Elliot

I am not a peeping Tom but Duncan is. Sometimes it's all I can do to keep him out of people's windows, nosing around, peeking in at them, riling up their dogs. Seducing their cats.

Today we stumbled upon a big fat tabby sitting on his sill, minding his own business, basking in the early afternoon sunshine, but when he spotted Dunc he looked as though he was going to pounce. I tightened the leash and prepared to pull him back. It wouldn't have been the first time a cat has puffed up, hissed and smacked a window silly at his sudden appearance. It's a nasty sight and on more than one occasion I've seen blinds ripped down as a worried human appears to console the freaked out feline while we amble away apologetic and embarrassed.

But not today. This cat fell for Duncan. Hard. Roo inched up to the window, touched his nose to the glass directly in front of the cat and wagged his tail. The cat leaned in close, batted the glass then proceeded to roll into a ball in the corner, tail flapping happily, knocking the blinds back and forth. Duncan whined, tapped the window with his paw, pulled in for a closer look and began to lick the glass. I stood back and laughed as a car pulled up and a woman got out.

"I see Elliot made another friend," she said as I apologized and tried to scoot Duncan away. "It's okay," she told me. "He loves dogs. Loves!" We both turned and watched Elliot roll and play in the window while Duncan leaned against the glass, tail moving a mile a minute behind him. "He sits there all day. My husband thinks it's so he can watch the birds in the trees but I think it's so he can flirt with the dogs. He's a dog at heart."

On our afternoon walk we stopped by Elliot's window again. The blinds were drawn and the cat was nowhere to be seen but the second Duncan whined the big fur ball leapt up and began the whole routine all over again, mewing through the glass and rubbing it with his cheek. Duncan knelt to grab a stick, which he rubbed against the window as though trying to share with Elliot.

It felt strange, standing there in front of someone's window while they played, but I didn't think anyone who saw would mind.

Hard Frost

As a writing student in college I was taught by my mentor, Tim Muskat, to seek out the beauty in the mundane and to be as specific as possible. That can be a difficult task, especially at this in-between time of year, caught as we are between the explosion of Autumn's color and the simple but marvelous whitewash of winter. My long walks with Duncan now occur mainly at night when it's impossible to see much of anything except the orange glow of the city sky and the occasional burst of starlight when the haze clears. Our morning walks, though, cold and quick, are the only time I have to notice,  to exercise my senses by following Dunc's lead, keeping my eyes low to the ground where the hard frost has brought new life to the colors and textures of our world, my ears turned up to catch the final calls of the owls in the cottonwoods, my feet tuned to the crunch of the hard, brittle grass below.  Tim beat the concept of the concrete and specific into our brains and onto our pages, but Duncan leads me to them with an ease that is unmatched. I thought I'd share some of his finds from the past few mornings, from curling leaves spiderwebbed into the grass to an explosion of gold behind the shattered glass of frost-covered trees, from the frozen teardrop of dew on a wilting purple pansy to the silver fraying edges of yesterday's blood-ripe leaves. Tim taught me to watch while Duncan guides my eyes daily.

 

Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.  (Stanley Horowitz)

Night on the Lake

It is not often we walk the lake path after dark, especially when it is cold and the snow has been sprinkling lazily down on us all day, more of an afterthought than anything to be taken seriously. Like dust swept up from the ground. There is no accumulation and not enough for Duncan to play in, but it has crisped and frosted the long grass that sprouts up past my knees along the edges of the trail. Everything is yellow and brown and crystalline but that does not matter in the darkness. The lamps rise up every hundred feet or so around the lake, casting warm little pools of gold along the way. The shops and stores that line the its western edge paint the surface of the water in distorted and melting mirror images of their signs and storefronts, bleeding greens and gold from the Barnes and Noble, a waxy and watery blue from the electronics store, a neon scratch of pink and turquoise from the 50's diner. During the day I rarely notice the scents from the restaurants and fast food shops, or the warm and inviting fragrance of coffee from the Starbucks, but at night they are strong, almost overpowering, as though someone has saturated a rag in them and is holding it to my face. I can't imagine Duncan can smell anything in the grass and weeds but he seemed focused and determined. The ducks and a small flock of geese, returned from whatever bickering and hostile place sheltered them over the course of the summer and long fall, gathered and mingled in the shallows along the shore. It has not rained with any significance for a very long time and so the water level is the lowest I've ever seen it. The ducks, wading and standing on the shore, looked to be walking on ice, their feet barely disrupting the mess of reflected color from above and all around.

It was a long walk, or rather, it felt that way, with my jacket bundled tightly around me, a cap pulled low over my ears, my gloved hands thrust deep into my pockets. Stupidly I'd left my scarf at home and my neck was tense and angry with me for such carelessness. I've forgotten what cold really feels like and have decided I don't like it one bit. Duncan, barefoot with his nose to the ground, hardly seemed to notice and not for the first time I wished I was a dog, plodding carefree, my senses alive, the cold something to be celebrated.

And the Winner Is...

Chelsea, at Hero's posted the photos of the costume contest entrants on her Hero's Pets Facebook Page and asked her friends and fans to vote for their favorites. Because she also works tirelessly to help adopt wayward animals, she said that if people voted for Oliver, the latest guest-in-residence (a beautiful twelve-year old cat who's mom was forced by her mean, new husband to get rid of him) that she would donate a twenty-five pound bag of food to the shelter where Oliver is from. So Oliver entered the contest dressed as.... (wait for it)... a basket case.

Three years ago Duncan entered the contest as a Greaser and took second place, beat by a lovely and anything-but-frightening pair of ghosts. This year the contest was tough but the voters decided Duncan, dressed as a snowboarder dude, complete with goggles and an unruly blond wig (which did not go over well) was the winner. We got to go in and pick our prize but decided that Oliver, who is an awesome guy, despite his extreme and very verbal dislike of dogs, deserved to be rewarded so we donated the prize to him and his shelter. Duncan, who was a trooper and did the right thing, got to pick out some new toys as his reward from me, so we finished out our Under the Sea Collection by bringing home Bubbles, a bright orange catfish, and Buck, a nearly neon green seahorse, to play with Duncan and his hammerhead, Bash.

Chelsea threw in a bag of Polka Dog Bakery Chicken Little Mighty Dog Treats and a tiny bit of something dried and curling which Dunc plucked out of a low basket and may have been a bit of bull junk or some winding internal organ at one point in its existence (I don't know. I don't care. I stopped asking after I helped with inventory a few years ago and had to count The Wall of Terror and its baskets of grizzly, greasy contents).

I'm happy we could help Oliver and his friends back at the rescue and happy that Dunc made even more friends.

Just a Little Patch

The snow had stopped falling by the time I reached home and most of what had collected on the grass had turned into slush under the light drizzle that had replaced the snow. Duncan was sitting in the window watching the parking lot and, I assume, the snow, waiting for me to climb the stairs, leash him up and take him out. He was quite ecstatic at the sound of my key in the lock and began chirping anxiously as I stepped inside. I was cold and wet and frustrated at the long drive across the city, surrounded by drivers who, despite what you'd expect, have almost no knowledge of driving in the snow, even the kind that looks more like rain and doesn't stick to the ground but for only a few minutes. I was not eager to go back out in the cold but Duncan wouldn't have any of it; he grabbed my wrist in his mouth, led me to the couch where I could put my things down, then guided me right back to the door where he sat and waited, tail thumping, ears up and alert, eyebrows raised. I patted his head, sighed, grabbed my gloves, made a mental note to start thinking about getting a new winter coat, and grabbed his leash.

It was dark out and what little snow remained was threadbare and weak but Duncan did not care. He galloped across the parking lot and slid on his belly right through the closest patch (if it could be called that), scooping the slush up in his mouth and snapping at the last of the raindrops as if they were heavy flakes It was not what he wants but he made the best of it and celebrated it as hard as I celebrated our weekend sunshine. He did not turn to look at me as  though to say, "This is it? This is all there is? This is what you've been bellyaching about?" No, he ran and jumped and rolled about as though the gray little patches barely peeking above the grass were the greatest thing he'd ever seen, greater than bunnies, greater than leaves tossed on the wind or turkey fed from my mother's fingers.

We could all take a lesson from our dogs. It takes so little to please them and they are so very, very patient.

End Song

There is a place halfway down The Run where three old aspens grow in a wide triangle between the buildings and against the fence. Their trunks are mottled and thick, not smooth and pale like the younger trees in the park. They are a favorite of the squirrels and Duncan has been known to sit in their center, neck tilted far back to simply watch them perch on the high branches watching him while they nibble on the bird seed they have scavenged from the second and third floor patio feeders. The grass fanning out around their roots has been blotted out almost completely by a bed of heavy golden leaves which crunch underfoot in the afternoons but are damp and soft and silent in the humid mornings.

This morning we slipped down The Run, past the place where the three mutts I refer to as The Harpies, froth and growl and snarl at us each time we pass. Duncan trudged through the shrubs, nose down, hunting for the little gray and brown birds that linger there unseen until he rouses them and sends them darting in playful clouds around his head. The morning was quiet. The trees were strangely absent of squirrels and the scratching of their toothpick-long nails on the thick bark. The air was unmoving, until we reached the center of the aspen triangle when a whisper of a breeze rose way up high where the branches are thin and willowy, far beyond where even the little birds do not venture. Duncan stopped dead center and craned his head back, as if listening to the trees talk. I followed his gaze, my eyes scanning the cradles between the boughs and truck for signs of squirrels but found nothing. Duncan would not move, would not even entertain the notion of my gentle tug. He glanced at me, snorted, and turned back to the wind high up, watching the branches slide back and forth against one another, listening and waiting.

At the exact moment the sun broke across the line of the roof, the leaves began to quiver and then slip free of the branches that have held them across the days of the summer and through this endless fall. They turned in the air, brushing against each other, bouncing off the branches, slipping down the side of the trunk and raining down around our heads, their sound like the soft, tinkling of bells in the distance or the crystalline fall of snow on a wide and windless field at midnight. The air was suddenly warm on my skin and the music of the leaves making their single journey warmed my spirit. Duncan shimmied where he sat, his tail giving a feeble little wag and rustling the leaves around him. He chirped softly and looked at me with the same eyes I've seen on children when they behold something entirely new and magical. I sat next to him as the leaves, hundreds of them, alighted on the ground around us. I caught my breath, reached for Roo and rested my hand on his back, closed my eyes and listened, really listened to this final, wonderful song of Autumn, another gift I would've missed without the wisdom of my dog. It went on and on until finally the breeze found a new tree to play in and slipped away, leaving us with a heavy silence, the kind best shared among friends who don't require words.

Silence
seeks the center
of every tree and rock,
that thing we hold closest-
the end of songs.
(Michael McClintock)

Red, then Gone

Yesterday, running through the park with Duncan, the two of us caught up in the heat and revelry that was the most incredible November day I can remember, we passed a glorious bush, bursting with red leaves, each of them catching the heavy golden rays of the late afternoon sun. It was like a heart, beating and filled with blood and lust and fire right there in the middle of the park, so bright and overwhelming it was almost obscene to look upon. We must have passed it a hundred times this Autumn but this time––at this instant––it exploded in our presence, as if it had lived its entire life for one brief moment, waiting for the eyes of a dreamer, someone who does not easily forget, to gaze upon it before it was swept away by the coming winter. 

 

We stopped and stood before it so I could reach out and touch the delicate brittling leaves, half afraid they would burn the tips of my fingers when I did so. They were still soft, though, like velvet, and I wished there was something I could do, take it home with me perhaps, something to preserve it exactly as it was.

But this weather and these colors cannot last. This afternoon, warm but windier than I would've liked, we crossed into the park when the sun was low in the sky, painting its rays above the mountains in clear streaks, and went back to the bush. I needed to see it one more time, to burn it onto my eyes and memory but the moment had passed. The wind had swept the leaves away, all but one, and the sun ignored it as it danced on the air and resisted the tug of the wind. Duncan stood by my side, leaned into me and the two of us held our breath until that one leaf relented, gave up its battle with the season and was finally swept free of its branch. It twirled once in the air, struck me in the chest and was whisked away forever.

What a difference a single day can make.

The long darkness is coming. Winter is nearly upon us and these walks with Roo in the daylight will be brief and rare. How I wish that bush would burn through all the cold walks ahead.

The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 

That dances as often as dance it can, 

Hanging so light, and hanging so high, 

On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

(Samuel Taylor Coleridge)

The Promise of This November Day

It is supposed to be nearly 80˚ in Denver today, so Duncan and I woke early and headed over to the lake for a quiet morning walk along the path that winds around it. I wish you could have been there. The sun was bright and warm, and seemed to be shining in two places at once, above us in the faded and metallic sky and from the reflection off the lake below. The air was still and the water was impossibly smooth, with only the lazy wakes of the gliding ducks to mottle its surface. By 8:30 it was already too warm for the jacket I was wearing, so I slipped it off and tied it around my waist. The sunflowers are still in bloom along the shoreline and bees still dance from one wide yellow stage to another. When I closed my eyes and followed the gentle tug of Roo guiding me on his leash I felt as though I was a kite, untethered and witness to the world spreading out all around, basking in the warmth of the morning, breathing in the rich scents of both Autumn and the summer that has steadfastly refused to depart. I smelled mint and greenery, thought I caught an echo of the Russian Olives and the Lindens, imagined I was still in Lake Forest, where the scent of the lake seems to be the only scent that matters. Blind but led by a dog and the light of the sun on my closed eyelids, all time seemed to come together and melt into a single, extraordinary moment that surpassed logic and sense.

Perhaps one day technology will be as magical as any given moment in this wakeful life and I'll be able to sit at my computer and write something that will transport you this lakeside, where you will be able to feel the pull of Duncan on his leash and hear his soft footfalls on the path and the long grass that rises up along its edge. You, too, can close your eyes and savor the brilliant gift of warm sun on your face on a November morning. The scent of the lake and the trees will wash over you and the lowing of the ducks on the shore will be like a whisper in your ear. And only then will you come close to knowing how wonderful this morning was with my good dog at my side and the promise of the day spread before us, as vast as a lifetime and as silent as prayer.

Hammerhead

With many of Duncan's pals still locked safely away in ICU and showing no signs of immediate recovery (read: I haven't exactly made stitching them up a high priority), I figured it was time to see if we couldn't make him some new friends so I took him over to Hero's so he could pick out someone new to bring home. After trying out a couple of plush lions, one or two plastic squeaky things and licking the basket of bully sticks every time he walked by, Dunc finally settled on something unusual and unexpected, a bright blue hammerhead shark with orange and white flowers sprinkled along his back and a rather deep and raspy squeak when squeezed. He's made of sturdy fiber and floats in water so he makes a nice toy to bring into the tub.

It took awhile to settle on a name for his new pal, especially since we tend to stick primarily to the B's (Buddy, Baby, Bah-Bah, Blue Buddha, Beaker and Berry) but Duncan eventually picked out the perfect name himself. After a day or two of carrying the shark around the apartment by the tail and shaking him furiously back and forth, knocking over anything and everything not tied down, we settled on Bash.

I'm just happy he's soft otherwise my shins would be bruised and Pip––who has also showed an interest in Bash––would be in the ICU with Roo's other friends.

"A Torch Flung to the Trees"

Autumn burned brightly, a running flame through the mountains, 

a torch flung to the trees. (Faith Baldwin)

Daylight is precious and Duncan knows it. His urgency to venture outside upon my return home from work has reached a near-frantic pitch as the last of the color bleaches from the sky above the mountains and the lamps marking the paths through the park blink and hum to life. We rush through the parking lot and across the street where he can tromp through the leaves and hunt down the bunnies, barely visible in the blue hour, like stones rising up from the matted and cinnamon-scented grass. We have spent many sleepless summer nights in the park and are not strangers to the darkness, but these early Autumn evenings are difficult to adapt to.

The park is a dim place in the summer, with the thick canopy of elms, cottonwoods, maples and locust trees blotting out the glow from the lamp posts. But in Autumn, with the trees slipping into further nakedness each day, the golden circles around the lamps are more clearly visible, and somehow more comforting. We can see further into the night and each light is like a star in the darkness, glowing within the trees and reflecting off the blanket of leaves below. We spend a lot of time there, imagining the days are longer and taking as much comfort from the circles of light as we can in preparation for the long winter ahead.

Wordless

Sometimes, when you've had a difficult day, there is nothing finer than dinner with a good friend and a nice quiet moment watching your dogs lay in front of a fireplace. No other words are required.

A Picture of Friendship

There is not a lot I claim to know, but I do know a thing or two about the companionship of dogs and the impact it can have on a human life. Those of you who have service dogs or volunteer dogs see this every day. And those of you who simply live with them, share a space and walk with them know it, too. They can be frustrating and tiring, demanding and needy, but nothing on this planet will ever love you as honestly and unabashedly or more than your dog. Their companionship, the soft warm spot they make next to you on your bed, or the way they lean into you when it seems no one else is there for you more than makes up for the January nights standing outside waiting for them to puke, or the occasional accidents you have to clean up. Some people claim that God is dead or doesn't exist but I am witness to a divine and uncompromising love each and every time I open my door and am greeted by Duncan.

I have been a silent follower of the blog Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Bacon for only a short time, but in that brief period I grew to love Abbey, the Golden who resided there and the voice of her human, Wendy. I was sad to learn of Abbey's passing last week and have been moved by the outpouring of grief and support Wendy has received. Her most recent post displayed a picture that touched me deeply and I wanted to share it here because I think it speaks volumes about this world we inhabit and the connections we make along the way.

As I told Wendy in the comment I left her the other day, this is a big world full of strangers and challenges, hardships we can't imagine, but somewhere along the way, if we open our hearts we can make a connection with other kindred spirits and take solace in each others company, even if only briefly. Venturing out alone can be a frightening prospect, but when we invite another spirit to walk alongside us our entire perspective can be forever changed. Even long after they have gone their presence will still move us and guide us and ensure that we are never alone.

There has not been a day since I first held him and he winked at me that I have not been grateful for Duncan. I try as hard as I can not to take him for granted and remind myself, even when I'm exhausted, that he is a blessing The Universe has bestowed on me, a partner who is there whenever I need him, who is ecstatic to be at my side even when it is not convenient for him, who loves me fiercely and loyally. I am fortunate to have good friends and an incredible, supportive family, readers who have walked so many miles with us and have grown to love Duncan almost as much as I do. Yet there is nothing I own or could own that will ever be as beautiful as the bond I share with my dog. I can't begin to imagine the depth of Wendy's grief and try not to think about the day I will have to say farewell to Roo, but I know that I am a better person for having been fortunate enough to share a brief period of my life with such an open and loving soul. And I hope Wendy is able to feel the same way.

It is a big world but a somehow a good dog makes it so much better.

Bless you on your journey Abbey, and bless you Wendy for being such a good friend to your girl.

Happy Halloween

As many of you know, Dunc loves the snow more than just about anything and perhaps because our summer has dragged into November, he's been growing impatient with the lack of snow around these parts.  This year we were invited to attend two different costume contests, at the apartment complex where we live and another at Hero's Pets. When presented with two choices, a surfer dude (mine, because I'm a child of the summer) and a snowboarder dude (also mine because Duncan doesn't talk) he went with the boarder dude. Maybe it was the goggles. It certainly wasn't the wig.

I'll let you know the results of the contest as soon as we find out.

A Terrible and Lovely Wind

Indian summer seemed never to want to end. Our afternoons and weekends have been lovely, golden and warm, bright as only October afternoons can be, earth-scented and clean but rich, like my grandfather's bait box. The trees have been bashful, their leaves slow to change their colors but those that have fallen have been sturdy and crisp with just enough music still locked away in them so that they crackle and sigh melodiously when stepped upon and pushed through, rising up before us like waves before a ship's bow. I have bragged about our weather, extolling its virtues to loved ones, half believing it would never end. A year ago we'd had nearly fifty-six inches of snow before Halloween even arrived, but this year––this blessed October!––the sun has stayed with us, tantalized us with promises that it would not leave, whispered warmly, its lips pressed against our cheeks.

And then the wind came.

I laid in bed last night, Duncan and the cats curled around me in snug little balls and listened to it batter the brick walls of my building, gasped when it leapt over the roof and across the eves, pummeled the windows and shook my room. After a while the long burst dwindled into one continuous, faraway liquid moan and I couldn't help but wonder as I drifted off if this was what it sounded like in the womb.

Many of the trees were naked this morning, their leaves scattered deep and wide across the lawns. Autumn had been slow to come but it arrived with a terrible booming howl that refused to be ignored. Great branches had been torn out of the elms and aspens and were scattered like discarded bones everywhere we turned. Even the light was somehow different, faded like the newspaper clippings my grandmother hung on her refrigerator doors.

I was not thrilled for our walk tonight and thought perhaps I could simply stroll with Duncan down to The Glen where we would play in the last of the cold sunlight, but Roo would have none of it. He dragged me across the street to the park, free of the children and their side-line parents, where he could run unfettered off-leash. I simply stood there, my mittened hands thrust deep into my pockets, the collar of my jacket pulled up high around my neck. My hair, which is longer than it has been in a very long time, blew around my ears and across my forehead in new but familiar ways while I squinted against the biting wind and watched Duncan run in circles, from branch to branch, sliding nose-first through the leaves. I was impatient and tired, eager to retire indoors, but he hunted down a heavy stick, as long as I am tall and as thick as my wrist, and brought it to me. I tossed it and watched it spin like the blades of a helicopter into the dim evening, carried further than I expected by a long, loud gust. He darted after it, brought it to me, but would not let go. He pulled and turned and trotted away, dragging me behind him. My laugh rose up over the wind, sudden and unexpected in my ears, and encouraged him to pull harder. Soon we were running side by side, both of us clutching the branch, the wind, cold and lovely, carrying us along like low-flying birds. I had not expected to find joy there, but my smile and Duncan's vast wisdom knew better. He knew there was more outside the windows and across the street than cold and prying ice-fingers against my neck and up my sleeves. He'd listened to the wail all day from his perch at the end of my bed, learning its songs and celebration, and somehow managed to teach us both to fly.

"The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind. The answer is blowin' in the wind." (Bob Dylan)

One More Sunday

It has been difficult arising from bed in the morning. October has been generous with us this year and so I have kept the windows open at night to allow the cool air to wash through the apartment, pinkening my cheeks while I sleep. But the mornings are dark and crisp and bed is the only place I want to be, Pip curled into my chest, one paw resting against my throat as though guarding my pulse while I dream. Pulling myself from beneath the comforter is an almost painful movement but once I'm up the cats scurry around me, singing to me, songs of breakfast and scritches on the chin. Duncan is the last to pull himself from sleep and does so only reluctantly, enraptured by dreams of coy bunnies and darting brown birds always just out of reach. He relishes my weekends because it means long cuddles and belly rubs, lazy walks off-leash in the park before the hoards arrive, afternoons spent playing with his squeaky ball and snacks slipped to him while he lounges at my feet. Mondays are a difficult transition for him and it is all he can do to pull himself from the soft pillows and blankets he sleeps on.

This morning he seemed particularly reluctant and decided the best course of action was to prolong the weekend in the only way he knew how: by curling up on the end of the couch on top of my bag, hiding it as best he could. Perhaps he thought that if I could not locate the symbol of his Mondays mornings that we could repeat Sunday, venturing out among the leaves for more of our precious quiet time together, just the low sun and the two of us. Oh, if only it were that easy.

He doesn't know how difficult it is for me to leave him as well. One more long morning with Roo would be a precious gift, indeed.

Sunday Service

I saw old autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like silence, listening
To silence. (Thomas Hood)

 Autumn mornings with Duncan in the park, empty and serene, are my church. The silence is tremendous before the bird chorus begins, as though the parishioners have just taken their seats and settled in, the last of the groans and whimpers of the pews beneath their weight fading away. The leaves, vibrant and violent in their last dying, are like stained glass above us and I know there are no moments as precious as these, as gentle on my thoughts and as rewarding to my spirit. The soft pad of Duncan's feet on the grass and the musical staccato of the leaves on the ground as he passes through them are my psalms, and after all the years have passed their quiet melody will echo in my heart and bones and will be all the salvation I need.

This Was the Day Autumn Came

This was the day Autumn came. It whispered us awake from bed with the soft patter of drops running down the window and rain dancing in the puddles that had gathered and were milling around the parking lot below. The wind, hushed and secretive, courted the leaves in the trees, made pretty little promises to them and then rushed coyly away around the side of the building. The sun has been forgetful of us and concealed her bashful body behind impossible layers of clouds, gathered around and below her like a dragging skirt.

In the evening, even though the sky had somehow managed to cast away the dark costume of the day, the air was still cold and Duncan's breath preceded him across the park in great heaving clouds he snorted from the damp and spongy soil. The puddles reflected the sun and seemed less like puddles and more like gaping holes punched straight through the earth where light was born and burst forth brighter than our own lazy star. And as darkness fell I could smell the lonely scent of smoke rising from the chimneys from the valley across the lake, strong and warm, but distant and as empty as the past.

I spent twenty-one Autumns in Idaho but it's my time in The Shire of the Midwest that I think of each year when the fires begin burning on the hearths. I remember those nights walking across the near-perfect campus of Lake Forest College where I never quite felt I belonged, the mist rising up from the surrounding ravines, the halo around the yellow moon, and the smoke from other people's homes teasing me. Were it not for all the trees and the tall walls I could have peeked in their windows and been warmed by the glow. But because I could not I whistled Autumn songs to myself, listening to the echo off the brick buildings and wondering if I would ever feel at home in Autumn in whatever place I happened to reside.

Nearly twenty years later I am still wondering, but with Duncan walking at my side, brushing against my leg or turning his nose into the cup of my hand, I feel close to home. Not quite there, but close.

Aged in Autumn

Even if something is left undone, everyone must take time to sit still and watch the leaves turn. (Elizabeth Lawrence)

She was a small woman, white from head to toe, hunched up in a shawl even though the afternoon breeze, smoke-scented and tired, was warm. She was old––perhaps in her mid-80's, maybe more––and tiny, but her eyes were like fierce sparks and her face glowed with the low afternoon sun. She did not move from her bench under the reddening tree but when Duncan and I stepped past her she smiled and made a cooing noise in her throat. She watched him sniff the long grass for bunnies and the leavings of other dogs who march the trail along the edge of the lake. He was indifferent to her but she did not take her eyes from him.

"Hello," I said.

"There is something," she said. "About a dog and a lake." Her voice, soft and tinny though it was, was lyrical in its rising and falling.

"Yes, there certainly is," I replied. "Did you have a dog?"

She smiled and even though she was watching Duncan dance around me on the trail her eyes were far away. "A long time ago," she said. "A long way from here."

She was still there an hour later when we'd made the long loop around the lake. The sun had dipped lower in the sky and her face caught the red and amber light. She smiled when she saw us.

"Lovely evening," I said.

She nodded. "Every evening is lovely to a dog." She watched Duncan and as he approached, slow and careful, she let go her shawl and reached out a curled fist to touch his nose. He sniffed her, gave her knuckle a quick lick and then laid down in front of the bench at her feet. And there we stayed, watching the light fade from the lake, sitting in silence but not uncomfortable in it.

I remember more dearly autumn afternoons in bottoms that lay intensely silent under old great trees. (C. S. Lewis)

Whodidit

I have been without a morning whistle on my tea kettle for nearly a month, and although it was tough going at times, I somehow managed to survive. My morning ritual has been horribly silent. Rather than the familiar and comforting baby-scream wail of the water coming to a boil, I've had to strain my ears to catch the bland gurgle of boiling water coming from the kitchen, at which point I purse my lips together and whistle Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" or even Vicki Sue Robinson's "Turn the Beat Around." It's not the way I'd like a day to begin, but since the most crucial element of my tea pot vanished it's the best I could manage.

As you may recall, at some point last month the whistle vanished suddenly. Duncan and Winnie were in the kitchen during the abduction, Pip had gone underground and Olive, aloof and indifferent, seemed almost insulted that she was a suspect at all. No one came forward and no amount of searching yielded the victim, let alone any clues. 

Until yesterday.

I'd returned home from the grocery store with an armload of food: apples and still-green bananas (exactly the way I prefer them), some lettuce, a cucumber, a single carrot, a few boxes of organic soup, beans, some fish and a king-sized jar of Nutella (for the lonely nights). While putting the produce in the crisper I noticed an empty bag at the back of the drawer. When I retrieved it I saw something heavy and dark and wondered what monstrosity had been growing forgotten and alone, biding its time in the coldest, most forlorn reaches of my home, waiting to unleash it's juicy, hairy horror upon my mundane life. I winced as I opened it, expecting to discover an angry grape tomato, or even the last bit of a kiwi, but was shocked––and elated––to find my whistle.

Somehow or another it had fallen into a bag and been deposited in the fridge. I did a little dance and hurried to each of the kids to announce their innocence. Winnie rolled over on her belly, Pip finally emerged from beneath the couch after a long month spent with the nefarious gang of dust bunnies he's been hanging with, Olive rolled her eyes and sauntered away. Only Duncan seemed relieved, which he demonstrated by dancing with me, but then he's easily impressed anyway.

I blame the corn on the cob. It was delicious but I could tell it was up to something.

Spiderweb Autumn

For awhile I actually believed Summer would never end. The leaves have stayed solidly green, only fraying at their very edges with a fine vein of red. The grass is thick and smells like high Spring when I lay in it. The days have stayed hot and the sky has been blessedly clear of clouds. But sometime last night while we slept Autumn crept in and began to remake our corner of the world. There was a mist on the edge of the park and a fine silver crust clung to the grass, sparkling like dusk's stars. The morning is cool, almost cold, and shows no signs of hurrying into the warmth we've enjoyed for so long. I wore a jacket for the first time on our morning walk and the thin layer of leaves which fell overnight crunched under Duncan's feet as we explored the new season. Autumn has arrived as suddenly and shockingly as the invisible spiderwebs which I pass through under the trees, silently, with a tickle and a tug on my face as they brush my new beard and catch on my neck, things felt and not seen. The day promises to be beautiful but my heart, a Summer heart, is breaking as it begins to hum the old, familiar Autumn songs, "I'll Be Seeing You" and "Autumn Leaves." I'll enjoy it as best I can and take comfort in Duncan's delight in the falling leaves and his dreams of snow, but I won't like it one bit. With one eye on my dog, I am already beginning to look forward to the warmth of Spring's sun.

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Claiming New Territory

Sophie, a Pekingese Maltese mix, loves Duncan. Joyce, her companion, and I get along well and often spend long minutes chatting and catching up while Soph scuttles around and under Duncan, whimpering and wagging her little tail while she tries to sneak kisses from his cheek. Duncan, who has grown increasingly indifferent to other dogs and prefers the company of people, tolerates her adoration admirably, but he'd much rather Joyce dote on him than talk with me.

Sophie recently discovered the pumpkin treats I carry in my pocket. Although Joyce insists Sophie doesn't really like treats she likes mine, so tonight, rather than play with Roo, she rubbed against my ankles like a cat and rolled at my feet, her little paws wagging in the air. I obliged her and knelt down in the grass to rub her belly and slip her some treats, which she eagerly chewed up, licking my fingers for the crumbs when she was done. Duncan, fiercely protective of my attention, also loves the treats and kept trying to maneuver his way between us, reaching for the goods before Sophie could get them. I kept pushing him away and slipping her more treats, which caused her to wiggle and whine and dance circles around me.

Duncan has always been the jealous sort and when it became clear to him that I preferred Sophie to him, he decided to take immediate action. He turned his attention to Joyce and decided that she was a fine human, good enough to make his own. So he did what dogs do when they take possession of something. He stepped around Joyce while we played with Sophie, sniffed her calf, raised his leg and marked her ankle as his new territory.

Joyce squealed as Duncan looked up at her with a wide grin on his face, obviously pleased with his decision to make her his. Joyce squealed, and always a good sport (aided by the glass of wine she brings with her on her evening walks), laughed and shrugged it off while I chastised Roo and apologized over and over. She shrugged the whole thing off, kicked off the flip-flop and wiped her foot on the grass. I offered to clean it for her but she brushed me aside and insisted all was well and told Dunc she was flattered that he loved her enough to claim her.

Sophie, drunk on pumpkin treats and confused by the whole scene, seemed to think my pumpkins goodies were an even exchange for Joyce. She whimpered and watched while I pulled Duncan away and led him home where he was reminded that he has my heart and could never be replaced.