Eclipse

We turned our backs on the world, Duncan and I, ignored the phone, cleared a space for ourselves and went out for a long walk just as the moon was slipping across the globe of the sun. It did not matter that the clouds were slipping across them both. I had faith that by creating the moment, making room for it in our lives, that nothing else would matter.

And I was right. The unpleasantness of the day slipped further behind with each step we took and as we laid on the grass, both looking and not looking at the sun, poised as it was above the craggy, dark line of the mountains, the clouds trying their best to come between us, the air cooled, the park silenced and a golden hued shadow settled over the land.

Duncan cooled his belly on the grass and let me lay my head against his chest, the slow rising and falling of his breathing as soothing as a lullaby. It was our moment and it did not matter that so much had tried to come between us and the silence of it. It mattered only that we shared it together.

Mistaken Identity

There are a couple of Goldens here but most of them are either much lighter in color or far fatter than Duncan. But one of them, a spunky, playful thing named Twinkie is almost identical in color and weight. They're so close that several dogs, including a Bloodhound and Pepper, the work dog we visit several times a day, constantly mistake her for Duncan. The only trouble is that Twinkie only likes Roo. While she's not mean she barks loudly and won't come near them. Many mornings I've been told that Pepper dragged Cindy, her person, halfway across the complex after what she perceived to be Dunc and me, in hopes of getting a treat, only to get a very loud and very cold shoulder from Twinkie. Now when Pepper sees us, even if we come up to her patio, she's a little wary until she smells the treats on my hand and in my pocket.

Yesterday morning we ran into Twinkie and Yumi, her human, at the park. Yumi doesn't speak much English, but she's a very friendly woman who loves Dunc and grins, shaking her head as she marvels at how similar they are. We took them both off their leashes and tossed the ball around for ten or fifteen minutes, not talking but smiling and laughing in that way that people who don't share a language often do. And when it was time to go, Yumi called to Twinkie but Twink was too caught up in wrestling Dunc for control of the ball. Yumi called again and when she still didn't get a response she stepped up to them, snapped the leash onto Duncan and began to walk away. Roo looked at me like, "What the heck is this," while Twinkie, finally in control of the ball, rolled over and showed her blonde belly to the sky.

"Wait," I called. "You've got my dog!" Yumi stopped, looked from Duncan to Twinkie then back again, smiled a very big, embarrassed smile then laughed hysterically while we traded dogs, much to Duncan's relief. We chuckled all the way back across the street and home.

And that is why when I saw the picture of Mister Clooney yesterday, filming a commercial on a beach somewhere in California, with a dog who looked exactly like Duncan, I posted the picture.

All questions answered.

Wordless Wednesday: Life's a Beach

After All That

Sometimes as Duncan and I make our way down The Run it feels as though we're our own parade, plodding as we do down the path, under the low boughs and the high grass that grows along the fence line, past an audience of cats and dogs and people standing on their patios or rushing out to meet us. I'd like to think it's me they like, or even the company of Roo, who's really mostly indifferent to other dogs, preferring the company of people instead, but the truth is, they're really mostly interested in the bag of treats I carry in my pocket.

This afternoon, after a day spent alternately caring for Ken, who hurt himself at work last night, and teleconferencing interviews for a position open at work, we ventured out. First there was Bandit, whose people I don't like, then came Jeffrey, who has spent a lot of time on his patio watching his two new cats discover the thickets and long grass while gazing up at the birds and squirrels in the crab trees that shade his apartment. He's a talkative fellow who's been quite upset since losing Mama Kitty, the feral cat he adopted last year, so we spent a great amount of time talking with him while Cleo, the little Bijon in the next building yapped at us to hurry her way. She was on her patio with Mark, her papa, Leilani, her mother, Mallory, her sister, and some kid I can only assume is Mallory's boyfriend. The assumption comes because he's young, tousle-headed and wears his jeans far too low. We visited while Pepper, the work dog in the next building howled for our attention. She was on her patio with Cindy, another talkative person but who's wonderful and is always good for some conspiracy theories. From there we ran into a kid scouring The Run for stray golf balls. A few weeks ago I'd given him the collection Duncan and I have been collecting for the past two years, nearly three hundred in total. We chatted for a bit until Roo pulled me into The Glen and then across the street to the park where we ran into Stoner Dave and his dogs, Spirit and Chance. He's in his fifties but looks far older, probably from the very thing that earned him the nickname I gave him a few years ago. After a walk around the park, past countless baseball and kickball players, through the Soccer Hoard and numerous others we returned home to find Jennifer, her daughter Jordan and a gathered throng of kids gathered around their new puppy, Jewels.

Finally, after all that, after all those people, we climbed the stairs and came into the apartment only to be told by Ken, who was lounging on the couch, that my fly was wide open and my shirt was hanging out of it.

It is a glamorous life I lead indeed.

Feathers for Flight

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.  (Emily Dickinson)

Several years ago, when this outpost here on the internet was still new, I wrote at length about my anxiety disorder. I've done so numerous times since, but I thought I'd take a moment to explain it again so that the request I'm about to make doesn't seem quite so strange.

A little over seven years ago, when Duncan was still a puppy, I was prescribed Wellbutrin to help quit smoking. Unfortunately I was one of those extremely unlucky souls who suffered very serious side-effects because of it. My chances were somewhere along the lines of one in a million and not a day has gone by since that I haven't wished I'd spent a thousand dollars on lottery tickets instead. After six weeks of taking that wretched drug I began having strange episodes that at first seemed like extreme vertigo but quickly turned into all-out manic episodes that sent me to the hospital three times. I was forced to take an extended leave-of-absence from work and my life was turned completely upside-down. My doctors finally diagnosed a severe anxiety disorder that was either unmasked or triggered by the Wellbutrin. Unfortunately, though, it seemed that my body couldn't handle the drugs that are commonly prescribed to help control such an illness. Instead I turned to acupuncture, a change of diet, lots of rest, and a very intense dose of cognitive behavioral therapy, which continues to this day. I was forced to rebuild my life completely. 

Anyone who suffers from anxiety knows that it's a truly horrific experiece that changes your entire perception of the world. Nothing is safe and even when there doesn't appear to be any anxiety the fear of it returning becomes even worse than the anxiety itself. The world becomes your enemy. Tasks that most people take for granted, things I'd done daily, like drive to work, or watch television, go to movies, visit friends, walk Duncan, become impossible. I spent three miserable months holed up, hardly venturing outside, watching as Ken struggled to be brave and patient and comprehend what was happening.

Since then, though, I have worked very hard to reclaim my life but there is not a moment the fear––or rather, the fear of the fear––is not there. It took a long time but eventually I started going to movies again, hiking, venturing downtown to visit friends, all the things I'd once done with little or no thought. They are such silly and minor things, but to someone like me, each of them is a momentous and life-changing event.

And then Christmas of 2007 happened. Ken was unable to drive home to Idaho with me that Christmas and I was forced to make the trip on my own. I did a lot of soul-searching and mustering of courage, and just when I thought I'd have to spend that holiday alone I remembered Dumbo.

Yes, Dumbo. As in the flying elephant who carries a magic feather in his trunk. I remembered that as long as Dumbo had the feather he could fly and perform tremendous feats of magic and courage. But then there's that fateful evening when he loses the feather and is unable to perform until Timothy, his mouse friend, tells him that the feather wasn't magical at all, that he had the power all along. Eureka! I knew exactly what I'd do!

So I turned to my blog and asked my readers to send me a feather, an ordinary feather that contained the magic of their support and encouragement, something I didn't need for the trip but would help remind me that I was strong enough to do anything I set my heart to. I received countless responses, many in forms I hadn't anticipated, from peacock and hawk feathers, to geese and doves, paintings of feathers, photos, news clippings, music, ceramics, dream catchers, smudge kits, all of them magical and wonderful and remarkable in the power they contained.

In January, my step-father Kevin lost his father, Bob Spencer, a remarkable, adventurous man, who touched and changed many lives and has been sorely missed since he embarked on his latest journey. I did not get to spend a lot of time with Bob and his wife Mary, but they occasionally visited Idaho, sent Christmas cards, attended my college graduation and engaged me in some of the most incredible and inspiring conversations I've had. And even though he's no longer with us,  Bob is inspiring me again. Kevin's family, most of whom my sister and I have not met, have been kind enough to invite us to attend Bob's memorial service this summer in Buffalo, New York. I am incredibly honored and touched by their generosity and look forward to spending time with them and getting to meet all the people I've heard so much about for the past twenty-six years.

And so, as I did seven years ago when I needed that little bit of extra courage to travel home, I'm turning to my faithful readers once again. I need your feathers. I need feathers enough to make me a pair of wings that will help me fly––the final really big test of courage I need to face––all the way across the country. I'll be taking the ones sent to me all those years ago, but I'd like more. I have worked hard at steeling my courage and I know this is the final bit of preparation that needs to be done before I embark. If you'd like to send me a feather, please do so. They must be received by June 20th when I'll be trading these walking feet of mine in for a pair of wings, which I quietly alluded to back in February when my eyes began to turn from the ground and toward the bright blue sky.

To sweeten the deal, I'll be putting all the feathers into my feather bag and keeping track of who sent them so that I can draw one lucky feather out of the bag. The winner will receive a dog-approved prize from Duncan and me. Be sure to include your name, the name of your pets, if you have them, your address, and get your feather to me no later than June 15th. I plan on sending the prize the following Monday, so all contest entries must be received by the 15th. To get my address you can email me at jcr138@gmail.com. Please put "Feathers for Flight" in the subject field. It's not the most important of charities to contribute to, but I can't tell you how much it would mean to me.

Thank you all, once again, for your kindness and support over the years. We may not have walked together, Duncan tugging on his leash, but you have certainly been in my heart and thoughts on all the adventures Roo and I have been on.

Rainbow Maker

On crisp Spring mornings––and this one was a very crisp, clear 29˚!––when the world is still very quiet except for the birds and soft footfalls of the occasional jogger, I love to take Duncan to the park to throw the ball. The sprinklers run early in the mornings and sometimes if we're very lucky ten or fifteen of them will be running at one of the park while we play at the other. At those times the entire western edge of the soccer field will be painted in rainbows that dance as the water chika-chika-chiks back and forth. Even when there are no sprinklers the grass is wet and sparkles like diamonds and when the ball slices through the air and comes down with a wet thud, spraying water up in a clean, shimmering arc it sometimes creates its own rainbow, which Roo is more than happy to chase after. It's never there for him when he arrives but there are countless more waiting each time the ball is thrown.

(Notice that when I ask Dunc if he's ready he nods and smiles. Few things make me happier than my dog.)

Playing Dead

There is not a moment I am outside with Duncan when I am not carrying a handful of treats, from the pumpkin or apple graham crackers that are quite popular––not just among the dogs we know, but with the humans as well, myself included––to the crunchy liver-flavored bones and the softer turkey ones with the jellied pumpkin stripes. My hands are treat-scented and flavored and Duncan and the cats are forever thrusting their noses into them in hopes of sneaking one. My friends have often joked that if I died alone in my apartment I'd be discovered with my fingers gnawed to the bone while the four-leggers looked on innocently but with full bellies.

Tonight on our walk Duncan plopped down in a sunny patch of grass while I hovered over him, impatient to get home and start dinner. I tugged on the leash once or twice but he wouldn't budge, so I did what anyone would do: I played dead. I fell beside him, eyes mostly closed, tongue lolling out of my mouth, arms and legs limp while I held my breath. He studied me a long moment then turned his attention to my cupped palm and the goodies hidden behind my fingers. Through half-closed eyes I watched him look first at me, then to my hand then back to me as though deciding what whether or not to rescue me or to go for the goods. I could see him weighing his options. After standing up and sniffing my face and nudging me with his paw to confirm my sudden demise he went straight for the hand, nudging it open to reveal the goodies for which he'd been hoping. He looked at me once more, turned to my hand and in one quick, fluid motion, dove for it, slurped up the treats, licked his lips then turned to the pocket where I keep a big fat bag of the things. He nosed it once or twice then laid down, curling himself around my head, licked my face, placed a paw on my chest and whined.

And that was it. I was up, kissing his face, hugging him, laughing and reaching into my pocket for more goodies. I got another lick and then he was up, running circles of delight around me.

He does care for me! Or maybe he cares that I'm still around to dispense even more treats. I'd like to believe it's the former option.

The Color Purple

I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it. (Alice Walker)

There is a place in the corner of the park not far from where the bunnies roost. It rests against a tall but gentle hill on the back side, where a wide circle of crab apple trees grow, short and squat like pretty soldiers standing at ease. While most of the white blossoms have browned and curled and fallen away, littering the ground around the trunks of their trees like rusted snow, the purple blossoms have hung on, growing brighter and smelling sweeter each morning. It is a quiet spot, one Duncan and I have spent innumerable hours enjoying, laying in the tall grass watching the fluff drift from the cottonwoods on summer afternoons or basking in the glow of the lights above the baseball diamonds on hot nights when the sound of a ball striking a wooden bat is best enjoyed.

As happens so often, the moment we left the apartment Duncan had a destination in mind, a place to lead me to, a moment to share. He slowed as we approached the ring of crabs and I stopped to admire a clump of purple pansies growing in a line along the edge of the maintenance road. Clear drops of water clung to the wrinkled, lion-faced petals, which clutched them back as tenderly and protectively. The sun dipped behind a cloud and the water turned silver and reflected the sky above. It took my breath away but Roo, who grows restless when he's on a mission, pulled me away with one short, sharp bark. After a few moments I relented and followed him into the small grove of purple-flowered trees where he sat suddenly and with purpose among the clover.

And then it happened. The sun peeked out and a breeze spilled down over the top of the hill and rushed over us like the slow cascade of a warm waterfall. The trees stirred, the boughs and branches rang a wooden chime and the purple petals took flight, gusting first up and then sifting down over us, radiant in the burst of sunlight, twisting and spinning in the air, a violet shower of sweet smelling snow flakes that dotted our heads, alighted on our shoulders and backs, danced around our feet. Duncan looked up at them, rolled onto his back to show them the softness of his belly, his long, pink tongue lolling out of his mouth while I reached into the air and let them fall onto my open palms where they gathered like wishes waiting to be wished.

The Overlooked

"Be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies." (Mother Teresa)

It was a big, fat juicy thing, the lone dandelion lucky enough to survive the last visit of our landscaping crew, and for a good long while this morning it was all that mattered. Duncan and I strolled down to the Glen this morning, a place we pass through numerous times a day but haven't spent much time enjoying lately. Rather than make our usual rounds we decided to simply lay on the hill on our bellies and watch the shadows move through the cool mat of grass, delight in the paths of the ants as they struggled up one blade, down the other side only to stumble across a stick, bigger in their world than a fallen tree in ours. I wanted to pluck it as my grandmother taught me, and wipe its lustrous head across my nose until it turned yellow with its buttered powder, but I refrained. It was gorgeous and enormous, a whole world unto itself with its bright petals and curling stamens, and even though it is considered a weed I found it no less magical than the tips of the blossoms in the trees, which are inexplicably far more revered.

 

And so while Duncan licked the sticky seedlings from his feet I watched a dandelion be a dandelion and the blossoms be blossoms and reminded myself once again that there is beauty in everything, especially in those things most easily overlooked.

No Small Thing

"The world will never starve for wonder, but only for want of wonder." (G.K. Chesterson)

I napped. A long one late in the afternoon, with lazy dreams that left my arms and legs sluggish and slow to move and my head clouded. But it was delicious and sweet and a sunset walk with Duncan in the park, nearly empty, was the perfect coda to this day. So he led me across the street to toss the ball and watch him gallop into the setting sun, vanishing from my vision into its honeyed glare, low and caught, as I prefer, between the silver-lined clouds and the hazy shadow of the mountains, painting the world in a golden brilliance for which words have yet to be written or uttered. The air was warm and the scent of the grass and blossoms lingered, unmoving and rich, as though waiting to be inhaled and savored.

And as we laid in the grass, my head resting against his belly, his tail draped across my shoulder, a most wonderful spring shower, hardly more than a trickle, seen more than felt, its gold streaks punctuation marks flashing in the softening light, dappled across the park. We turned our faces skyward, into the smear of a grey cloud wandering quietly past, our eyes closed but lit with the last light of the day, and just sat, not thinking, unmoving, bathing in the settling silence and glory of this blessed night.

"Is it so small a thing to have enjoyed the sun, to have lived light in the sky, 

to have loved, to have thought, to have done?" (Matthew Arnold)

The Whale

Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors,

there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night. (Rainer Maria Rilke)

It is a reckless and early Spring, the first we've had in a long time. It came on us a few weeks ago when a soft green halo appeared among the stark branches of the trees, little more than a smoky haze that simmered and grew into a fog as the days passed and lengthened. And then the explosion of color, first from the crab apple trees, then the lazy, drooping tulips, and the pansies with their stern, lion faces. And when the pressure from their peers was too great, everything else––from the red tentacles of the blooming cottonwoods to the winding tendrils of the willows–– joined in, the voice of their tenacious color rising up in an unruly chorus. Too often these last few years a spring snow with Autumn-like winds have killed the blossoms and swept their petals away before they could even open and perfume the world. This year, though, despite last week's brief snow, color and its sweet bouquet seemed to rise up in rebellion against the cold, stood its ground and held fast, refused to be stifled and has bathed us in the lilac, gardenia magic of its fragrance daily since.

Under a sky where a single enormous, white whale of a cloud swam, its head bowed and pointed into the lowering sun, its tail lost, miles back, amid the bubbling blue of the indigo east, Duncan and I walked through an ocean of color that splashed over us, waves of it dappling our faces and drifting on a cool breeze that stroked the points of the ripening, greened grass, sifting through them, its delicate caress rousing them to dance and bend in bold celebration of their newfound height. Everything seems to turn its face upward, toward the sky, where whales glide effortlessly and serenely past.

And Duncan, the darling of all seasons, has been there with me, a prince among the petals, my loyal companion and witness to all the glory this Spring has to offer.

Gratified Dogs

After nearly a week of being sick, staring up at the ceiling from my spot on the couch, wrapped in blankets, hardly able to speak or breath, Duncan finally coaxed me outside for an early afternoon stroll in the park. It was a magnificent day, sunny and bright and as fragrant as any Spring I can remember, and Dunc was content to walk slowly by my side, leading me from one brilliant blossoming tree to the next, and then finally, when I was winded and needed to sit in the shade, he hunkered down beside me, the baseball we'd found locked securely between his paws where he could find it and gnaw on it as it seemed to want him to do. He rested his weight against me and watched me carefully. And when I laid down beside him and smiled and thanked him for pulling me across the street to a place where the grass and sunshine and a cool breeze were waiting for us, he flipped onto his back, smiled a goofy smile and rolled until I joined him, rolling and huffing and wrapping the grass around us, unconcerned with the way it caught and stuck to us, happy, instead, to be together, to spin like gratified dogs under the clear April sky.

Green and White

A lot can happen in twenty-four hours.

It's a cliche, I know, but welcome to springtime in the Rockies.

Fire on the Mountain

I could see and smell the smoke at work, a seventeen mile drive from where I live. There was a subtle haze on the horizon that smelled like the campfires I remember from my youth but I didn't give it much thought until I drove home and saw the tall billows rising up quite near where I live. The entire mountainside was shrouded in heavy smoke, gray and foul as it gusted eastward, but thick and white and red near the ground. The closer I drove the bigger it got until it took up my entire view, blocking out the sky and the mountains.

Duncan and I headed straight to the park and climbed Rebel Hill behind Columbine High School, a vantage that allows us to see all the Christmas lights in December and all the colors of the sunset over Johnson Reservoir on summer nights. Tonight, though, the view was remarkably different and terrifying. While the fire poses no threat to us there are homes in that area that have been evacuated and the smoke, billowing eastward on frighteningly strong winds, has filled my apartment and tainted everything I breath. From our vantage we watched it rise up and curl outward, fanning out over Littleton and Highlands Ranch, and when the wind turned in our direction I watched it sweep away my view of the grocery store where I shop not a mile away. It was when Duncan began to sneeze and duck his head low to the ground that we turned back home. There was no leisure to our walk as we hurried back across the fields and up the stairs to our sanctuary. And now, an hour later, sitting on my patio I have a clear view of the burn, the tallest plumes catching the last of the sun's rays while the base glows gold and red.

So I will close the windows and watch the night southwest of us burn and hope for the safety of others.

Couch Clemency

The morning the new furniture arrived was pandemonium. Ken and I got up early to pull the couch out and ready it for delivery to Good Will. Pip, who spends much of his day buddying up to the rough bunch of dust bunnies which congregate in the darkness beneath the couch, was quite frantic and didn't know what to make of the situation. He scampered, low and flat to the ground, around the periphery of the apartment, taking refuge where he could find it: with his hind end sticking out of the litter box or with his face stuffed into one of my slippers while the rest of him pushed and struggled to force itself the rest of the way. Winnie and Olive simply retreated to friendly patches of sunshine in the sills and watched with bemused grins as Pip made a fool of himself.

Duncan, though, was not happy with the decision at all. The couch has been his preferred spot for quite some time now. After we pulled it out and removed the wires and cable which ran beneath it he climbed right up onto his favorite spot, hunkered down, refused to move and gave us the saddest, most forlorn face he could muster. Even when I turned the vacuum on and began taking care of Pip's bunny gang Roo didn't move. He only watched, his paws hooked tightly into the cushion, his eyes focused entirely on Ken, pleading silently for couch clemency.

Being all too easily swayed by the appearance of pumpkin treat and a belly scritch his tactics did not work. Once he was down we worked quickly to take the couch downstairs and load it into the truck. And as we drove off I couldn't help but glance up at the bedroom window where he'd relocated to watch us take away his favorite thing in all the world.

The new furniture arrived later in the afternoon and almost immediately he attempted to climb up and test it out. Unfortunately, that's not in the cards and he was redirected to the comfort of the floor. The cats, even Pip, eventually came out to inspect it. And although I don't want them up there either, I'm not quite sure how to keep them away. Last night when I came back from checking the mail I discovered all three in places they shouldn't be, as though they'd waited for the door to close behind me and my steps to retreat down the stairs. Even Olive, who rarely comes out of the bedroom except to eat, had claimed her spot on the new recliner. Duncan met me at the door and led me right into the living room where I could see for myself how the cats were in flagrant violation of the new rules. I attempted to scatter them but after a few moments of humoring me all three returned to their favorite spots while Duncan sighed loudly into his paws from his new spot under the coffee table.

 

Sometimes life just isn't fair, but I have faith that with a few treats and lots of love everything will right itself once again.

The Teachings of Spring

No one taught the sun to rise as bright and clear as it did this morning, in a sky not quite sweet-smelling, but rich and deep, as though the earth had been tilled and made ready for hands to be thrust deeply into it. No one taught the last patch of snow to hold on as long as it has, receding bit by bit each afternoon, the ice revealing the pebbles and once-leaves and children's toys like secrets it has clutched tightly since November when the snow decided to stay. Under today's warm, cloudless sky, it finally relented and retreated, the remaining bits, clutching the grass like discarded chunks of paper, finally seeping into the earth as silently and gracefully as last night's shadows.

No one taught the nimble ends of the branches to redden and swell and then burst suddenly but quietly into tufts of delicious, vibrant green, the likes of which only appear in the newness of the season, soft and moist and curled up on themselves like the silky wings of newly-hatched butterflies. Theirs is the color of winter dreams, forgotten but hoped for more than remembered, like a word sticking unspoken and stubborn to the end of your tongue, refusing to be uttered.

No one taught the reedy willows to puff and pop open and dazzle the world with the sparkle of their long winter slumber. They are delicate and tiny, smaller than my smallest fingernail, but catch the sun like shattered glass and reflect it back, dazzling the little brown birds hoping along the fence line, dancing back and forth and waiting for them to enbiggen and weigh down the erupting tendrils swaying above the enlivening green of the new grass.

No one taught the myriad little birds their songs or the magnificent sound the make as they burst all at once from the cover of a low shrub after you pass, the churning of their wings rising up in sync, a staccato whir that fades as they fan out over and around the path.

No one taught me to turn my face into the sunshine on days like this, to close my eyes and savor the flavor of the morning, as unique and distinct as the prints on my fingers. And no one taught my dog to dance at the joy of uncovering a thick, perfectly-weighted stick, balancing it between his teeth as he prances, head high and proud at his discovery.

No needs teach these things. They are a given, just a few of the miracles of Spring which are waiting to astound if we only open our eyes and open ourselves to their discovery.

Night Song

Another day is done,
Say good-bye to the setting sun,
See what I found, turn back to the ground just like before

And hey hey hey, hey hey hey
Hey Beautiful Day (hey! hey!)
Hey Beautiful Day

When the night feels my song,
I'll be home, I'll be home.

(When the Night Feels My Song, Bedouin Soundclash)

Thank The Universe for the gift of this night, for the melting sherbet orange of the sun dripping down the sky above the black silhouette of the mountains, vibrant enough that Duncan could reach out his face and eyes and tongue and lap at it, pulling it down from the fingerprint smears of the dusk-born clouds above and into a warm patch he could roll in on the dusty grass-strewn ground at our feet. Thank The Universe for the miracle sound of a thrown ball striking a wooden bat and echoing out over the hills, riding the crest of cheers and shouts from the spectators gathered to celebrate the night with beer and friends and games, and the exhilaration of the mounting spring. Thank The Universe for the smell of burgers and steaks and chicken drifting on the warm breeze from their grills to the place where we walked, slowly and without destination, perfect and pointless. Thank The Universe for the fingernail-clipping crescent of the moon, tumbling through the vastness of the night below Venus and Jupiter, bright as dreams from their tremendous distances.

And thank you Duncan for guiding me out, leading me nowhere, so slowly we could watch our shadows fade and tuck themselves back into the earth, pull the slowly greening grass over themselves and wait for us to find them in the newness of the morning.

All for Our Hero

Duncan and I helped out our good friend Chelsea at Hero's Pets last month with an promotional spot produced by KUSA, the local NBC affiliate here in Denver. Here's the final product.

Enjoy! And if you're in the area or contact Hero's over the phone or via email please tell them Duncan and Curt sent you.

Perpetual Astonishment

Every spring is the only spring - a perpetual astonishment. (Ellis Peters)

Ever so slowly, nearly imperceptibly, Spring is finding its way into our corner of the world. It is premature to say, I know, especially since March and April are typically the snowiest months in Denver, but I have walked these fields and the darkened paths for so long that my eyes are hungry for change.

It was another lovely day with temperatures hovering around 70˚, a warm breeze sifting through the last of the once-leaves, chasing them across the parking lot and scattering them down the wide avenues. The finches were singing in the trees outside the patio where Jeffrey's once-feral cat hunts, and a few golfers appeared on the yellow greens of the golf course. The park was blessedly empty but full of life, with flocks of heavy, black crows croaking from the naked tree limbs while squirrels ran erratic circles around their trunks.

Dunc jogged far ahead, his nose pulling him from one boggy patch of earth to the next, his tail propelling him forward as he went. I found him sitting in the center of the walk at the edge of the baseball diamonds, his back to me, his face turned rapturously into the sun. He barely noticed my arrival and it wasn't until I stepped beside him and rested my hand on his narrow shoulder that he turned, his tongue hanging out, a grin spread wide across his face. We stood a long moment together, not moving, looking up into the blue, the warmth of the sun kissing our faces, blessing and encouraging us for these last few difficult weeks of winter.

He led me to the baseball fields, which have been been cleaned and painted and then back out onto the wide soccer fields, where the posts have already been erected and the grounds marked for the hoards which will no doubt arrive this weekend. He galloped and rolled in the dry grass, the barren trees and stark color a backdrop to his glorious red. It would have been easy to feel discouraged by the weight of these too-short days and the early nights still creeping upon us, to sigh discontentedly at the dry yellow, if Duncan hadn't searched out and found a small, hardly visible patch of greening grass to roll in.

The world is changing and we are eager to change with it. There is hope and light and green to be found under the vast expanse of blue.

With Eyes to the Skies

It was a lovely day, the loveliest in a long time, with bright clear skies, as blue as my dreams of June, with a breeze that, despite being a little strong, was warm and fresh. We walked the lake trail with Melissa and Kona, enjoyed the yellow of the grass and the dark of the mud, fragrant and heavy, stopped for ice cream and made promises to do it again soon.

But it was the night that was truly wonderful, nearly as warm as the day, with quiet, still air and a cloudless sky. We have been watching Jupiter hover over Venus, both of them impossibly bright despite their impossible distances. They rise in the west over the mountains just after the sun says his farewells, and stay just far enough away from Orion and his hounds so as to avoid suspicion. They are a welcome sight, warm and playful up there, a darling couple in the dark of March.

But Mars is where my passion has been as of late, as it moves into opposition, which is just a scientific way of saying that the earth has moved directly between it and the sun. It is small in the eastern sky, but you can't miss it. It is red––a deep red––as red as the eyes of the lion Leo, where it rises. It is a remarkable sight, that little cracked globe, and I could hardly tear my eyes away from it on our walk. Duncan does not know it, can't even conceive of it in the same way we do, but I wonder if he can sense its pull on me as he pulls on the leash that tethers us together.

Opposition. What a strange way to say that things are aligned. Duncan and I are aligned many times a day, pulling each other down the sidewalk, the gravity of our bond evident for all to see. Perhaps not as wondrous as the skies, but no less remarkable.

Mars, red and magnificent. As magnificent as my good, red dog. Only so much further away.

More than Dogs Slide

We awoke to a find dusting of snow a few days ago. We'd been warned it could be much greater and were relieved to discover the error, unlike a few weeks ago when we were told to expect flurries and got ten inches instead. Duncan seemed content both ways and frolicked as he always does, galloping down The Run, pouncing through the shrubs with the hope of scattering the little birds from the snow caves which have formed beneath them. He loves the gentle slope of The Run, which is on the north side of the complex and thus protected from the sun and melt and is still covered in a thick layer of packed snow and ice. He throws himself onto his side, attempts to push his face into the crust and then rolls and rolls until he's slid a good way down the hill to the edge of the fence that divides us from the golf course. Many a morning he's slid, oblivious, right under it only to come up on the other side, where he jerks up, startled by his accidental progress and the wild, tall brown reeds and brittle thistle bones jutting up around him. He knows he's not allowed back there, not even when a tantalizing, stray golf ball beckons, and is usually quick to return, his head high, tail wagging happily as though to remind me what a good boy he is for coming right back to me without being told.

After he'd stirred up the little birds and tended to the morning's sliding, he got down to business, turning his back to me and looking up at the trees while he squatted at the top of the hill. I respect the awkwardness of the moment and turn my attention to the squirrels chittering profanities at us from their perches in the elms above while I ready the doggie bag for clean-up and the treat he gets for a job well done. After a few moments I turned back to him and noticed he was staring down at the ground in front of him, right between his front paws. Plink, a little bit of business fell and then slid down the ice right between his legs and out of reach under the fence where it settled in the newly fallen powder. Duncan glanced up at me as though to ask, "Well, how do we handle that???" Then plink! plink! plink! three more pieces fell, tumbling and bouncing on the ice, sliding between his legs and under the fence. He watched them spin away and vanish in the fluff, his ears and curious eyebrows raised high. When he was done he spun around to see if anything remained, perhaps confused by the physics and gravity of the situation, then hurried back to me to see if he still got his treat, which he did. And I got to save a bag.