calls it) is never far from my mind and heart. Each of my readers, especially those who comment and support us, are like stars in the sky and I feel blessed to have encountered each of you.

I'm supposed to name five blogs who also deserve the award, but wouldn't you know, I just don't want to pick from the list on the right. Despite the rules––and you all know how I feel about rules––all the blogs I list are good and I value each of them for the unique joy they bring to my day. To hell with picking just five. They are all superior scribblers in my book. I encourage each of you to pick three of those blogs, ones you have never visited, stop by and leave them a little note, something kind and happy, and tell them you heard about them from Duncan (and me, of course, even though I am Just the Handler).

To read more about the award (and the rules), please visit here.

Thank you, Lori, and thank you to my readers, who have kept me writing, however infrequently, more often than they could guess. But mostly, a hearty, ear-scritching thanks to Roo, who makes me walk whether I want to or not.

Parliament Serenade

I missed what may very well be the last good day of the year. It was sunny and clear and warm––over 70˚!––and even though my desk at the college is in the darkest, coldest corner, a bleak place without windows or fresh air, Duncan and I were able to enjoy the night. We ventured down The Run, an exercise we've been without since last week's snow and the early darkness. It's become a tricky spot to walk; the steep angle of the north-facing hillside has turned treacherous and slippery under the ice, and too few people are picking up after their pets. Instead we've returned to the park which the high school marching band and soccer hoards have finally abandoned. But tonight, with an orange sherbet sky and warm weather, we trudged through our Run to the Glen.

Duncan was exuberant like I have not seen him in weeks, chasing and romping with two little rabbit-sized pugs he's befriended lately, hunting down stray golf balls (three tonight!) and running back and forth, his body stretched thin and low to the ground, his legs churning and rustling up the leaves, leaving a wake behind him. Occasionally he'd skid to an abrupt halt in a pile of leaves, slide across their brittle backs, kick and fling them up in the air where they'd rain down around his smiling face.

At The Glen I tossed his ball back and forth but the leaves from the aspens have accumulated and the ball was too easily lost among the quilt of their bodies. So we rassled and chased each other up and down the bowl in the earth instead, running rings, jumping back and forth, weaving among the trees. Duncan demanded leaves so I tossed them at his head causing him to rear up and dance among them on his two hind legs before they settled back at his feet.

And then there were the owls. I've laid awake in bed these last few nights trying to sort through all the things in my head, and the owls have been with me, calling to each other outside my window, singing a song only the trees and the night have learned. They roost high in the cottonwoods behind my building, surveying the tall dead grass that borders the golf course, their eyes watchful for the bunnies we chase in the afternoons. Mostly they are invisible, but when I do spy them in the minutes before dawn, their bodies, tall and wide, look like the silhouettes of nests or gnarled knots and were it not for their bobbing horned heads I would miss them entirely.

Tonight there were three of them gathered in the aspens above us. One called down and was answered by its companions. Duncan cantered to a stop and craned his head back to watch them watching us. They continued their conversation, back and forth, back and forth, and even when Roo leaned up against the smallest of the trees they did not fall quiet. I plopped down next to him, buried my sneakers in the leaves, laid back and watched the night come on––orange turning to raspberry then to indigo––and basked in the loveliest of dusk serenades. I could have––and probably should have––spent the night there, Duncan tucked into my side, one paw on my chest, his eyes turned toward the treetops.

Bagged

The poop bags are generally pretty good. They're bright and green and are emblazoned with a happy cartoon of two dogs standing around a steaming pile of their own residue. I've never had a problem with them. The worst that can be said is that sometimes they're a bit tricky to open, especially if it's cold out and you're wearing gloves. But other than that I couldn't ask for a more reliable and easy to use product. They're even biodegradable!

Tonight after an hour at the gym, my body already stiffening up and this one bitch of a muscle screaming at me in my shoulder, Duncan and I walked down to the little enclosed "dog park" at the other end of the complex. It's smaller than The Glen but it's lighted and fenced in and much more user friendly on nights like tonight when all I want is a quick, painless thirty minutes outside with the dog, followed by an extremely hot shower, a beer and a pizza (so much for the hour with my trainer) and a movie on the couch until I pass out.

Duncan took his time sniffing around and prancing about as he is wont to when he knows I can hardly move and will be doing my best Frankenstein's Monster impersonation tomorrow when I walk. First he strolled the perimeter of the yard, sniffing back by the shed where they keep the weed whackers and holiday lights. Then he circled the wiry, little saplings, raising his leg and spritzing each before moving on to the park bench and doing the same to all four of its legs. I stood around, bouncing on my heels and shivering in my jacket as I waitied for him to poop. When he finally did, he chose the furthest and darkest corner, moving off to the side when he'd finished to grin maniacally while watching me shuffle down to him, dodging poop left behind by the dogs of less courteous neighbors.

I reached into my pocket and grabbed one of the several wadded up poop bags I take with me everywhere. I am to poop bags as old ladies are to tissues up the sleeves of their sweaters. I take them with me everywhere. If we're ever out together, you and I, on a hike, or a road trip, shopping at the mall, eating at a restaurant and you find yourself in dire need of a poop bag, I've got you covered. Trust me.

It was dark in that corner of the yard and not even the light from the passing cars was much use. I fetched a treat from my other pocket and slipped it to Roo who took it and ambled off leaving me to clean up after him. A breeze kicked up, stirring the leaves and rattling the twig trunks of the twin saplings. Their shadows swayed back and forth across the crisp, yellowing grass, the moon painting them as pale, bony fingers pointing me in the right direction.

I slid my hand into the bag and reached for the small pile. Since I put him on a raw diet last year, Duncan's poops have been small and hard, shaped like nearly-perfect balls, and never take up very much space in the bag. They're quite manageable, almost cute even, compared to the smoking behemoths I see other dogs leave behind. Still, not noticing the hole in the bottom of the bag and grabbing Duncan's quaint little pile, really digging in and getting it under the nails, was no more pleasant because they're shaped like big peanut M & M's.

It took me a moment. I've grown quite accustomed to the heat, but the moisture and the clearly rendered texture was something new. It was only when I felt them shift and roll down my fingers and into my warm palm that I gasped and ran like a little girl to the nearest garbage can, Duncan chasing after me and batting at my heels like we'd invented a new game.

Sometimes the glamor of my life is almost unbearable.

Softened

My favorite nights are the ones that smell like fabric softener. It seems that no matter how cold the air is on our faces, passing through a cloud of someone's fresh laundry warms us instantly. Tonight everyone must have been tending to the chores they neglected over the long Halloween weekend for the smell of Downey got thicker and heavier the further we got from home. It followed us across the street and lingered faintly on the tree-lined island running down the middle of Bowles. Occasionally the wind wafted it our way as we circled the darkened baseball fields, sloppy with snow melt, silent and haunted. It floated after us as we climbed the hill overlooking the lake, Dunc dragging me behind him. The night was complete and solid by then, and not even the peaks of the mountains glowed with the last of the day's sun. Standing high and looking down on the reflection of the lights of Littleton spread out before us like towns seen at midnight from airplanes, he leaned into the breeze––which did not smell of coffee from the Starbucks or french fries from the restaurants on the far side, but clean and warm, like something carried with us in our pockets. He closed his eyes, prompting me to do the same. Together we stood and breathed. Just breathed. And drifted through the warm scent of home and memory and companionship.

Calling All Angels

Music Playlist at MixPod.com

It was a lonely day. The snow has started to retreat and the sky was blue and warm, but try as I might I couldn't turn the constant drip drip drip of the ice melting off the eaves into anything other than the tick tick tick of an endless day of solitude.

By the time the sun had set and darkness had arrived earlier than I'd been prepared for, after I'd eaten my dinner standing alone in the kitchen, the lights turned down low, Duncan laying at my feet, I felt awfully sad, without anyone to distract me and help my heart feel light. Perhaps its the turning of the season, my first Autumn alone in thirteen years, or the passing of my grandmother, but I felt terrible and watched and listened to my phone not ringing, feeling as though the streets were empty and I was the only one left in all the world. A glass of a wine, a hot shower and an early bedtime did not help.

I laid awake watching the shadows of the barren branches of the linden tree outside my window dance across the ceiling. Pip curled into my shoulder and Olive rested a single paw on my forehead. Duncan was coiled up tight on his pillow, snoring and twitching in his sleep. He whined each time he heard me shift and turn, and finally stretched up, eased toward me in the darkness and felt for my nose with his own.

Sleep was fruitless, so I got up, pulled on a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt and my tennis shoes and took him outside. The moon was bright in the empty sky and because we were alone I didn't bother with his leash. He followed me down the stairs and across the patch of thin ice at the bottom before crossing the parking lot to the patch of grass where he could stretch and tend to business. I watched the stars and began to hum softly to myself, a song I've known for a very long time but had forgotten about until that moment.

Calling all angels
calling all angels
walk me through this one
don't leave me alone
calling all angels
calling all angels
we're cryin' and we're hurtin'
and we're not sure why...
then it's one foot then the other
as you step out onto the road
how much weight? how much weight?
then it's how long? and how far?
and how many times before it's too late?
(Jane Siberry, Calling All Angels)

My iPod was still in my jacket pocket, so I pulled it out, found the song and listened, singing softly as Duncan led me across the muddy grass. The streets were silent and pale in the moonlight and I could hear the drip of water from the trees in the park, from all over my small corner of the Front Range it seemed.

Duncan pulled me through the soupy bog to a deep patch of receding snow and looked at me a long time in that wondrous and understanding gaze of his, and as the song's chorus rose up in my ears, he rolled onto his back, his weight cracking the hard top layer, his stick legs reaching for the sky as he wiggled softly back and forth, never taking his eyes from mine.

Calling all angels
calling all angels
walk me through this one
don't leave me alone

And then, as he stood up and leaned his damp body against my legs, I saw the snow angel he'd created for me, shimmering white and blue in the darkness, his warmth still melting into it. The tears came cold and sweet to my cheeks as he turned and led me back home, up the stairs and back inside where the cats met us at the door.

How is it that with such a miraculous companion I must constantly remind myself that I am never, ever alone, that my angel lives and breathes by my side every day of my blessed life?

Brothers

My bed was strangely empty this morning. Typically three cats curl around me in various positions while one big red dog takes his share out of the center, sometimes horizontally, sometimes diagonally. It can be tricky navigating the shoals of Dreamland and on more than one occasion my companions have heard me complain that just once it would be nice to be able to stretch out.

Last night was such a night. They all followed me to bed but at some point during the night Winnie departed to reclaim her familiar post on the back of the couch. Olive decamped to the bathroom where she curled up in the bathtub (which she has only recently discovered and become enamored of, a bizarre but somehow fitting arrangement for my strange, owl-eyed girl). Duncan quite often leaves the bed to crawl beneath it and spend the night snoring, or to cuddle up with his giant Pooh Bear on the fancy bed roll Ken and I bought for him the day after we first brought him home. I was more than a little surprised at my lack of Pip since he rarely leaves my shoulder, where he rests his cheek against mine all night long. Honestly, waking up alone and unfettered was not quite the glorious, magic-of-the-open-road feeling I'd imagined. My small futon seemed lonely and a bit cold, and suddenly bigger than I thought it could.

A quick inspection of the apartment proved me correct on my assumptions about Winnie and Olive, although Olive was not sleeping in the tub but hovering over the drain batting at it with one wet paw. Pip and Dunc were not hard to find at all and when I did I decided we could postpone our morning walk until their highnesses were good and ready.

Snow Day

It started yesterday morning and hasn't stopped yet.

Having been forced to drive in it twice, I was less than thrilled, but Duncan... well, Duncan could care less. Sure his poor tender feet get packed with ice and his long hair collects dense clumps of snow which require a quick rinse in the tub (which he hates but endures because he loves to be toweled off). For him the snow is pure, effervescent rapture.


This morning's snow is deep and wet and difficult to get through, and rises above his shoulders, and yet it doesn't slow him down. His mouth hangs open and he gulps down enormous quantities of the stuff, breathing it back out in heavy clouds and driving it forward by the force of his joy. He is unstoppable, as a squirrel learned this morning when he plowed through a drift and sent it scampering up someone's screen door to avoid being caught.

And when we're not outside he curls up next to me on the arm of the couch, just as the cats taught him when he was a pup. He sits stoically and watches me and makes sure I notice him looking glum and dour and miserable because we're not outside playing in his snow.

Snow

Duncan has spent many a morning sitting in the window near my desk looking down on the yard and the bunnies who roost in the hedges there. Sometimes Winnie will join him and the two will pass the time together content but silent. Winnie claims not to like Duncan, but every now and then when she thinks I'm not looking I'll catch her nuzzling him, or running her cheek across one of his paws.

I take no great pleasure in the snow myself. I am not a skier, I do not snowshoe and it's been years since I built a snowman. I am one hundred percent Summer and need to be coaxed and prodded to spend any time outside in the snow. Duncan, however, can't get enough of it. We're polar opposites in this regard, so to speak. This morning I caught him staring longingly out the window, but the moment he heard me he turned, leapt up, did his chirping, butt wiggle dance and pleaded with me to take him out.

Being a good papa I did, but I didn't enjoy it as much as he did. And the cold has made me feel older than I did just last night. Spring can't come fast enough.

Not Alone

The morning my grandmother passed away last week I spent some time on the phone speaking with my cousin Cookie, who I have not spoken with in several years. Cook, like the rest of us, is suffering the grief of losing our grandmother, but she is also struggling with the additional nightmare of having recently lost her home (the house my grandfather built) in a fire. She is a brave soul, though, strong and smart, and although it's not immediately apparent how she will manage, I know she will. Her faith alone will carry her through and beyond.

She was grief-stricken, sobbing and frightened and completely exhausted. I wanted nothing more than to race home to Idaho and help her family in any way I could but all I had to offer were my words and my good thoughts carried on the wings of imagined butterflies in her direction. I was still numb from the news my father had delivered only an hour earlier but Cookie was expressing everything she felt that cold Sunday morning.

"I'm so glad you're not alone," she said as she finally began to compose herself. "I'm happy Ken is there for you." We had never discussed my thirteen year relationship with Ken and this was her way of telling me she loved me no matter what, that she understood.

"Oh, Cook, I'm sorry," I told her. "Ken and I separated last February. But don't worry, " I offered after a momentary silence. "I'll be okay."

There was a longer silence and then her grief broke through again. "Then..." she cried, her words coming in big, heaving gulps. "You. Are. Utterly. Alone. There."

I hadn't felt alone until she'd said it and then suddenly there it was, an enormous gulf between me and the rest of the world. There was no one to rush to and throw my arms around, no one who knew my grandmother and could cry with me, no one who understood what a unique and special voice had finally fallen silent.

The rest of the week was extremely difficult, not only because I was grieving but because I came down with the flu and spent much of my time in bed, Duncan and the cats curled around me while I shivered in my sleep. My sister traveled to Fargo to be with my dad, sharing stories and reminiscing, consoling one another. I stayed home and felt sorry for myself, resenting my flu and the anxiety which kept me grounded and unable to travel. And I felt truly, "utterly" lonely, still too numb to cry much, too sick to care.

And then tonight Duncan and I strolled through the park. The soccer kids and their wretched parents were wrapping things up. Duncan had pulled an enormous branch off of the big willow and was happily prancing through the leaves and across the field with it clutched firmly between his jaws. I chased after him and finally settled down next to him while he chewed and gnawed. His face was rapturous, eyes closed as his teeth slid up and down the thick pole, peeling the thin, papery bark away before plunging into the depth of the green and golden wood. He rested one paw on my hand as I laid on my belly next to him. The sun had drifted behind the mountains and while the sky was bluish white the clouds caught the last of its beams and exploded in pink and purple above us.

I don't know how long I slept. It couldn't have been long because Duncan hadn't turned away and his paw was still curled around the back of my hand. The park was nearly empty, though, and the color in the clouds had melted. The sky had darkened just enough that a few stars had begun to peek out. The grass beneath me was warm and even the air had yet to cool. I did not want to lead Duncan back across the street to our small apartment, did not want to stand in the kitchen while I ate alone. I did not want to curl up in my bed tonight with no one there whose arms could fold around me, someone who could kiss the top of my head while I slept. I only wanted to roll over, lay on my back with my good dog's paw resting in mine and watch the stars, remember my grandmother and her laugh, her refusal to smile, the smell of her mint gum.

Duncan rolled toward me, spooned up against me and licked the top of my head. He smiled into my face, that big, hearty warm smile of his. The world may be a lot less friendly without a grandmother there to love, but it is certainly not empty.


I am not alone. And I am very much loved. Thank Dog!

First Snow

It is a hard thing to bundle up and walk in the snow, especially when the memory of sunlight and Summer is still fresh on your arms and cheeks, when the taste of morning dew is still ripe on your tongue. But The Run is a beautiful place, a canopy of amber and red hanging overhead, filtering even the grayest light and turning it gold, catching the snow and making it sing its way through the lingering leaves.

And then there is Duncan––my Duncan––beautiful and eager no matter the weather, thankful for each and every season, reminding me to look beyond my eyes, to feel and rejoice in being alive, to take no moment for granted.

Thank The Universe for the wisdom of dogs and their unbound love of all things, especially us.

While Walking Curt

It's been nearly a week since Duncan and I have strolled through the park. The rain and cold have kept us close to home, playing with other dogs in our vicinity down in The Glen or in the little bowl directly beneath my window. But tonight before I got home Duncan had decided that come hell or high water we'd be visiting the bunnies.

He was perched in my bedroom window when I drove up, his stuffed bunny hanging from his mouth, and although I couldn't see it, I'm sure his tail was wagging, smacking Olive, who likes to stand impossibly close to him at all times, nuzzling her cheek against his. I've watched her take a swish of his tail in the face then turn around and run the length of her back along his belly, heedless of his dancing feet.

By the time I'd climbed the thirty-seven stairs to my door, Duncan had plopped himself in the entryway and had already grabbed his leash, something he has only even done once before. He chirped like a bird, did his happy dance and followed me from room to room while I changed my clothes and grabbed a jacket. He met me at the door, one end of the leash still clutched in his mouth, the other dragging behind waiting to be picked up.

I'd barely done so and opened the door when Duncan pulled me outside and took me for a walk.

A Marked Man

I was late getting home. First I had my boot camp class right after work, then I was forced to stop by the store to grab the pack of Nutter Butters I've been craving all week, and then, because I didn't go yesterday, I had to run to Hero's to pick up food for Duncan. By the time I got home it was dark and Duncan was more than ready to walk.

It was a lovely night, warm and windless. The sky was deep purple, tinged with city-light orange on the horizon but clear and starry deep in its middle where it counts most. The elms, white and stark, and almost completely naked, rose up around the park's perimeter like giant skeletal hands pointing out the lowering Dipper and returning Orion. Far to the north, and just beginning to peek over the western mountains, is the front that brought sleet and snow to southeast Idaho this morning, the same one that will make tomorrow cold and wet. But tonight was perfect and even though my legs were already stiffening up and I desperately needed a shower, I didn't mind an extra long walk with Roo around the baseball diamonds, up to the lake, and then back down to see the bunnies.

Not long into our walk, though, we ran into The Shepherds, who have formed an alliance with every other shepherd and their companion who walk the park. They travel in an enormous pack, sometimes exceeding six or seven dogs, not all shepherds but almost all of whom are big and off leash. So far none of the other dogs have been hostile, but I still feel nervous when our paths cross, especially since it's obvious they've all been told who I am.

The pack split up, but one shepherd and a poodle remained. They trotted up to us and immediately leaned into me when I knelt down to pet them. Duncan sniffed each in turn while both dogs happily licked my face and hands, sniffed my pockets for the organic wild boar treats I keep in there, and doted on me. Roo paced nervously around us, trying to step in, trying to win back my attention, but when that didn't work he did the only thing he could thing of: he raised his leg and pissed all over me.

Not them. Not the cinnamon shepherd who smelled like lavender and wanted nothing more than to press herself against me while her companions watched. Not the black poodle, who kept thrusting her Frisbee into my hand in the vain hope that I would toss it for her to chase after.

No, Duncan stood right next to me and let fly with a hot stream of urine, which zigged up my rib cage to my neck, zagged across my arm and chest, and then dribbled down onto my legs.

Both dogs instantly backed away and Duncan moved right in, rolling into me, pushing his face into my legs and sliding as much of his body against the dry side of me as possible.

He is not mine. We are not each others.

I am his.

Point made.

Tail Held High

Duncan is full of lessons, some more obvious than others.

As the leaves have begun to change, coloring our walks through The Run in ambers and reds, my heart has been breaking for the familiar heat and burn, the scents and noise of summer. Duncan, though, ambles through the shrubs, sniffing out the trunks of the trees while catching burs and thorns in his coat, soaking his face in the morning dew and caking his narrow paws in mud. I slip and slide on the wet grass and shiver in the cold, cursing my lack of a private yard, wishing I could hunker down with a cup of tea for a few more minutes before heading off to work. But Dunc is always happy, squirrel or no squirrel, mud or not. His head may be low, his face drenched, but there's always a very obvious joy about him.



Kind of makes me wish I had a tail. Just to wave it and share with all the world. How wonderful life would be. And perhaps Autumn would be a bit more bearable.

Not Tonight

It has been gray and dreary and the clouds have been low enough that the geese are able to fly unseen through the mist, the heavy beat of their wings the only sound they make as they pass overhead. It has been a week of cold mornings, followed by windy nights which have shaken the buttery leaves from the elms, scattering them across the damp grass. Piss elms, we call them back home, because they are scrawny and spring up like weeds, but also because they are pungent and unpleasant to smell when burned. The Run is littered with them, now nearly naked, their rat-tail boughs and branches lonely against the hollow blue of the September sky. Duncan does not notice as he has been very busy--almost desperate--to tree the squirrels who undulate like sea serpents through the tall grass and the quilting of fallen leaves when he chases them. But I notice, first in the mornings when the crisp air drives the sleep from my eyes and then again in the evenings when the early darkness and smell of warm fireplaces makes me remember all my Autumns past.

Tonight, coming home to a dark apartment, cold because I refuse to turn the heat on, Duncan and Olive met me at the door, sitting as though they'd been there for an hour, shifting restlessly from one hip to the other, glancing at each other as though to say, "It won't be long now" and "Soon." Olive entwined herself around my ankles and Duncan grasped the cuff of my jacket in his warm mouth and the two of them led me to the bedroom where I kicked off my shoes and laid back on the pillows, still warm from where Winnie and Pip had nestled all afternoon. Duncan curled beside me, resting his chin on my shoulder so he could watch my eyes. Olive climbed onto my chest where she touched her forehead to my face, dipping her nose against my lips, purring softly and kneading my chest.

They know how hard Autumn is for me, especially this year. And as we cuddled on the bed, the light yellowing behind the low snow clouds already spilling down the foothills, they both seemed to tell me that tonight was mine, that tonight the wind could tap against the windows and the snow could fall, but they would keep me warm, and their gentleness would soothe these autumn pangs.

Balls

I could have been killed--or at least seriously wounded--while my best friend pranced around gaily, his tail wagging as I floundered in the tall grass, my last breath spent calling for help.

The Run, that narrow strip of land at the back side of our apartment complex which borders the golf course, is not all frolicking dragonflies and dew-sprinkled purple flowers. The morning and evening sun is faint but sweet and the silence is welcome as I trudge along behind Duncan as he snorts through the thick hedges, chasing squirrels up trees and batting at the honey bees who hover over the wild daisies. It's a beautiful little spot which ends at The Glen, where we toss a tennis ball or lay on the hillside watching the clouds drift lazily by above the aspens, but it's more wild and dangerous than I'd ever considered.


This afternoon while Duncan danced against the side of an elm in search of a squirrel who'd only narrowly escaped his clumsy bounding, I stood off by myself, a leash in one hand, a doggy bag in the other, softly singing Nat King Cole's "Nature Boy" and watching the sun sprinkle across the whispy grass and knotted tree trunks. Just when I'd reached that part of the song about the boy being "a little shy and sad of eye but very wise," I heard a strange popping noise in the tree above my head, sharp and fast like a brisk knock at a door. I looked up, momentarily dazzled by speckles of sunlight through the thinning elm leaves and saw the source of the disruption.

I stepped aside as a golf ball ricocheted through the branches and landed heavily against a rolling root, bouncing once before pitching through the grass where it struck the toe of my shoe and finally came to a stop. Duncan immediately lost interest in the squirrel and scooped up the ball in his mouth. It was not the first he's claimed on our walks through The Run--I have a drawer full of the things despite the fact that I don't let him play with them. I reached for him but he danced away and I chased after, finally pulling the sloppy wet thing from his mouth and tucking it into my pocket.

A moment later a second ball crashed through the trees, this one landing directly where I'd been standing only moments before. Duncan lunged for it, but I'd leashed him and pulled him quickly away. As we jogged back home, a dragonfly hovering just over my shoulder, I thought of all the balls we've recovered over the summer, the ones we've stumbled upon without giving the slightest thought as to where they came from, as though garden gnomes dropped them in the wee hours of the morning with the hope that we'd find them. Or the mornings I've sat at my desk nursing a cup of tea while Bob Dylan, Neko Case or The Old Crow Medicine Show played on the stereo, the cats sprawled at my feet in the sunshine, our heavy and well-earned peace rudely broken by the sudden thump of something striking the building not far from my window, a loud thumps that scatters the cats and shakes my art, makes my hand tremble around my mug while Roo whines and peeks meekly out the window.

I thought Gil and The Shepherds were the most we had to contend with. Nope, now we have to worry about golf balls. Killer golf balls raining from the sky.

Happy Birthday, Dunc!

"We are always the same age inside." (Gertrude Stein)

It was Duncan's birthday today so we stopped by Hero's and picked up a new rope toy and a Bully Stick, which is now gone, along with the oatmeal cupcake Chelsea slipped him. After that it was a walk around the lake in the sunshine, a quick, mad rush at a flock of ducks resting on the shore and dinner at home. I made him the same "cake" as last year, although I swapped the raw chicken for rabbit, and topped it with rice, fresh blueberries and drizzles of chocolate. He could hardly contain himself and even let me put a new homemade hat on while he licked the remainder from his nose and cheeks.

Happy birthday, Duncan. Papa loves you with all his heart!