This Light, These Clouds

I have spent the day watching clouds, either from behind my window or out in the world with Duncan, where they are at their best. They have sped and lingered across my field of vision, occasionally obscuring the blue almost completely, especially to the south and west of here where they are known to amass in the late afternoon, their darkness threatening the calm of the day. But by the time the afternoon is done they have grown fat and lazy and seem to have reached some sort of agreement with the mountains and the sun in which they achieve the kind of magnificence known only to butterfly wings or hummingbird feathers.

Duncan's birthday is tomorrow but tonight, when he chose this moment to venture out, it felt as though he was giving me a much needed gift. Bless him. We lingered long in the grass, stopping every few feet to admire their ranges and valleys, to allow their radiance to pull the air from our lungs as we stood in awe. Others passed occasionally with their own dogs, but none looked up. Even when I greeted them and said, "Can you believe this light? Can you believe these clouds?" They only looked up, pausing but a moment before turning back to me to smile politely. I'm not sure what my neighbors think of me, with my dog and my camera and my perpetual astonishment at the world, but I'm grateful that I'm at least tolerated. As long as I can view the daily blessings of this small corner of the universe unhindered, with Duncan at my side, there is little else that matters.

Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, 

but to add color to my sunset sky.  (Rabindranath Tagore)

A Waiting Glass of Water

I have taken you on many walks since last we visited, and although I have not spoken much since then there has been a great deal I've wanted to share with you.

Like the morning not too long ago, when the air was surprisingly cool, almost cold, and even though I wanted to wear a jacket I didn't because there was something invigorating about it, about how my skin puckered up and relaxed all at once, absorbed it and seemed to smile at the relief from the heat. And how on that very same morning, while enjoying the chikka-chikka-chikka of the big sprinklers at the park with Duncan, throwing the ball into their rainbow-colored arcs for him to chase after, a water main exploded, a strange pop-pop-pop, like champagne corks coming loose, and the ground beneath our feet seemed to tremble for a moment before an enormous jet of water broke loose from its containment and ignited the air above us with a brilliant rainbow. Roo danced on his hind legs and snapped at the cascade and didn't mind the wet one bit, while I smiled and laughed and felt my heart ease, if for only a moment.

I wanted to tell you about the lone balloon we saw moving slowly over the fields, low and bright in the evening light, its path seeming somehow careful and deliberate, and almost observant, but I kept trying to turn it into a metaphor that felt forced and grim and I didn't think you wanted to hear about that.

How some friends are not the kind of friends we need them to be and how it seems, especially in times of grief, that only our four-legged companions know what to give us and when to give it, which is what makes their love all the more precious and relevant.

Or the way the leaves are beginning to fall. They almost always begin in July when the Lindens are done perfuming the night air that wafts in through my windows while we sleep, coloring the mornings in my apartment with their honey-mint scent. The moment they are done and their blossoms turn to gold dust their leaves slip like husks from their trees, and even though we have been walking on them for months the appearance of the elms among them has been disquieting and upsetting. And because our nights have been occasionally cool enough to turn off the air and sleep with the windows open, the tips of the maple leaves have started to fray with red and delicate veins of gold. I have never been a fan of Autumn, but this year it seems an especially terrible change, like the passing of the summer means leaving someone behind, watching them fade away in the distance, wondering why you're going and not bringing them with you.

I wanted to tell you how especially handsome Pip looks sleeping on the window sill and in the patch of sunlight where his sister spent so many hours, how his little paws seem to clutch at the carpet as though he's dreaming of her and holding on as tightly as he can.

But then that makes me think of how he's suddenly learned to curl up on my hip exactly as Winnie used to do and how surprised I was when he first did it because he's never done it before and I wondered if she'd somehow told him, "Now Pip, this is very important so you must listen to me and do exactly as I say. Papa needs a soft weight on his hip when he lays down, to reassure him, even when he's fast asleep and it seems like nothing is important to him at all. Your weight will calm him and bring him sweet dreams. This has been my mission every night and now it must be yours. Do you understand?"

And that makes me think of the water glass, still sitting on the coffee table, the one Winnie drank out of, the soft pink of her tongue lapping at the edge of the glass and curling the cold water into her mouth. It is the same glass that was there the last time she drank from it and even though I know it should be washed I can't bring myself to do it because to do so would be like washing a part of her away and that thought frightens me terribly.

I am not a religious person. In fact I'm not sure I believe in God and Heaven the way most people do. But I'm not sure I don't believe either. I have always found comfort in the notion that death is a dream, the sort of place we invent ourselves and whatever we believe in life, whatever faith has shaped the roads and paths we have traveled, is there, waiting for us to make real. My childhood was a wonderful thing, something I miss often, and when I feel the fear of death creeping upon me I try to take comfort in imagining I'll be able to visit those days again, to walk through them and understand with the wisdom of an adult, how magnificent and precious those faces and voices and colors and fragrances were and are. I do not believe in God but in the power of The Universe and the life-force that resides in each of us, waiting to take us back to days when we were young and carefree, when our spirits were still gentle and not as fragile.

When Winnie left us it was difficult because even though I don't believe in Heaven I wanted––and still want––to believe in a Heaven for her. I want to believe there are sunny sills to sit on and delicious tuna to eat, and glasses of cold water waiting whenever she wants. Oh, how she loved cold water from my glass! I want to believe that there is a bridge and that someday, when I am dreaming the long dream, she will be there waiting, perhaps as a kitten, when she was all ears, or as the lean beauty she would grow into. She'll be there, ready to climb up on my hip to ensure all my dreams from that moment on are safe and happy and sweeter than the sweetest ones I've enjoyed on the wakeful side of my existence.

But until then I will keep a glass of cold water waiting for her. I will not wash her away.

Farewell

 

“You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always love you. That’s where I’ll be waiting.” 

 (J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan)

I love you, Winnie Bean. Find me again soon. I'll look for you among the stars, my sweet Mouse.

Comedy of Errors

It's astounding the number of things that can occur in a single moment, from the large events that shape the direction of our lives, to the minutiae of which I am so incredibly fond.

Our walk tonight started out as any other walk starts: I came home, changed out of my work clothes, fed Winnie some tuna from her fancy bowl atop our coffee table (she's been incredibly spoiled the last seven weeks), gave gargantuan Olive and precocious Pip their dinner of chicken kibble mixed with rabbit stew and blueberries (they eat better than Ken and I do, IsweartoGod!) and ventured down The Run with Duncan. It has been very hot the last few days (and tomorrow plans to be even hotter) so we were going slow and easy, enjoying the shade of the maples, birch and linden trees along the way, watching the succulent light from the low sun dance along the tips of the tall, wild grass, leaving golden footsteps on everything it touched, enjoying the rich scent of the freshly mowed grass (something that always brings me great pleasure, especially now that I don't have to mow myself and haven't done so for nearly seven years). It was shaping up to be a peaceful evening with Duncan plodding along beside me, head down, nose hunting out the peanuts Jeffrey scatters for the bluejays and squirrels. I was already envisioning making a spinach salad for dinner before settling down to read the latest John Irving novel which I have been enjoying very much.

And then all hell broke loose. In a single second I was ready to flee home, grab a bottle of Xanax (of which there are several) and spend the rest of the night trying to sort through the chain of events even as I convinced myself that such a thing was possible only in movies starring Steve Martin and produced by Nickelodeon.

A new dog has moved in next door to Jeffrey. She's a fat old Golden, nearly as wide as she is tall, with a white heart expanding across her face and down her chest. She's as loud as she is friendly and when she saw Duncan she announced it to everyone within earshot. Roo immediately forgot the foraging he'd been doing in the bushes outside Jeffrey's patio and launched (and I mean launched!) into the air toward her. He nearly cleared the shrubs, but not quite, which is what upset the rabbit who had been relaxing in the cool shade there. Duncan landed with a thud, which startled the rabbit, who darted out of the bushes right in front of me. I would have tripped over her if a wandering horsefly hadn't chose that moment to buzz by and lodge itself firmly between my eye and my glasses. I squeaked (which, admittedly, was not the most masculine of reactions) and reached for my face to free the bug which in its impatience had decided to bash itself between the softness of my fluttering and startled eyeball and the lens of my glasses (which is what I've observed countless flies do when confronted with an invisible barrier). The rabbit hurried toward the long grass on the other side of the fence and leapt right over the very long and very dark garter snake which, I presume, had also been enjoying the cool of the shade and the softness of the freshly mowed grass. It startled and slithered toward the shrubs where I was hobbling back and forth, my hands and glasses caught under the visor of my ball cap, the horsefly practically roaring at me in protest, while my feet danced back and forth, eventually coming down on the thickness of the snake, which coiled up around my ankle, its slimy skin all the warning I needed to determine that my situation had gone from bad to worse, which, of course, changed my less-than-masculine squeak into a full-throated and über-feminine scream which I'm not even sure the most-feminine of women would admit to being capable of. Duncan, who never barks at other dogs, decided to test his voice out on Ginger,  who was barking back while her two-legged companions scurried to the patio door to see what all the commotion was about. I was still dancing, clutching my face to free the fly, bringing my knees and feet up high like a Cossack having a seizure in an attempt to avoid the snake, which had vanished as quickly as it appeared. After freeing the cap from my head and knocking my glasses to the newly trimmed grass, the fly finally dislodged itself and vanished into the melting sunlight. And while Duncan ceased his barking Ginger did not, which resulted in a stern scolding from her people, who could only stare at me as I flailed around manically.

"Are you okay?" the man asked, his wide-eyed wife standing behind him, clutching his shoulders.

I froze where I stood, looking not for my glasses but for the snake. "Yeah," I replied, out of breath. "I'm good. I'm Curt. You're new. Welcome to the neighborhood."

(Now tell me that wasn't worth the wait!)

Sprinkled

Despite being nearly four before Duncan learned he actually enjoyed swimming, he has not budged one inch on his distaste for sprinklers or the fountain at the park. He has gone well out of his way, even on the hottest, most brittle of summer days, to stay away from the tiniest bit of spray or mist from the big sprinklers that cast their rainbows in the mornings and evenings when the sun is low on the horizon. 

This morning, though, something changed. It was still cool and the shadows had only just begun to shorten when the sprinklers came on and caught us unaware. I expected Duncan to abandon his ball (and me) and run for cover as far away from moisture as possible, but instead he surprised me and sat right down in the middle of them, tilted his head back and smiled as he was soaked from nose to tail. After several minutes he managed to retrieve his ball only to want it thrown right back into the middle of the sprinklers. Surprised, I obliged and so we spent several long minutes enjoying the cool of the morning and the chik-chik-chik of the sprinklers washing back and forth over the grass, catching the sunlight and turning it silver as it rained down all around us.*

*Sadly, the video I have of Dunc running through the sprinklers would not load so you'll just have to use your imagination. It was wonderful. Maybe tomorrow...

No Good Deed

The squirrel, like Jeffrey yesterday, did not know we were coming.

He was sitting on the patio picking at the last of the peanuts Jeffrey had tossed out that morning. He's a young thing, small and a bit wiry with a tail that hasn't quite bushed out yet and often gets chased away by the bigger squirrels and the bluejays who, judging by the cacophony of their calls, don't seem to like anyone, big or small. But Jeffrey, good-natured as he is, looks after him and always puts peanuts and corn out after the others have departed in the hopes of fattening him up before Fall arrives.

Duncan, who has learned that Jeffrey is the best sort of fellow (and by that I mean the kind of fellow who always has a store of treats on-hand), hurried ahead of me, darting into the low shrubs around Jeffrey's patio and waited for his newest best friend (read: treat dispenser) to appear. I paused a moment and waited but when Jeffrey didn't appear I stepped away and whistled for Roo to come along, which he didn't. He'd spotted the squirrel sitting on the rail and was waiting for it to make a move.

When it finally did, complete and utter pandemonium broke out. The squirrel jumped off the rail and ran back and forth across the patio just out of Duncan's reach. Dunc followed along, darting this way and that, refusing to to let the poor thing get by. So finally it did the only thing it could think of: it ran right through Jeffrey's open door and into the apartment.

Jeffrey, who had been sitting at his desk, jumped up and ran into the living room as the squirrel darted over his bare foot, leapt over the two cats and onto the kitchen counter where it knocked over a bowl, sent a jar of peanuts shattering to the floor, climbed atop the fridge where it knocked off a bag of cat food, then jumped down onto Jeffrey's desk. Papers flew, pens scattered, speakers were tipped over, chaos ensued. It finally settled on the window sill where it began to scratch helplessly against the glass, jumping up into the blinds, pulling them off the runner, then starting all over again. Duncan hurried to the window, barking and pawing to get in as the squirrel, inches away on the other side of the glass, tried to get out.

There was nothing I could do but watch (and yes, take a picture). I grabbed Duncan, put him on his leash and pulled him away while Jeffrey, laughing like a stoned Santa, tried to coax the squirrel out from behind his desk with a broom. The squirrel decided on one last course of action, which involved getting caught in all the computer wires and pulling them loose, then scampered back into the living room, out the door and up the closest tree where it immediately began screaming all sorts of unrepeatable obscenities at me. 

Jeffrey finally appeared, still laughing, out of breath and his face flushed red.

"That," he said, "was the best thing I've ever seen! You can't make this up!"

He's correct. Duncan's life writes itself.

All Smiles

I can't say I blame Duncan one bit. After all, it is close to a hundred degrees and the air feels like hot sandpaper just opening the door and stepping out into it. The sidewalk is nearly impossible to stand on in my tennis shoes and poor Dunc does a little jogging dance from one foot back to the other whenever we hurry from the breezeway to the grass. 

The Run, with its maples and Lindens, is a blessedly shady spot, but relief from this heat is hard to find even there. It is the monsoon season in Denver, which means we get clouds and rain in the afternoons, which tends to cool things off a bit, and even though the clouds are already forming, Duncan was in no mood to wait. He hurried ahead of me to Jeffrey's patio where the squirrels and bluejays congregate for the ample food Jeffrey puts out for them. He's taken quite a fancy to Duncan and has started buying treats for Roo whenever we pass by. Duncan does his cute little dance. gives Jeffrey a high five, rolls over, does everything he know how to do to milk every last treat from the man.

This afternoon, though, Jeffrey wasn't expecting us. He was standing on his patio watching his two cats lurk their way through the long grass on the golf course side of the fence, a chocolate popsicle melting down his hand. Duncan appeared out of nowhere and didn't wait a moment for Jeffrey to offer a treat. He merely jumped up, latched onto the popsicle and bit it in half, his tongue lapping up the drippings as he went. Jeffrey didn't even have time to react and by the time I got there was laughing hysterically, a perfectly clean popsicle stick clutched in his hand.

"I am so sorry," I apologized.

"It's okay," he laughed and held out his hand for Dunc to clean up. "It's chocolate-flavored, but don't worry, there's not an ounce of chocolate in it. He should be just fine."

I could only shake my head at Dunc, who was all smiles for the rest of the walk.

Discovery

Duncan made a discovery in the bushes outside Jeffrey's apartment this morning.

And his discovery looks none too happy for it.

Murder and Mayhem

(AP, Littleton, Colorado)

Terror has returned to this small community once again.

Shortly after dawn this morning, Mayor Curt awoke to find one of its long term residents, Frog, brutally disfigured and disemboweled in the living room. Rogers alerted authorities but after viewing the crime scene, none seemed optimistic about solving the crime.

"It's no wonder," Rogers was quoted as saying. "Two years ago Percy the Penguin suffered a similar fate , being ripped limb from limb. The poor soul never recovered and has been in intensive care ever since." Bah-Bah, our pacifist sheep, was pushed from a balcony and found dead the next morning. Authorities have long suspected that Bah-Bah was pushed as a means of silencing him before he could reveal the identity of Percy's atacker.

Clues to these crimes have been scarce, as Officer Bobster the Lobster, chief detective on the scene reported. "Whoever is committing these atrocities is doing them under cover of darkness while the locals are asleep. No eyewitnesses, no fingerprints, no nuthin'."

The only link between the three victims is their good friend and trusted playmate, Duncan "Roo" Rogers, who claims to have been in bed asleep at the time of the murder. A source close to Mr. Roo says he is beside himself with grief and is too shocked to leave bed and make a statement at this time.

Whether or not Duncan "Roo" is a suspect, Officer Bobster will not say. Rather, he and other members of the police force urge anyone with any information to come forward.

A Fly in the Parlor

Two months ago, when Spring was new and each day felt like an unexpected gift, something to be explored and savored sweetly and with a lazy diligence, I didn't mind the spider webs. They were small things, trifles, barely perceptible as we passed under the budding trees. The spiders were tiny then, barely seen and their webs were little more than a breeze, catching on the scruff of my cheek or the point of my elbow, a tickle that could be brushed away with the back of my hand. But now, like the summer, they have grown bloated and thick, heavy as a thunder cloud, as troubling as lightning.

This morning near the end of our walk, after we'd circled the property, played a quick game of fetch in the park, Duncan and I were headed home when he led me through the wide, grassy area between several of the buildings, thick with trees and low shrubs, where the grass grows tall and squirrels and bunnies hide, leaving only the tips of their tails or translucent ears––golden in the sunlight––visible. He'd spotted a rabbit, small and new and quick to startle, and pulled hard on his leash as it darted under the low boughs of a tall spruce. Dunc followed, dragging me between the sharp needles and the soft leaves of a tall shrub growing next to it. I cried out as he pulled me forward where I could clearly see the thick silver threads of an enormous web, feet wide and as intricately built as lace, glistening with dew, shimmering in the early sun, waiting for me, everything that the playful strands of Spring were not.

There was little I could but close my eyes and mouth as it pulled taut across my nose, then my cheeks, wrapped around my head, catching on my shoulders and tearing––something I could actually hear!––as I passed through it. I felt it catch in my hair, its frayed ends alighting on my shoulders and back. I groaned loudly and pulled Dunc, who'd stepped under the thing, away from the bush he was frantically nosing his way into, across the parking lot toward home where I spent the next five minutes patting myself down, running my fingers through my hair, wiping my face, changing shirts and dancing the heebie jeebies while he watched and waited patiently for his breakfast to be served.

A Right Way to Live

When I Am Among the Trees

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness,
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."

(Mary Oliver)

There is a moment, late in a summer's day, not long before the sun sets, when the shadows have grown so long they are like a blanket pulled across the world, when the light through the trees is an overwhelming gold, so vibrant it can be felt, when the birdsong is softening and lulls the crickets and night creatures awake, urging them to join the chorus, when the tips of the tallest, flowering blades of grass catch the precious light among their budding tips and carry it proudly, like lanterns held aloft, that is my favorite time to take Duncan for a walk down The Run to The Glen.

The voice of the trees is a soothing whisper and the cool air rising up from the grass is as rejuvenating as lemonade. Neither of us is in a hurry, which is the best way to walk, and step softly around the brilliantly illuminated wings of the insects which rise up and dance around our ankles before settling down among the thick blades of grass as we pass. The traffic dies down long enough for dinner and the spin of the world seems to relax and stop so that the night is frozen, caught in amber, captured forever in my memory as another perfect evening, the kind I will walk through in dreams many times long days from now.

Surely there is a right way to live, and when I am with Duncan on nights such as this, I'm certain I have found it.

One Thousand Words

My Precious Family

We have been sixteen years in the making, this little family of mine. When I first met Ken he already had Ashley and Nikki, our first Goldens, but soon after I moved in we ventured down to Morton Grove Animal Hospital to adopt Pip and Winnie. Six years later, shortly after coming to Denver Olive joined our family. And then two years after that we added Duncan, who I have spent so many hours writing about.

There is a part of me that feels guilty for not writing more about the others, especially these days, but let's be honest, cats simply don't do as much as dogs. Perhaps they do, but in a different way. Olive would never lead me around the lake to point out a perfect sunflower and Pip would scamper away and hide at the mere suggestion. Only Winnie would be game, but it would be slow as she'd pause far more often than Roo, to roll her cheeks against the warm sidewalk and show her pristine white belly to the sun. She has always been the gentlest of our children but also the most assertive and adventurous. She has stood up to Duncan when he and Pip have played too hard and she certainly won't tolerate Olive's aloof, semi-feral attitude for one moment. She's quick to cuddle, claiming her special spot on my hip each time I settle down long enough for her to notice, but is spirited enough to join me in the shower every morning.

She's my precious Bean and it has been incredibly difficult these past two weeks knowing that she'll soon be leaving us.

The day after I returned from New York we were given the bad news that Winnie Mouse has cancer, untreatable and nasty. We were told we may have a few weeks left to spend with her but no one knows for sure. So the days that followed have been spent playing with her outside, cuddling with her whenever she wants, feeding her special meals, watching her lay in puddles of sunlight, a content smile on her face. Not a moment is being wasted until the time comes for her to embark on her next adventure.

Please think good thoughts for my precious family. And most especially for my little Bean. She is more my girl than Duncan is my boy. I love her with all my heart.

Winners

It has been a busy couple of weeks and I'm only now getting around to sorting through photos of my trip to Upstate New York last week. I meant to do this sooner but life kept being life and things kept coming up.

You may recall that Henry and Thomas, sons of my friend April, were the winners of the Magic Feather Contest. April was kind enough to send some photos of the day they received their prizes. I wanted to share them here because the boys are so darn cute and because this makes me very happy. 

Thanks, kiddo, for brightening my day. I'm glad they enjoyed their prizes. I love you. Be careful.

Life with Duncan

(I'm late to the meme but I couldn't resist)

The Goose

After the sun had set and the cool air seemed to rise up from the grass and hills of the park, Duncan and I ventured out for our first truly enjoyable walk of the day. It has been hot here, very hot, and the air has been tinged with the faint, warm scent of smoke from the fires burning to across the Front Range, especially the big ones to the north and south of us. Mornings have been pleasant but the heat comes too soon and we often find ourselves resting in the shade under one of the big elms at the park, rolling in the grass until we're nice and wet. But last night the park cooled quickly so we took a long, meandering stroll across the soccer fields, through the baseball diamonds and up the hillside overlooking the upper park and the lake, whose level has dropped off from the lack of rain and the searing temperatures.

We were coming down the hillside to investigate the shady spot in the tall grass where the bunnies roost when a man, perhaps in his early thirties, stepped away from his small gathering under the picnic shelter. I assume he'd been drinking for the light wobble in his step and the words I could see him mouthing to himself as he trudges away from his group. He stepped around the line of port-a-potties which have been set up for the girls' softball tournament, and which, under the relentless heat of the day, have begun to smell horrific, like steaming clouds of radioactive green chemicals. I couldn't blame him for choosing to step into the line of tall shrubs rather than open one of those florescent blue doors and step inside.

Duncan saw him too, and no sooner had the man unbuttoned his fly and started watering the bushes, than Roo took off toward him, his propeller tail swishing gaily through the air above him.

"Roo!" I called and hurried after him, uncertain of how close I should actually get to the man, especially in his vulnerable state.

The man evidently didn't hear me and he certainly never saw what was coming. There was nothing I could do to stop Dunc from coming up the hill behind the man and sticking his cool, moist nose squarely against the man's thigh, who cried out, jumped, turned quickly and sprayed a wide arc across the shrubs and all down the front of his khaki cargo shorts.

"Sorry about that," I winced. He turned his back to me and continued about his business while Roo took a seat and waited for the attention he thought he deserved.

"No problems, man," he said, finishing up. "I'd give him a pat but I think I should get washed up first." He gestured at the front of his shorts and held his hands up high in front of him.

Apparently a flying goose isn't the only one Duncan enjoys.

Bad Dream

Winnie was on my hip, where she spends most of every night, her weight soft and warm, her nose tucked into a curled paw. Ken was sleeping next to me, his arm wrapped around Pip, whose purrs nearly matched the snores from his dad. The apartment was silent except for the jangle of ice cubes dropping from the maker in the freezer.

I don't remember the dream but it was terrible enough to jerk me out of sleep, disturbing Winnie, who tensed and lifted her head. The light coming from the lunette above our windows danced across her whiskers and caught her eyes as she watched me, waiting for me to settle back down into more pleasant dreams. My body was rigid and hot and weighted down by the single sheet pulled over me. I took a deep breath trying to calm the tears that felt close to bubbling up and spilling down my cheeks. The nightmare was gone but the fear remained. I laid a long time in the dark, turning over onto my belly, slowly so as not to disturb Bean, who had already dropped her nose down into her paw and was breathing deeply.

Sleep was not coming, not until I heard Duncan shift in his bed, climb out of his kennel, stretch once and then jump up at the foot of the bed. He moved carefully between Ken and me, careful of the cats and Ken, and laid down, his body a long warm pillow between us. He laid down and licked my shoulder, slipping a warm paw across the small of my back. He licked again, quietly and with great care, and rested his head on me, squeezing me with one paw and continued to lick until the feeling passed and sleep took me again.

It is good to know I am watched over and guarded, safe at all hours.

All Aspects of This Life

My walks with Duncan have served as a reminder to me that there is no aspect of this life of ours that is unimportant, from the bending of the grass under the weight of the morning dew to the long shadows cast by the ants scuttling blindly across the pavement as the sun dips low on the horizon. I am as fascinated by the minutiae of the world––maybe more so–– as I am of the breathtaking and extraordinary sights of the big and obvious, the loud and bright. Roo is patient with me, sometimes spending long moments sitting at my side while I lean in to watch the slow crawl of a box elder bug up the trunk of an aspen or the light dancing across a bending field of fuzzy, purple thistles. 

And so it was this morning on our walk. Not far down The Run I spotted the button-cap of a mushroom, sand-dollar shaped and hued, with delicate, fingerprint lines racing from its rim to the bowl of its center. I sat down next to it and peered at it from all angles, but because it was so short, smaller than my pinkie finger, I could not see its underside however hard I tried. Some things, I guess, are to remain a mystery. And that is just fine with me, because what fun would life be without a few questions and surprises.

I must be doing something right by stopping and looking because no sooner had I finished my examination of the thing than Dunc leaned down and gave it a long hard sniff before turning to look at me as if to say, "Good catch. Good boy!"

When he is proud of me I know I've done well.

Coming Home

I have returned home after a week experiencing a life-changing adventure. I learned a lot about myself on my trip to Buffalo and perhaps soon I'll get a chance to share that here. And while there were many highlights, one of the sweetest took place after climbing the thirty-seven stairs to my front door where a newly groomed Duncan was waiting for me, eager to play and pick up right where we left off.

It's good to be home.

A Changed Life

I'm sitting in the rocking chair on the porch outside the home of Karen and Paul, my new aunt and uncle, in Wales, New York, a quiet little township southeast of Buffalo. It is a cool evening, humid but not uncomfortably so. The shadows have grown long and faded under the darkening sky, the deep woods are growing slowly quiet and the frogs down at the pond are just beginning to croak, a sound that is a cross between a duck quack and an electric sneeze. The finned backs of the bass and koi break the surface, stirring the water into expanding ripples around them as they slide forward swallowing the mayflies and mosquitoes which hover in shimmering clouds above the water. A fawn with large white spots on its back was spotted in the long grass at the edge of the backyard and the cat birds, with their mewling kitten calls, are confusing my sister, who insists we are surrounded but countless stray cats. It will be another hour or two before the fireflies appear but I am prepared. It has been a long thirteen years without their magic in my life and I want to be ready for those first plaintive flickers as they emerge from the trees.

Duncan would love this place. He would spend the afternoons in the pond, startling the fish and scattering the frogs. He would chase the deer through the dense foliage and stare in awe at the fireflies. And I would sit back and marvel at each discovery he made. It would be wonderful to have him with me, to feel his weight against my feet when he tired himself out and needed a rest. Not this trip, though, but perhaps one day he will see it, and the smile I've worn since Wednesday would be made a thousand times bigger by his presence.

While I am enjoying my trip more than I ever thought possible, and feel a sense of freedom I have not experienced for the past seven years, I keep thinking of him that last evening in Denver, sticking close to me, aware that something was happening, that I was leaving and for only the second time in his life he was not being included. I sat him down and explained that his papa had spent a long time summoning his courage, inviting the support of the world's most amazing friends, and was embarking on an adventure that was sure to change his life. He seemed to understand, but after I said my farewell to him and stepped downstairs with Ken and my family, I glanced back up at the window and saw his face poking between the blinds, his eyebrows raised in question.

It was heart-breaking but I have to be honest: this trip has changed my life in ways I never anticipated, and although I wouldn't trade my good, red dog for anything in the world, I have been grateful for the opportunities presented to me in exchange for a few days without him.

And when it's over, when Ken and I climb those stairs together on Tuesday, carrying my luggage, my memories of an incredible week in New York, and so much more, I know he, and my entire life, will be waiting for me behind one locked door to which I hold the key.

Away*

Since Ken brought Duncan home seven years ago we have only been apart five nights total, three of them while I was in Atlanta that afternoon when I first got sick. With the exception of two random nights since, we have always been together. I don't know what last night was like for him but I'd like to imagine that he curled up with Ken and the cats and didn't notice my absence at all, that this morning Ken rose early and took him for a nice, long walk in the park and they played away the morning. Nothing would make me happier.

I know what the night was like for me, though. It was spent on a red-eye from Denver to Newark sitting next to my mother, looking out the window at the orange, halogen blobs of lights of unnamed cities rising up and falling away in the darkness below us, thinking of him, feeling everything very clearly, alternately overjoyed and exhausted. I wished he was there with me, resting at my feet waiting to step outside, stretch his legs and resume our walks in whatever place his feet touched down. He would not be picky but excited at the prospect of a new journey, heedless of the destination.

It is strange not having him here, strange seeing other people on the streets of Buffalo walking their dogs. These next few days are ones that won't require me to rise early, put on my shoes, take him outside and look after his every need. But I know he is safe with Ken, probably excited to have the opportunity to coax his dad into giving him more treats than I do, to take advantage of every possible situation, to sneak up on the couch and spend the afternoon sleeping without the risk of being caught by his papa.

When I do return I hope he sees the courage in me, the kind that's been lacking since he was less than a year old. I hope he senses the change in me for facing my long-festering fear and conquering it. I hope he is waiting at the door, the shredded remnants of his favorite toy, the little green frog given to us by one of our blog friends last year, clutched in his smiling mouth, his tail thumping out a sporadic but joyous beat. I hope he will be as happy to see me as I certainly will be to see him.

*This post was written on my brand new iPad from my hotel room in East Aurora, New York. The formatting looks to be all screwy, at least on my end. I apologize if you're seeing one big, long, unjustified, jumbled paragraph. Trust me, that's not how it was written. Bear with me and I'll get everything fixed as soon as I can. In the meantime, does anyone have any suggestions on the best way to blog on an iPad? This obviously is not going to work!